michael kaiser didn't expect to get replaced in his own little...game? is that what you'd call it? the game he'd set up, with ness at his beck and call, where he played king just like his last name demanded.
but that's exactly what happened when you showed up.
you were in ness's contacts under some cutesy nickname that made kaiser squint. then you started showing up to practice sometimes, waiting outside the fence, earbuds in, legs swinging under the bench. you didn't care unless it was ness. ness could make an assist, and kaiser would pull off the kaiser impact that had announcers fluttering, and most people would cheer for the guy who made the goal. not you, though. you would cheer for the guy who made the assist. ness. ness. ness.
eventually, kaiser learned that you and ness went way back. the two of you had gone to the same school, worn the same uniforms, shared a childhood full of weird magic jokes. he'd figured out that you had been kicked out of your house, and without hesitation, ness let you move in.
boom! you were everywhere:
in the kitchen when kaiser was trying to make a protein shake.
in the passenger seat when ness was driving.
in the living room, body hanging half-off the couch, being so obnoxiously loud.
at first, kaiser was polite. dismissive, even. you were just some clingy friend, right? you'd leave eventually.
anyway, kaiser was wrong. you started getting closer. god, he hated it. you'd tease him like you were friends. you'd argue with him like he wasn't michael kaiser. you said his name and it sounded like soda that'd gone flat. you didn't swoon at the sight of him. honestly, you treated him like a younger sibling that you wanted to get away from.
that, more than anything, got under his skin. now, he was the one leaning against the fridge, watching you and ness cook dinner. you were telling some story about a class you and ness took together. kaiser interrupted, "what are we making?"
without looking up, you said, "food."
"we're making curry," ness elaborated.
"we? babe, i'm making it and you're taking up kitchen space."
ness laughed, flicking an unused piece of potato at you. "i chopped things."
kaiser always liked ness's laugh. it was so doting. kaiser always liked ness's laugh, especially when it was directed at him. that wasn't the case right now. he hated that ness was laughing because of something you said.
he also hated that he cared this much. pathetic.
it wasn't supposed to go like this. kaiser was used to being the one people gravitated toward, not the one orbiting around two people in an apartment that he owned. that didn't matter, because he was here, watching you do dishes in ness's hoodie. and don't get him wrong, kaiser wasn't jealous. he didn't get jealous. he just...well, he didn't like feeling like second place, not when all he ever wanted was gold.
so he made a little plan.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
another thing to know: kaiser was not, by any accounts, a lightweight. he was a lil tipsy, sure; not drunk. not drunk enough to call his next actions a mistake. mistakes are things you regret. he meant every bit of it, as long as it worked.
you were across the room, a drink with a straw between your teeth. you were chewing on it so hard it'd probably been folded flat. why? well, one only had to look at michael kaiser to know.
he was currently whispering something in ness's ear. kaiser let his hand linger on ness's waist, not by a lot, but enough for you to see. you did, most definitely. ness leant into him like he always did, sweet and pliant, happy to play the lapdog if it meant kaiser needed him.
it made something bitter bloom in his chest, which he hastened to shove down. down, down, like everything else. he knew exactly what he was doing. he knew exactly how to get under your skin, because you always reacted the same way when ness looked at him like that, the way you wanted ness to look at you.
it was a little cruel, sure.
it was also the only time he felt in control. he'd take your rage over that sinking feeling of inferiority any day. he'd take the way you marched across the room, took ness's wrist, and said, "we're leaving."
ness looked between the two of you, confused. "what's wrong? did something happen?"
"no," you muttered, "i just don't want to be here anymore."
kaiser raised his eyebrows. "funny. i thought you were enjoying the show." you glared in response. ness got up, turning around to make sure kaiser was following, and headed for the door. kaiser watched you go, with a small smile back on his face.
even if you hated him right now, at least you were finally looking at him.
long after ness had gone to bed--his door had shut with that soft click, as if he was afraid of bothering anyone--kaiser toyed with the ring in his hands, spinning it around just to feel something move. you weren't looking at him anymore. so he had to do something about it.
"'what, cat got your tongue?"
you stopped, but your gaze remained fixed ahead of you.
he pushed again, because it was easier to be hated than to be ignored.
"didn't peg you as the sulking type."
you snapped, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
kaiser yawned performatively. "you're going to have to be more specific."
"you know exactly what i mean," you said, taking a step closer and jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "you flirted with ness all night, like... like he was some kind of prop, just so you could get a reaction out of me."
kaiser stared for a few moments. "so this is about you."
"of course it's about me! i know how he looks at you. i see what it does to him when you do that--"
"you only care," kaiser said, "because you wish he looked at you like that."
he watched you freeze. your mouth parted. he was right. he knew he was right, and so did you.
quietly, you said, "you're a fucking asshole."
"and you're in love with someone who's in love with me."
there was a sound behind you. it was so soft, so missable, yet you knew it like you knew your own name. it was unmistakably the sound of ness's footsteps, afraid to make noise, to exist too loudly. you didn't turn, only listened as there was a step, another, a pause, and the quick retreat. your heart dropped into your stomach.
you turned to look at kaiser and something in your chest exploded.
"you fucking dirtbag. he heard us."
kaiser's eye twitched. he hadn't considered that. he doesn't know the sound of ness's footsteps.
"do you know what you just did?"
he raises one hand defensively. "i didn't ask him to eavesdrop."
"you used him, used me, and now he knows! he knows i'm in love with him, jesus christ! he knows i've been watching him look at you like you hung the stars when all you've been doing is walking him like a dog, because you have zero regard for his feelings."
kaiser says, "good."
"good?!" you practically shriek.
"yeah," he responds. "good. better than hiding it forever, right? i bet it was driving you crazy, having to pretend that it wasn't real."
"you don't get to make that decision," you said, voice shaky. "you don't get to blow everything up just because you're miserable."
"oh, come on--"
you didn't let him finish. "no! you're so scared of, i don't know, being second? being unloved? that you have to ruin everything. that's not power, you're just a coward."
that got him.
he stood without a comeback, with only his stupid face and the echo of all the horrible things he'd said and done to feel something.
"you need to grow the fuck up before you lose people who actually care." you said it so easily, like growing up was something you could just decide to do. kaiser saw you move toward your room, your hair flicking as you turned, and...that was it. like that. like it wasn't even worth finishing a fight with him.
kaiser didn't think. he grabbed your wrist, then your collar, and he found his mouth on yours.
for half a second, you kissed him back. was it out of pure shock? of fire? he hadn't enough time to figure that out before you shoved him back.
"what the fuck?"
kaiser was sure his face was red. pink, at the very least.
"i never had you," he spits, chest heaving. "i never fucking had you. not for a second. so can you start caring? just one one bit?"
you narrowed your eyes at him. "why would i? you don't even want me. you just don't want to be second to ness."
you went down the hallway, down to ness's bedroom door, and knocked quietly. there was a gentleness in your movements that couldn't be feigned. it didn't come from obligation or saving face, it came from love.
kaiser stood where you'd left him, back against the wall. you didn't look back once.
ness's door creaked open. he saw a faint shadow fall over your face. he heard your familiar tones, and then the door clicked shut, taking you with it.
he tilted his head, closing his eyes.
michael kaiser never expected to be beaten at his own game, but here you were, worshipping someone who was at his altar.
Hange dives right in. "So, Levi! How'd you two do today?"
Levi sips his tea.
You flick your spoon around your tray. "Great! Fantastic! I'm a prodigy. Don't even need to ask him."
"Funny," Levi starts. "That's not the word I'd use."
You glare at him. He doesn't bother meeting your eyes. "What word would you use then, Captain?"
"Uncoordinated." Another sip. "Clumsy. Irritating."
"You tied me to a fucking tree!"
Levi corrects, "You tied yourself to a tree. And you got me roped into your shit."
Hange's hands shake excitedly. "You two are going to be great friends. I just know it!"
"Why do I have to be his first friend?" you deadpan, but part of you is serious. How does someone like him have any friends who aren't mere suck-ups? Your tongue has really loosened around the man; it's been like this ever since he heard your entire arsenal of curses deployed whilst trying to climb a tree.
om&m chapter 5 excerpt
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
How do you fight brute strength? How do you survive a monster ten times your size, with no fear, no reason, and almost no weakness?
Levi Ackerman has spent his whole life asking those questions. Speed helps. Skill helps. But once you're caught, it's over. He’s seen it again and again. So, when a new cadet shows up with half-dead eyes and bones that don’t know how to break, like a snake, like something already rotting, he tells himself it's with distrust that he's drawn to her. Whether that's true or not, he can't stop watching.
And a tiny part of him, against all his common sense, is saying that Hange’s little sister is the answer he’s been waiting for.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
michael kaiser didn't expect to get replaced in his own little...game? is that what you'd call it? the game he'd set up, with ness at his beck and call, where he played king just like his last name demanded.
but that's exactly what happened when you showed up.
you were in ness's contacts under some cutesy nickname that made kaiser squint. then you started showing up to practice sometimes, waiting outside the fence, earbuds in, legs swinging under the bench. you didn't care unless it was ness. ness could make an assist, and kaiser would pull off the kaiser impact that had announcers fluttering, and most people would cheer for the guy who made the goal. not you, though. you would cheer for the guy who made the assist. ness. ness. ness.
eventually, kaiser learned that you and ness went way back. the two of you had gone to the same school, worn the same uniforms, shared a childhood full of weird magic jokes. he'd figured out that you had been kicked out of your house, and without hesitation, ness let you move in.
boom! you were everywhere:
in the kitchen when kaiser was trying to make a protein shake.
in the passenger seat when ness was driving.
in the living room, body hanging half-off the couch, being so obnoxiously loud.
at first, kaiser was polite. dismissive, even. you were just some clingy friend, right? you'd leave eventually.
anyway, kaiser was wrong. you started getting closer. god, he hated it. you'd tease him like you were friends. you'd argue with him like he wasn't michael kaiser. you said his name and it sounded like soda that'd gone flat. you didn't swoon at the sight of him. honestly, you treated him like a younger sibling that you wanted to get away from.
that, more than anything, got under his skin. now, he was the one leaning against the fridge, watching you and ness cook dinner. you were telling some story about a class you and ness took together. kaiser interrupted, "what are we making?"
without looking up, you said, "food."
"we're making curry," ness elaborated.
"we? babe, i'm making it and you're taking up kitchen space."
ness laughed, flicking an unused piece of potato at you. "i chopped things."
kaiser always liked ness's laugh. it was so doting. kaiser always liked ness's laugh, especially when it was directed at him. that wasn't the case right now. he hated that ness was laughing because of something you said.
he also hated that he cared this much. pathetic.
it wasn't supposed to go like this. kaiser was used to being the one people gravitated toward, not the one orbiting around two people in an apartment that he owned. that didn't matter, because he was here, watching you do dishes in ness's hoodie. and don't get him wrong, kaiser wasn't jealous. he didn't get jealous. he just...well, he didn't like feeling like second place, not when all he ever wanted was gold.
so he made a little plan.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
another thing to know: kaiser was not, by any accounts, a lightweight. he was a lil tipsy, sure; not drunk. not drunk enough to call his next actions a mistake. mistakes are things you regret. he meant every bit of it, as long as it worked.
you were across the room, a drink with a straw between your teeth. you were chewing on it so hard it'd probably been folded flat. why? well, one only had to look at michael kaiser to know.
he was currently whispering something in ness's ear. kaiser let his hand linger on ness's waist, not by a lot, but enough for you to see. you did, most definitely. ness leant into him like he always did, sweet and pliant, happy to play the lapdog if it meant kaiser needed him.
it made something bitter bloom in his chest, which he hastened to shove down. down, down, like everything else. he knew exactly what he was doing. he knew exactly how to get under your skin, because you always reacted the same way when ness looked at him like that, the way you wanted ness to look at you.
it was a little cruel, sure.
it was also the only time he felt in control. he'd take your rage over that sinking feeling of inferiority any day. he'd take the way you marched across the room, took ness's wrist, and said, "we're leaving."
ness looked between the two of you, confused. "what's wrong? did something happen?"
"no," you muttered, "i just don't want to be here anymore."
kaiser raised his eyebrows. "funny. i thought you were enjoying the show." you glared in response. ness got up, turning around to make sure kaiser was following, and headed for the door. kaiser watched you go, with a small smile back on his face.
even if you hated him right now, at least you were finally looking at him.
long after ness had gone to bed--his door had shut with that soft click, as if he was afraid of bothering anyone--kaiser toyed with the ring in his hands, spinning it around just to feel something move. you weren't looking at him anymore. so he had to do something about it.
"'what, cat got your tongue?"
you stopped, but your gaze remained fixed ahead of you.
he pushed again, because it was easier to be hated than to be ignored.
"didn't peg you as the sulking type."
you snapped, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
kaiser yawned performatively. "you're going to have to be more specific."
"you know exactly what i mean," you said, taking a step closer and jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "you flirted with ness all night, like... like he was some kind of prop, just so you could get a reaction out of me."
kaiser stared for a few moments. "so this is about you."
"of course it's about me! i know how he looks at you. i see what it does to him when you do that--"
"you only care," kaiser said, "because you wish he looked at you like that."
he watched you freeze. your mouth parted. he was right. he knew he was right, and so did you.
quietly, you said, "you're a fucking asshole."
"and you're in love with someone who's in love with me."
there was a sound behind you. it was so soft, so missable, yet you knew it like you knew your own name. it was unmistakably the sound of ness's footsteps, afraid to make noise, to exist too loudly. you didn't turn, only listened as there was a step, another, a pause, and the quick retreat. your heart dropped into your stomach.
you turned to look at kaiser and something in your chest exploded.
"you fucking dirtbag. he heard us."
kaiser's eye twitched. he hadn't considered that. he doesn't know the sound of ness's footsteps.
"do you know what you just did?"
he raises one hand defensively. "i didn't ask him to eavesdrop."
"you used him, used me, and now he knows! he knows i'm in love with him, jesus christ! he knows i've been watching him look at you like you hung the stars when all you've been doing is walking him like a dog, because you have zero regard for his feelings."
kaiser says, "good."
"good?!" you practically shriek.
"yeah," he responds. "good. better than hiding it forever, right? i bet it was driving you crazy, having to pretend that it wasn't real."
"you don't get to make that decision," you said, voice shaky. "you don't get to blow everything up just because you're miserable."
"oh, come on--"
you didn't let him finish. "no! you're so scared of, i don't know, being second? being unloved? that you have to ruin everything. that's not power, you're just a coward."
that got him.
he stood without a comeback, with only his stupid face and the echo of all the horrible things he'd said and done to feel something.
"you need to grow the fuck up before you lose people who actually care." you said it so easily, like growing up was something you could just decide to do. kaiser saw you move toward your room, your hair flicking as you turned, and...that was it. like that. like it wasn't even worth finishing a fight with him.
kaiser didn't think. he grabbed your wrist, then your collar, and he found his mouth on yours.
for half a second, you kissed him back. was it out of pure shock? of fire? he hadn't enough time to figure that out before you shoved him back.
"what the fuck?"
kaiser was sure his face was red. pink, at the very least.
"i never had you," he spits, chest heaving. "i never fucking had you. not for a second. so can you start caring? just one one bit?"
you narrowed your eyes at him. "why would i? you don't even want me. you just don't want to be second to ness."
you went down the hallway, down to ness's bedroom door, and knocked quietly. there was a gentleness in your movements that couldn't be feigned. it didn't come from obligation or saving face, it came from love.
kaiser stood where you'd left him, back against the wall. you didn't look back once.
ness's door creaked open. he saw a faint shadow fall over your face. he heard your familiar tones, and then the door clicked shut, taking you with it.
he tilted his head, closing his eyes.
michael kaiser never expected to be beaten at his own game, but here you were, worshipping someone who was at his altar.
virgin!Levi who's latest search history consists of "how to be a good kisser", "female genitalia anatomy", "how to make her cum", and "most comfortable sex positions for women".
virgin!Levi who discovers that even if he usually hates messes, he just loves making a mess out of you – even if he'll never admit it out loud.
virgin!Levi who can't believe he's so lucky that he gets to touch you – that you trust him enough to lay yourself bare for him, to let him have his way with you. His fingers and mouth are hesitant, careful, tentative at first, almost as if he's afraid to break you. But as you melt under his touch, as your body responds so beautifully to his fingers and tongue, he grows bolder – and he doesn't stop until you come undone for him. Multiple times.
virgin!Levi who will religiously listen to the sounds you make, who will study your body's reactions to his touch, adjusting and learning as he goes. He's a fast learner, and oh how he wants to learn how to make you feel the best way possible.
virgin!Levi who will clean you up when he's finished, your eyes glassy and thighs quivering from overstimulation. Prepare a hot bath for you if you're not too tired, or wipe you down with a wet cloth if you are, meticulously yet carefully so as not to irritate your sensitive skin.
virgin!Levi who bites his lip so hard it draws blood the first time you wrap your pretty lips around him, a dragged out f-fuck escaping his mouth as his hips buck involuntarily into your wet, hot heat. You look so fucking pretty on your knees before him, head bobbing as you eye him through your lashes – but he still scrunches his eyes shut, because he's afraid that if he looks at you while you work him, he won't even last two strokes.
virgin!Levi who's grateful that he got to cum before entering you because otherwise, he's scared that he won't last long enough to make proper love to you. He's been dreaming about this for so long, jerked off to the thought of you too many times to count and damn if he won't let his first time with you last for as long as he possibly can.
virgin!Levi who will kiss your clit after eating you out and kiss your forehead after fucking you stupid, then carefully lie next to you as his cock softens inside you.
virgin!Levi who already knew he loved you before he so much as kissed you the first time, but first says it when you're pressed snugly against his chest, his arm cradling your head and your body wrapped around his until he doesn't know where yours begins and his own ends.
"I love you," he says, his voice croaky and hoarse with emotion, whispering it into your hair like a precious secret only meant for your ears the first time he says it out loud. You smile at him, sighing contentedly as you move to press a kiss to his jaw. "I love you too, Levi."
AN: This was me procrastinating from writing on my master's thesis btw...
michael kaiser didn't expect to get replaced in his own little...game? is that what you'd call it? the game he'd set up, with ness at his beck and call, where he played king just like his last name demanded.
but that's exactly what happened when you showed up.
you were in ness's contacts under some cutesy nickname that made kaiser squint. then you started showing up to practice sometimes, waiting outside the fence, earbuds in, legs swinging under the bench. you didn't care unless it was ness. ness could make an assist, and kaiser would pull off the kaiser impact that had announcers fluttering, and most people would cheer for the guy who made the goal. not you, though. you would cheer for the guy who made the assist. ness. ness. ness.
eventually, kaiser learned that you and ness went way back. the two of you had gone to the same school, worn the same uniforms, shared a childhood full of weird magic jokes. he'd figured out that you had been kicked out of your house, and without hesitation, ness let you move in.
boom! you were everywhere:
in the kitchen when kaiser was trying to make a protein shake.
in the passenger seat when ness was driving.
in the living room, body hanging half-off the couch, being so obnoxiously loud.
at first, kaiser was polite. dismissive, even. you were just some clingy friend, right? you'd leave eventually.
anyway, kaiser was wrong. you started getting closer. god, he hated it. you'd tease him like you were friends. you'd argue with him like he wasn't michael kaiser. you said his name and it sounded like soda that'd gone flat. you didn't swoon at the sight of him. honestly, you treated him like a younger sibling that you wanted to get away from.
that, more than anything, got under his skin. now, he was the one leaning against the fridge, watching you and ness cook dinner. you were telling some story about a class you and ness took together. kaiser interrupted, "what are we making?"
without looking up, you said, "food."
"we're making curry," ness elaborated.
"we? babe, i'm making it and you're taking up kitchen space."
ness laughed, flicking an unused piece of potato at you. "i chopped things."
kaiser always liked ness's laugh. it was so doting. kaiser always liked ness's laugh, especially when it was directed at him. that wasn't the case right now. he hated that ness was laughing because of something you said.
he also hated that he cared this much. pathetic.
it wasn't supposed to go like this. kaiser was used to being the one people gravitated toward, not the one orbiting around two people in an apartment that he owned. that didn't matter, because he was here, watching you do dishes in ness's hoodie. and don't get him wrong, kaiser wasn't jealous. he didn't get jealous. he just...well, he didn't like feeling like second place, not when all he ever wanted was gold.
so he made a little plan.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
another thing to know: kaiser was not, by any accounts, a lightweight. he was a lil tipsy, sure; not drunk. not drunk enough to call his next actions a mistake. mistakes are things you regret. he meant every bit of it, as long as it worked.
you were across the room, a drink with a straw between your teeth. you were chewing on it so hard it'd probably been folded flat. why? well, one only had to look at michael kaiser to know.
he was currently whispering something in ness's ear. kaiser let his hand linger on ness's waist, not by a lot, but enough for you to see. you did, most definitely. ness leant into him like he always did, sweet and pliant, happy to play the lapdog if it meant kaiser needed him.
it made something bitter bloom in his chest, which he hastened to shove down. down, down, like everything else. he knew exactly what he was doing. he knew exactly how to get under your skin, because you always reacted the same way when ness looked at him like that, the way you wanted ness to look at you.
it was a little cruel, sure.
it was also the only time he felt in control. he'd take your rage over that sinking feeling of inferiority any day. he'd take the way you marched across the room, took ness's wrist, and said, "we're leaving."
ness looked between the two of you, confused. "what's wrong? did something happen?"
"no," you muttered, "i just don't want to be here anymore."
kaiser raised his eyebrows. "funny. i thought you were enjoying the show." you glared in response. ness got up, turning around to make sure kaiser was following, and headed for the door. kaiser watched you go, with a small smile back on his face.
even if you hated him right now, at least you were finally looking at him.
long after ness had gone to bed--his door had shut with that soft click, as if he was afraid of bothering anyone--kaiser toyed with the ring in his hands, spinning it around just to feel something move. you weren't looking at him anymore. so he had to do something about it.
"'what, cat got your tongue?"
you stopped, but your gaze remained fixed ahead of you.
he pushed again, because it was easier to be hated than to be ignored.
"didn't peg you as the sulking type."
you snapped, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
kaiser yawned performatively. "you're going to have to be more specific."
"you know exactly what i mean," you said, taking a step closer and jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "you flirted with ness all night, like... like he was some kind of prop, just so you could get a reaction out of me."
kaiser stared for a few moments. "so this is about you."
"of course it's about me! i know how he looks at you. i see what it does to him when you do that--"
"you only care," kaiser said, "because you wish he looked at you like that."
he watched you freeze. your mouth parted. he was right. he knew he was right, and so did you.
quietly, you said, "you're a fucking asshole."
"and you're in love with someone who's in love with me."
there was a sound behind you. it was so soft, so missable, yet you knew it like you knew your own name. it was unmistakably the sound of ness's footsteps, afraid to make noise, to exist too loudly. you didn't turn, only listened as there was a step, another, a pause, and the quick retreat. your heart dropped into your stomach.
you turned to look at kaiser and something in your chest exploded.
"you fucking dirtbag. he heard us."
kaiser's eye twitched. he hadn't considered that. he doesn't know the sound of ness's footsteps.
"do you know what you just did?"
he raises one hand defensively. "i didn't ask him to eavesdrop."
"you used him, used me, and now he knows! he knows i'm in love with him, jesus christ! he knows i've been watching him look at you like you hung the stars when all you've been doing is walking him like a dog, because you have zero regard for his feelings."
kaiser says, "good."
"good?!" you practically shriek.
"yeah," he responds. "good. better than hiding it forever, right? i bet it was driving you crazy, having to pretend that it wasn't real."
"you don't get to make that decision," you said, voice shaky. "you don't get to blow everything up just because you're miserable."
"oh, come on--"
you didn't let him finish. "no! you're so scared of, i don't know, being second? being unloved? that you have to ruin everything. that's not power, you're just a coward."
that got him.
he stood without a comeback, with only his stupid face and the echo of all the horrible things he'd said and done to feel something.
"you need to grow the fuck up before you lose people who actually care." you said it so easily, like growing up was something you could just decide to do. kaiser saw you move toward your room, your hair flicking as you turned, and...that was it. like that. like it wasn't even worth finishing a fight with him.
kaiser didn't think. he grabbed your wrist, then your collar, and he found his mouth on yours.
for half a second, you kissed him back. was it out of pure shock? of fire? he hadn't enough time to figure that out before you shoved him back.
"what the fuck?"
kaiser was sure his face was red. pink, at the very least.
"i never had you," he spits, chest heaving. "i never fucking had you. not for a second. so can you start caring? just one one bit?"
you narrowed your eyes at him. "why would i? you don't even want me. you just don't want to be second to ness."
you went down the hallway, down to ness's bedroom door, and knocked quietly. there was a gentleness in your movements that couldn't be feigned. it didn't come from obligation or saving face, it came from love.
kaiser stood where you'd left him, back against the wall. you didn't look back once.
ness's door creaked open. he saw a faint shadow fall over your face. he heard your familiar tones, and then the door clicked shut, taking you with it.
he tilted his head, closing his eyes.
michael kaiser never expected to be beaten at his own game, but here you were, worshipping someone who was at his altar.
Hi!! Would you be willing to write more for Kimi Raikkonen? I absolutely LOVED your other piece for him and there is such a lack of Kimi content tbhhh🫣
teacher!kimi who everyone loves even though he speaks as little as he can in class.
teacher!kimi who teaches physics and wears the same black jacket every day. he'll stare at his students until one of them gives the answer
teacher!kimi who REFUSES to assign group projects, because, quote unquote, "you're not responsible for someone else's stupidity"
teacher!kimi who always calls you by your last name, never with a "ms," just your last name, even when it's the two of you
teacher!kimi who sits next to you at lunch in the staff lounge and pretends to do his crossword, but he can't help but be caught into conversation with you
teacher!kimi who very not-subtly requests your groups to be put together on a field trip so he might sit next to you on the bus
(the students definitely notice how he laughs more when he talks to you, so:)
teacher!kimi who's grading papers one day when a student asks if he's single, and kimi says, "i don't date children, but ask if your english teacher is free this weekend"
// sorry this is so short! i'm trying to get back into formula one lol
Hey, so some of y’all on this app called me dramatic and crazy and stupid for a post I made a while back that basically said the F1 movie was going to cause a rampant uptick in (the already prevalent) misogyny in F1.
But, lo and behold, I was right all along.
The film doesn’t even pass the fucking Bechdel test, are we surprised?
So I’m once again reiterating what I said in my previous post back in May,
If you happen to know a female F1 fan, please be kind to her. Check on her. Listen to her. She’s probably fucking frustrated right now.
And to all my fellow my motorsport girlies, I love you. We got this. 💜
Hey, so some of y’all on this app called me dramatic and crazy and stupid for a post I made a while back that basically said the F1 movie was going to cause a rampant uptick in (the already prevalent) misogyny in F1.
But, lo and behold, I was right all along.
The film doesn’t even pass the fucking Bechdel test, are we surprised?
So I’m once again reiterating what I said in my previous post back in May,
If you happen to know a female F1 fan, please be kind to her. Check on her. Listen to her. She’s probably fucking frustrated right now.
And to all my fellow my motorsport girlies, I love you. We got this. 💜
so i was rereading sometimes the fall kills you and its so ironic that lando thinks y/n is going to be fun to toy with but he's the clingy one in the end
😫 im conflicted about the start of the whole thing because the original plot was y/n being affected by a strong attachment to lando but then the story wrote itself in a way i thought made more sense in the context of his mum's passing ???? idk ????
i was listening to jin’s don’t say you love me and its literaly lando and y/n 😭
Don't say that you love me 'cause it hurts the most (The most) You just gotta let me go
rereading with it in the background... but what is y/n and Max’s song?
WAIT ITS SO Y/N TO LANDO (spoilers below)
➵ sometimes the fall kills you
➵ when you fall, you fly
because the only time he ever says i love you TO her is when she's leaving anon thank u for this beautiful find its so perfect? gahh
the song i personally associate with them is bob dylan's "it ain't me babe" from yn's perspective, this entire part:
you say you're looking for someone
who'll pick you up each time you fall
to gather flowers constantly
and to come each time you call
a lover for your life and nothing more
i think it really encapsulates how much of her lando wanted in his life, how suffocating that desire was and made her feel like she couldn't have her own things
max and y/n's song hm... i think the best example is djo's "golden line" I LOVE DJO the whole song is so them coded?? every day is better with you - the way the fic ends, her saying that max makes everything better
idk i didnt listen to any of these when writing (except for it ain't me babe, i have that shit on repeat every day, my family is sick of me playing it on guitar 😭) but these are ones i thought of. thanks for the ask !!
summary: (19k) it begins the winter of ‘28. you know this is how ghost stories start. a season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something.
part one / part two
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
notes: this ended up so much longer than i expected, so this is part one only ☹️ freaking tumblr would not let me post my 1000+ blocks. max is literally not in this, sorry for the clickbait, but reading this is important to understanding the next part where he comes in.
lando is a manipulative and unstable person in this fic. his and yn’s relationship might seem romantic or alluring, to have someone so attached to you, but it’s not healthy at all. from what i’ve seen lando is a sweet person and speaks out about mental health, this fic does not claim to represent him in any way. his behavior here is a figment of my imagination.
anyway, this is the first fic i wrote in google docs, i bled, sweat, and teared my way through it, please be nice. i’m sorry in advance. hope you enjoy!
18+... fingering, blowjob, half-choking, unprotected sex, suggestions of oral (smut is in a specific section, i've marked it in bold, please scroll past if you're a minor)
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Most days, you feel like the shittest boot-licking piece of trash ever thrown away. It stems from your phone, what all the preaching psychoanalysts tell schoolchildren. Don’t compare yourself. Humans weren’t meant to see their own faces. Fuck that. Mirrors are an age-old invention. Every goddamn thing on this planet is a comparison. You know what they won’t admit: the problem is you, in every lifetime.
So. There’s you, and there’s Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, certified ladies’ man since his early twenties and maybe the owner of the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, right down to his perfect nose. There is no overlap in your venn diagrams, save for the fact that you carved out a piece of him and fit yourself there, like you were born to. You didn’t mean it. But, like you already said, you were born to.
It begins the winter of ‘28. You know this is how ghost stories start. A season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something. The death of what, exactly?
You’re getting ahead of yourself. 29 is hardly old—it doesn’t show on Norris’s face, not yet. It is too early to say “middle-aged,” contrary to popular belief. It is also too early to become a sugar daddy. Then again, standards don’t apply to him. He’s 29 and rolling in cash. It would not be a stretch to say he’s in his prime.
This is not how you find him in the winter of ‘28. The man slumped over a table at a dingy bar in Bristol is nothing like the Lando Norris the world knows. You don’t even recognize him when he’s a bit more sober, only noting that bleary-eyed and slurring somehow suits him. He’s well into the two-digit rounds when your shift begins. Your co-worker shrugs helplessly, tells you to keep an eye on this one (poor thing, drunk out of his mind), and drops the keys into your dumbfounded hands. Consolation has never been your strong suit. You’re allergic to pity, incapable of giving it or swallowing it quietly. The only move you make to help him is to water down each passing drink, more and more, before the ratio is unmissable. By that point, you’re not sure if he can tell the difference between piss and what he’s ordered. Maybe he can, but he’s not drinking anymore.
Now he’s slumped forward, forehead pressed to the sticky wood. His fingers are loose around a glass he’s forgotten how to lift.
“Hey,” you call, leaning over with the rag in hand. “We’re closing soon.”
Nothing.
You sigh and toss the rag on the counter. When you get closer, the smell hits you. Maybe you weren’t close enough, before, in your attempts to stay out of his single-minded drinking. You catch expensive cologne, drowned under sweat and whiskey. Up close, he’s younger than you thought. Late thirties? You might know that face.
“Hey, man.” You tap his wrist, careful not to provoke any sudden movements. Fuck, you’re tired and you don’t want an angry, stubborn man to start a bar fight now. “Time to go.”
His head lifts slowly. It’s too heavy for his neck. This is the first time you see those ridiculous eyelashes, the sharp jaw softened by stubble, the mouth parted. He’s halfway between a laugh and a cry. You’ll get very familiar with those features, in the months to come.
“Where’d she go?” he slurs, blinking up at you like you have the answer. “Where the fuck did she go?”
You freeze for a second. No, this is bad. A sleepy man is okay, as long as he’s not causing trouble. A crazy, inebriated man is a little more than you can take right now. “Who?”
He lets out this bitter little laugh. “My mum,” he mutters, keeling back over and miraculously not splitting his skull in half. “Dead. Just gone. S’fucked, yeah?”
You exhale. The bar is empty. It’s just you and a guy with a dead mom fraying on your counter.
“Okay.” You walk around, crouch slightly, resting a light hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”
He flinches under your touch but doesn’t pull away. Just mumbles, “did you know…did you know she kept every helmet I ever…” His words dissolve into a dry laugh. They then evaporate into silence. You manage to get his arm around your frame, hoisting him up with more effort than you thought you would need. He leans into you, a sandbag with no intention of helping, murmuring nonsense as you steer him toward the door.
“C’mon, champ,” you mutter under your breath, only half-mocking. You’re not cruel.
Outside, the cold air hits his face. It must be enough to jolt his senses a little. He sways, blinking hard at the streetlights like they’ve just been invented.
“Where—” he starts, before bursting into more giggles. “Where am I supposed to go?”
You exhale. This man, half-draped over you, a stranger whose grief is soaking through your clothes, a spilled drink of something you shouldn’t know about. You don’t know yet that his name is Lando Norris. You don’t know yet that—no, you’re getting ahead of yourself again. At this moment, your priority is not having a dead man and a murder investigation in your name.
At this moment, all you know is you need to get him into a cab before he collapses on your doorstep.
“Home,” you say, and hope to God he remembers where that is.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Two nights later, he walks in, a reassurance that, yes, he did remember where home was.
He’s so different that you almost don’t recognize him, if not for the same cologne, honey and saffron that wafts into the air. It oozes confidence and allure, just the way the man that wears it does. He does now, at least, with a crisp white shirt (loose, but precise enough to show that it’s been tailored) and a watch that probably costs more than all your student debt combined.
You watch him from behind the counter, heart sinking into your shoes. Of course. Because God forbid one night of decency go unpunished.
He slides onto a stool (right in front of you, of course) and leans in with this easy, practiced charm that makes you want to punch something. It’s so fake, so unlike everything you know about him. He has no right being able to compose himself. You hate rich douchebags who act like they have no problems; this man’s signature is halfway onto that list.
“Evening,” he says. “Miss me?”
You snort before you can help it. The audacity. It’s a wonder he remembers your face, considering he’d forgotten what lamps looked like. You think he’s pathetic. Pity, as you’ve already said, isn’t in your dictionary. He’s a poser who pretends he’s not sad.
“Wow,” you deadpan, draping the rag over your shoulder. “Back to slum it with the peasants so soon? We’re honored.”
He smiles with all his face, from his mouth to his eyes, from his laugh lines to his immaculately set teeth. There are no canine fangs in this man’s mouth, but his grin still comes off sharp and pleased. He was hoping you’d bite.
“You’re quick. I like that.”
You arch a brow. “What do you want, fancy boy? Another blackout? You know, I usually charge extra for babysitting drunks, but I’ll make an exception for you.”
He smiles again, this time with a laugh. You hate the way you notice the way his fingers through his hair, the effortless grace of it.
“Came to settle my tab.” He reaches into his pocket—wallet? You don’t see clearly—and places a black card on the counter. To him, it’s nothing. “And maybe buy the bartender a drink for her trouble.”
You glance at the card, then back at him. You know how to look helpless, how to mold yourself to what a customer wants. You also know how to look unimpressed, in an attempt to ward off this preening pretty boy. “I think you’re overestimating how much I care about your conscience.”
Not once does his smile falter. “Oh, I’m not here to clear my conscience.” His eyes flick over you. Not in that greasy, leering way you’re used to. It’s as if he’s cataloging you for future use, pulling you apart in his head. “I just don’t like owing people.”
You push the card back toward him. Your fingers tap the bar once. “Then consider us square. You lived, I didn’t get vomit on my shoes. We both win.”
You see his eyes widen, just for a moment—you’ve surprised him—and then the grin snaps back into place, looser now. This is a game he’s decided he wants to play.
He leans back on the stool, thumb brushing his bottom lip. He’s savoring something. You don’t know what. “Alright,” he says to himself. “Square, then.”
You nod once, already turning away.
“See you around, bartender.”
You don’t look back. You won’t look back. You’re walking away, carried by your feet and better judgement. There’s a hook under your skin. You know, with a sinking in your chest, that he’ll be back. You don’t even know his name, but you know that much. Not because he owes you, not because he should.
Now, you’re interesting. And men like him never let interesting go.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re halfway through a paper when your laptop freezes. You stare at the spinning cursor. It’s the montage people talk of when they’re about to die. It is, in its own right, a death sentence.
“No, no, no,” you whisper, fingers hammering at the keys. Please, please, let it save you. The library around you is packed. Someone two tables over is crying, not-so-quietly, into their sleeve.
You drag your hands through your hair, tug hard at the roots, blink down the burn in your eyes. Coffee-stained hoodie, cracked phone screen, empty energy drink cans rattling in your bag—who’s going to give in first, your body or your mind?
Understandably, you’re a little too occupied to care about who’s around you. They’re all tired and equally as demotivated, so you think. Your chest gives a sick lurch to inform you otherwise.
Leaning against the archway across the room is the devil, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He wears a dark jacket and a faint smirk.
No, you think wildly, almost laughing. What the fuck? This is not happening.
But it is. Your drunken spoils, in the flesh. He pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. You still don’t know his name.
“Didn’t peg you for the overachieving type,” he says when he reaches your table, voice pitched low enough it curls right under your skin.
“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, slamming your laptop shut. It’s already broken, might as well end its misery now. “Are you following me now?”
He raises both hands. “Relax. I’m giving a talk here.” He tips his head toward the auditorium doors down the hall. “Motivation, hard work, all that crap they pay me for. But you,” he adds, eyes flicking over the mess of your table, “you’re making us all look bad.”
Your chest is tight, your breathing ragged. You’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or exhaustion laced in your bones. Probably all three. “Look,” you snap, shoving papers into your bag, “why don’t you stick daddy’s money up your ass and find your way home. Go harass someone who gives a shit. Maybe someone with money, so they’ll be more sympathetic than me.”
When you lurch to your feet, he’s suddenly right in front of you. You see the lashes again, long and tantalizing, about to pull you to your death. You’re going to suffocate on his cologne.
“Burning out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s no mockery in his voice now. “You should pace yourself.”
You shove past him hard enough your shoulder clips his arm. Asshole. You hope he trips down the stairs and chips his veneers. You know exactly why he’s here—it’s not the first time you’ve seen a man cracked open and raw on that barstool, trying to drown themselves in grief and whiskey. Men like him don’t let anyone keep hold of that kind of power. So yeah, you’re overworked, underpaid, and too close to your deadlines.
He’s going to be pulling on that string for a while. He’s going to enjoy dragging out your inevitable unraveling.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The next day at work, it’s quiet. You’re restocking glasses behind the bar. Your eyes are gritty from no sleep, brain still fried. Right now, you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to make this month’s rent. Bartending is great when people give good tips. Today it’s hell.
Your manager taps your shoulder, frowning. “Hey, someone left this for you.” You turn and take what’s in his hands, an envelope with your first name on it. It’s handwritten, a surprising gesture of humility compared to the numbers on the check inside.
You stare at it for a long, long time. Long enough that your hands start to go numb. It’s made out to you. Enough to clear everything. Rent, loans, student debt…fuck, it’s enough to buy you a new car, too.
There’s no note or explanation. Although you’ve never seen his handwriting before—from Lando Norris, the check says, and this is how you finally get his name—you know somewhere across the city, Lando Norris is grinning like a Cheshire cat.
You find him outside a hotel, and obviously, it’s the most expensive one in town. You did a little research on him when you got his name. He’s from here. So he has a house, probably, and he’s at a hotel anyway because the cash burning his pocket is oh-too-much to bear. He’s stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed into his hair, scrolling lazily through his phone. The world doesn’t touch him. He practically tosses his keys at you.
“What the fuck, man?” you burst out, voice sharp enough to turn a few heads.
Lando looks up. “Afternoon to you, too. I thought you were the valet.”
You stop in front of him and jab the envelope toward his chest. “You’re not a mafia boss, you know that, right? You can’t just—you can’t just throw money at people like they’re strays and then disappear.”
His brows lift slightly. “Didn’t realize helping was a crime.”
“Helping?” You bite back a laugh. “I know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white. “You want me to owe you. You want me tied to you. You think if you pull hard enough, I’ll snap, and—and what? You’ll own me?”
You see his eyes darken at the suggestion.
“Sweetheart,” he says. He’s talking to a scared cat, pushing off the car, closing the distance between you in one easy step, “you already owe me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
He grins again, now with all his teeth, and says it so casually it makes your head spin: “I want you to be my sugar baby.”
“You’re insane,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You’re insane. They need to put you in a psych ward. You can’t say that to people you barely know—”
Lando tips his head slightly. He’s a cat watching the mouse try to run. “Why not? I always say what I want. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”
“Jesus Christ. You can’t just buy people. You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” he cuts in smoothly, like he always does. He seems advertent to letting you finish your sentences. “Help you? Save you some time? Give you a way out before you collapse in that library corner you’ve been camping in for weeks?”
You glare at him, but your chest is tight and you can’t force the words out.
“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, smile slipping softer now, almost gentle. “What people are willing to let me buy.”
For one furious, helpless second, you want to slap him. Or start crying. Or do something, something that’ll make him feel out of control. What you do is step back, trying to muster venom, voice cracking on the words: “Go to hell, Norris.”
“Take your time, sweetheart.” He winks and hands the actual valet, who’s snuck up behind you two, a nice wad of money. “You’ll come around.”
The check burns in your fist, even as he vanishes between the golden hotel doors.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You crash through your apartment door at midnight, still tasting the metallic buzz of panic on your tongue. It might also be blood. You have a nasty habit of opening cuts on your lips.
The envelope goes on the counter, torn halfway open, the check peeking out, mocking you, taunting you. You slap a hand over your face and groan into your palm. What the actual hell is happening?
Your phone buzzes.
mara(malade)
holy fuck
mara(malade)
u alive? shift was hell
You practically sag with relief. Mara, your coworker—ex-roommate (now she’s got a bit more money of her own), bartender, chaos magnet, saint. You fire back a desperate come over please bring wine before you can overthink it. Twenty minutes later, she’s on your couch, a bottle of grocery store rosé cradled like it’s a baby.
“So,” she says, fumbling around for a bottle-opener, “what’s the emergency? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or committed tax fraud.”
You shove the check at her. She squints at it, reads the amount, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Who’d you rob?”
“Lando Norris,” you blurt, and immediately regret it.
“You wish.” You don’t laugh, a sign something’s wrong and this is not a joke. She looks up, finger pointing accusingly. “Fuck me. Lando Norris as in Formula 1 driver, millionaire, owns-half-of-Monte-Carlo Lando Norris?”
You throw your hands up. “I don’t know about all the rest, but yes, Lando Norris!”
Mara lets out a snort of disbelief. “Okay, back up. Why is Lando Norris writing you a check that could wipe my student loans and buy me a new liver? Did you save his life or something?”
“I—” You collapse onto the couch, pressing your knuckles to your mouth. “He was drunk at the bar. Like, blackout. I stopped him from, I don’t know, choking on his own tongue? And now he thinks I’m some charity case or—”
Mara raises both brows, an impressed little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Babe, respectfully…why you?”
Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
“I love you. Don’t get me wrong,” Mara says, hands raised, “but he’s…him. And you’re.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re, like, you. You’re brilliant and broke and working three jobs and I know you, and no offense, but you have no chill. What do you have on him? Are you blackmailing him? Did you see him cry in the bathroom?”
Your mouth opens, then closes, useless.
“Oh my God,” Mara cackles. “You did.”
You groan, dragging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your face. “This is a nightmare.”
“Nightmare? This is the plot of every bad Netflix movie I’ve ever binged.” Mara unleashes the rosé with a nice pop. Hardly one for decorum, she takes a sip right out of the bottle. “So. Are you gonna cash it?”
You think of Lando’s smile—smug, that’s the best way to describe it—and the way he looked at you. To him, you were a puzzle he adored having his hands on. You think of the way your stomach twisted when he leaned in close. He already knew how you’d break.
“I don’t know.”
Mara’s grin fades. “Careful, babe. Guys like that, they don’t just give. They take.”
You know. God, you know.
You spend the next hour pacing the apartment, a lunatic. Mara refreshes your instagram every other minute. She says it’s bad for you, but in your state, maybe she should be doing it instead. The current report: “Nothing. No messages, no tags, no random follows.”
You check the bar’s security footage on your phone and it’s just his blurry back slipping into a car.
You Google him (why did you Google him, why, it was normal the first time and now it’s dangerously close to stalking) and end up falling into a YouTube spiral. Lando’s podium interviews, Lando’s champagne-soaked parties, Lando’s Monaco apartment tour, and Lando’s something with his trainer that makes your stomach do an ugly little flip. Somewhere between the videos, Mara falls asleep on the couch, too tired to be your better judgement. But his number? His email? A way in? You have nothing. Now you’re the desperate one. You should stop, really.
“God, you coward. You can just drop a check on someone’s life and walk away? What are you, Batman? What am I supposed to do with this, frame it?”
You curl forward, forehead pressed to your knees. You laugh under your breath in that shaky, half-hysterical way that’s closer to a cry. You’re not even sure what’s eating you alive more—the fact that he did this, or the fact that some awful part of you wants him to show up again, wants him to walk back through the bar doors like it was just some normal Tuesday, like this hasn’t cracked open something huge and stupid and terrifying inside you.
He doesn’t, in that infuriating way of his, and you can’t find him.
When you fall asleep on the couch at four in the morning, the check is still there on the table, its stupid smooth paper whispering you’re already in too deep, sweetheart, every time you roll over.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Lando doesn’t plan on showing up again, that’s the thing.
He tells himself it’s done. Box checked, debt cleared, one good deed in a life otherwise soaked in champagne and carbon fiber and a mile-long string of bad decisions. Hey, he’s a marginally less shitty asshole. He’s sitting on the balcony of his hotel suite when it starts gnawing at him.
You didn’t cash the check.
He knows because his assistant flagged it. That’s the kind of man he is now—detached, insulated, always three degrees removed from the mess he makes. He sends the money, someone else watches. He screws up, someone else cleans it. But you didn’t play the part.
He hasn’t gotten a thank-you (you told him to go to hell, actually) letter. He hasn’t gotten any gratitude, not even for the money (you told him to stick it up his ass). You didn’t even try to contact him. He leans back in the chair, tipping his head toward the sky. He lets out a slow exhale. There’s a bitter curl of something in his chest, and it has nothing to do with grief or guilt. It’s irritation.
He can’t stand that you saw him wrecked, sprawled across that bar, drunk out of his mind, cracked open and human. He can’t stand that you walked away. Now you’re out there, a loose thread in his neatly stitched life, and it’s driving him fucking insane. So yeah, he’s going to give it a few more days and then he’s going to go back. He hasn’t any intentions of apologizing or explaining. This is for him only. Lando Norris has never been the type to walk away without solving the goddamn puzzle.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
His patience pays itself over in gold.
You cashed the check. Of course you did.
He knows the exact day, in fact. His assistant texts him with a one-line update (“it cleared this morning”) while he’s halfway through an espresso and a team meeting he hasn’t listened to in twenty minutes. For a moment, Lando just sits there, thumb running along the rim of his cup, that devilish smile peeking out. You finally cracked.
Now he gives it three days before he shows up. He does it quietly, just him at the edge of the bar.
Your head jerks up when you see him, eyes wide. Lando feels it like a hit of adrenaline, clean down his spine.
“You.”
“Me,” he agrees. “Been a while, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.” You’re rattled. “I didn’t—I only cashed it because—”
“Relax. No strings, remember?”
Your jaw works, teeth catching on the inside of your cheek. “Why are you here?”
His smile tilts with his head, so lopsided it might seem innocent. “To see you.”
“You don’t even know me, asshole.”
“But I know enough,” Lando says, lowering his voice. He knows your name, he knows your situation—well, he cleared all that—, and he knows you’re nervous. You’re breathing too fast. He leans on the bar, eyes half-lidded. He loves watching you scramble for ground. “You’re working two jobs. You’re barely sleeping. You think you can handle everything by yourself, and you hate that you can’t. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day you cashed that check.”
He hears you gulp. He waits a bit longer, two heartbeats, maybe.
And then, with a wicked little grin, he says, “So. How about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Dinner,” Lando says again. You’re sharing a secret. “You eat, don’t you?”
You flounder. When you get riled up, it wakes something inside him. Maybe that’s why he’s been coming back, not just because he needs to do charity, but because you entice him.
“I’m not your little project,” you snap. “You wanted me to take the money, I took the money, will you please just leave me alone instead of trying to…” You don’t want to finish the sentence. You can’t even find your arsenal of vulgarity.
“Seduce you?” Lando supplies lightly. “Mmm. We’ll see, won’t we?”
Before you can throw another insult, before you can spit him out, he’s sliding a card across the counter, tapping it once with his finger. You’ve seen this film before. You know what you should do next: push him aside, push all of this down so you don’t think about it. You’ve done it before, can’t you do it again?
“Tonight. Seven. Wear something dangerous.”
Like the shitbag he is, he just walks away.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He came back and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. In your defense, it’s only been a few hours. Your shift ends and you half-stumble home. You shut the door to your apartment, sag against it, and press your fists to your eyes, hoping you can squeeze Lando Norris out of your skull.
You’re not a project. You’re not his charity case. You’re not going to whore it out for more money. Greed is dangerous. You’re satisfied. Do this one thing and let it go.
Your bank account is whole for the first time in a year. The past-due notices are gone. The constant panic is still there, but now it’s now less mechanical notices and more an unspeakable Brit.
Mara’s on your couch when you finally topple over. She’s digging into a bag of chips.
“You’re a mess,” she announces. “Also, is it true Lando Norris tipped you a down payment on a house?”
“Not a house. Not—” you’re muffled by the pillow that your face sinks into.
“Babe,” she says through a mouthful of salt and vinegar, “do you have any idea how hot, rich, and deeply emotionally unavailable that man is? He must really hate what you saw.”
“I don’t know!” you groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—”
You don’t tell Mara about the card he left. You don’t tell her that it’s still in your jeans pocket. You don’t take it out. If you do, you’re worried it’ll manifest into a contract with the devil, one you are a little too eager to sign.
You shouldn’t have worried so much, in retrospect. Now you’re face-to-face with Lando, your fear of the card is replaced by a constant need to fidget with the napkin. It’s brutally wrinkled. You’ve been twisting it in your fists since the appetizers.
Lando, of course, looks completely at ease. The glass turns slowly in his hand. You’re half-convinced he’s heard your every thought and is simply waiting for you to confess them.
“I can’t believe I came,” you mutter.
“You say that like I put a gun to your head.”
You scowl. No one’s looking at you, but you still feel eyes crawling over your skin. Maybe it’s just him. “You left me a check.”
“Mm. So I did.”
“Enough to clear my loans. Rent. Half my fucking soul.”
He leans in across the table, his halfway unbuttoned shirt dipping down in a way that strains you to keep your eyes up. “You’re welcome.”
You bristle. “You think this is charming? Is this how you get girls? Buy their dignity and then flash them a smile like they should be grateful?”
Lando’s brow arches. It’s not in surprise, because he was waiting for that, too. “Sweetheart—”
“Don’t.”
“Fine.” His mouth twitches. “Darling, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have picked the most hostile bartender in Bristol. You think you’re the first woman who’s ever told me to fuck off?”
It stings. “So why me?”
“You’re interesting.”
“Right. Like a bug.”
“No. Like a puzzle. One I want to take apart with my teeth.”
What the fuck? For a second, all you can hear is the soft click of silverware, someone laughing across the room. Did he just say he wanted to take me apart with his teeth? You were stupid for coming here. You’re going to beat yourself up about it later.
“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap. “I’m a person. A tired one. Who works too many hours and hasn’t taken a proper day off in months. You don’t get to walk in and play white knight just because you’re bored.”
“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me that night.”
You go still. “That night,” you say carefully, “you were a wreck. You were just another wreck. I had no idea who you were.”
He smiles, almost genuinely this time. “Exactly.”
You pick at the edge of your plate, push around your roasted carrots. They’ve offended you.
“I don’t want to owe you,” you say finally.
“Like I said before, you already do.”
He doesn’t smile. “You cashed the check. You came to dinner. And you’re still here. With me. Which means a part of you wants to know what happens next.”
You’re going to choke on all of this. “What do you want from me?”
All his smiles are wicked. This one is particularly knowing. “Honesty? Time. Your attention. Eventually, your mouth. But I’m patient.”
Egotistical, much? Demanding, much? You’re compiling a list of unflattering words to describe him in your head. It makes the issue feel a bit more manageable. He stretches out like a man completely at home, and says, “you think I’m dangerous. You’re not running. Either you’re stupid or you’re curious.”
You don’t have an answer. At least, not one you can say out loud. You finish your drink in one long, burning swallow and stare at the man across the table who just might end your entire life and make you beg for it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Now, the flowers. You come home from work, fingers raw with cold. Your shoes are damp with spilled beer—another asshole; this one couldn’t even tip well—only to trip over a box sitting outside your apartment door. You stare at it for a full minute before crouching down. It’s ridiculous, a bouquet four times the size of your head and more colorful than any plants you’ve seen in your life. You think they might all be roses, but you don’t know your flowers very well.
The card is small, white, blank except for a few words:
For the tired girl.—L
You know that handwriting. You’ve seen it on the envelope that decided your fate. You don’t take them inside. You leave them in the stairwell, daring the universe to care.
The next night, he’s waiting. Not at your door, no, that would be obvious. He’s at the bar, same corner stool.
“Figured you’d show up.” Your voice is flat.
“Did you?”
You slam a glass into the rack a little too hard. “Didn’t figure you were the type to stalk.”
“I’m not.” Lando’s long legs kick under the bar. His designer coat is thrown over the adjacent stool. To him, it’s nothing. Probably sent for free, for exposure. “You left the flowers outside.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like wasting effort.”
At least he’s honest. “So what? You’re here to monitor your investment?”
“I’m here,” Lando murmurs, “because you’re the first person in months who hasn’t wanted something from me. Well, until you cashed the check.”
“Fuck you.”
He says, “careful. You might make me fall in love.”
You whirl on him. “Why me? You could have anyone. Any rich little hanger-on, any girl looking for a payday. Why this?”
“Sweetheart, we’ve already had this conversation. What are you drinking after your shift?”
You shake your head. “Not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is bad news. You are bad news.”
“And yet here we are.”
Lando Norris loves giving things, like they might buy your interest. First the card, then the check, then the card again—fuck, you shouldn’t have used it—and now a piece of folded paper. What now, marriage papers?
No. On it is a string of numbers. His number.
He tugs on his coat. The smile he flashes you a smile so uncaring it makes your knees weak.
“Call me. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you soon.”
You don’t touch the note for the rest of the night. When you lock up hours later, it’s gone. You know exactly where it is: folded in the bottom of your bag.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
you
you’re fucking insane
Delivered. Read.
Lando
and you kept the number
You bite down on a curse, drop your head back against the fridge. Why the fuck did you text him? You’re crazy and deserving of whatever comes next, that’s what you are.
you
what do you want
Lando
a lot of things
Lando
you’re at the top of the list
You huff under your breath, disgust growing under your ribs. You should end this here. You should block him, delete the number, set your phone on fire for good measure. But it won’t do anything, you decide. If he truly means to mess with you, it will do absolutely no good. He’ll show up at your job. He’ll do something about the very generous amount of money he gave you, even if he said “no strings attached.” You owe him, that’s the ugly truth.
you
go bother someone else
Lando
a few things, sweetheart
Lando
you texted me first
you’re so much fun when you’re madand besides. no one else keeps me entertained like you.
you
i’m not your fidget toy
Lando
not yet
You actually breathe when you hear he’s gone. Thank god for that millionare job he’s got, driving in circles. It’ll keep him out of your hair for a good amount of time, according to the information you’ve got online. Racing is a very demanding schedule, and now winter’s drawing to an end, he can’t afford to waste his time on you.
You work the bar in peace. You go home in peace. You wake up, no trace of him in the corner booth or at your barstool or leaning against your car with that maddening smirk. You’ve only seen Lando Norris a few times, yet every time you do, your heartbeat goes up like you’re about to die.
Of course, good things never last. His texts start coming a few days after he’s left your life.
Lando
do you miss me yet
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.
you
i didn’t even notice you were gone
Lando
liar
You toss the phone facedown on the couch. The next morning, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, there’s a courier with a fucking bouquet. It’s the second one, somehow larger, more obnoxious. There’s no card this time.
You snap a photo and send it to him.
you
seriously?
Lando
what kind of asshole would i be if i left you alone completely
The next night, it’s a box, no flowers this time, just expensive chocolate you would never buy yourself. You don’t even like sweets. You text him anyway.
you
stop
Lando
make me
You grind your teeth. You tell yourself not to engage, but you can’t resist sending a:
you
you know, i really wish i could
You don’t mean it with any connotation. You just wish he’d shut up and fall off a cliff or something. Then all your debt would be miraculously cleared.
By day four, you’re jumpy, checking your phone when you swore you wouldn’t. Waiting for a message that makes you want to scream.
Like clockwork:
Lando
you thinking about me?
be honest
You flop down on your bed and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a week. You’re not supposed to want this. You hate him, you really do, and you know that’s true to a certain degree. When he comes by, your fists clench and you try to look anywhere by him. His name brings irritation, gets under your skin, and then it turns into something else. You heard someone say once that hate and love aren’t very different things. Bullshit. Hate and want, more so. That feeling, that despisement, is intoxicating.
Lando
i’ll be back soon, sweetheart
You scream into your hands.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Mara nudges you. You don’t need to look up. He’s back.
This time, you have a response prepared. You smile coquettishly, the way you do when you need good tips. You aren’t privy to swaying your hips a little, maybe angling yourself so the curves of your waist are more enunciated. “Did you cry on the plane or after you landed?”
Oh, he’s glaring. You love that. It makes it easy to maintain your perfect picture of innocence, so eager to be happy. “Oh, sorry. Did you not want anyone mentioning Monaco?”
“Funny.”
You reach for another glass. “Did Oscar at least send you a thank-you basket for letting him win?”
Lando’s jaw flexes, a tiny tic. “You keeping up with the races now, sweetheart? Or just the standings?”
You grin. “Just the losses. Yours, specifically.”
Every inch of him is coiled tight. His shirt is rumpled and the sleeves shoved up. You notice how his throat his exposed, like he dressed in a rush, like he couldn’t stand being away from this city another second. Away from you. You’re flattering yourself. Maybe Monaco really did suck and he was so, so, sad he had to live in a million-dollar penthouse that he came back to this city.
“You know,” he says, “I could’ve stayed in Monaco. Big party tomorrow. But no. I flew home.” His eyes flick over your face, unapologetic. “Guess why.”
Dry as sandpaper, you say, “miss your favorite bartender?”
“You make a mean whiskey sour.”
“I also make a mean ‘get out of my bar, you gosh-darned cunt.’”
He chuckles under his breath, but the sound isn’t fully natural. Lando’s holding something back “You’re good, you know that? Gosh-darned cunt, really?”
“At what?”
You see his knee bounce. “At getting under my skin. You rile me up like you’re trying to start something.”
“Maybe I am,” you say.
“Careful.”
“Is this the part where you try to scare me?”
“No.” His composure is back. He knows something—at the very least, he thinks he knows something. “This is the part where I wonder how long you’re going to pretend you don’t want me.”
Heat licks up your spine. You hate him. You hate how good he is at this. What would it be like, you wonder for a moment, to be rich and good looking and cocky as a man with a two-inch dick.
“You’re right, Lando. I want you so bad I’m shaking,” you say, voice husky. You let your eyelids lower, as if you’re staring at him in a post-orgasmic haze.
His expression changes.
Then you smile a toothy grin. “For a restraining order.” The snort that bursts out of him might be a little impressed.
“You’re insufferable,” Lando mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“And you’re still here,” you shoot back.
He slouches back on the barstool.
“Fuck, you drive me insane.”
You turn so he can’t see you biting your lip to keep from smiling.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The texts are still a thing, something to keep your wits sharp while Lando’s out of town. Getting to bicker and not having to see his face? The gods made this arrangement just for you. To be fair, you haven’t asked for anything aside from what he gives you of his own free will. He never says the words “sugar baby” anymore, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he pays. You can afford some of it, sure, but investments are better. You still have the rest of your life to spend money.
Your phone lights up on the counter. For one second, you consider ignoring it, you really do.
Then you swipe, anyway.
“Hello,” you say, with that voice you only use with him, like you’re about to fall asleep from how dull he is.
“Thought you’d never pick up.”
It’s great he can’t see your face. Your stomach dips, traitorous, and you are absolutely not bored by him.
“What do you want?” you mutter, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scrub harder at the countertop.
“Relax,” Lando says. “I’m not asking for your soul.”
“I think I already signed it away,” you quip.
There’s a pause. You can hear the faint sound of city traffic behind him, the rustle of fabric as he moves. You can picture it too clearly: his fingers at his collar, half-distracted, grinning to himself because to him, this is all a game.
“I need a favor,” he allows.
Your laugh is mean. “Oh, do you.”
“Don’t get excited, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of favor.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
You often send him chuckling, as he does now. “You’re really something.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near your little circus. Whatever it is, I’m sure you have a dozen girls on speed dial who’d jump at the chance.”
“Sure,” Lando says smoothly. “But they’re not you.” Too cheesy. You won’t give it to him. Still, that lands somewhere you don’t want to admit. You pace behind the bar.
“Look, I’m not some accessory. I thought we already agreed on this. Fuck it. Dinner, okay. If you want to text me, I guess you can have that, asshole. If you have to show up at work, okay, but anything aside from that…”
“Calm down.” His voice dips, completely unriled which only makes you angrier. “It’s just an event. Monaco. Black tie. Tomorrow night.”
You stop pacing. “Tomorrow? Monaco, like, France? Which son of a bitch crashed into your car and gave you a concussion?”
“Mm,” he says. You can hear him smile. “It’s a shame you’re going to say no. Especially since I already had the dress sent over.”
“You what?”
“Check the door.”
You lunge for it, yank it open, and there’s a hotel courier on the stoop of your bar. The garment bag in their hand, something out of a fever dream. You whip back around, phone still pressed to your ear. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe. But you’re still on the line, sweetheart. I had my assistant email the plane tickets.”
“My god. This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.
“Of course not. See you tomorrow.”
You wave away the courier weakly (they say no need for tip, it’s been covered) and toss the garment bag onto the barstool like it’s radioactive. Mara looks up from her ramen, mouth full, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “Is that a dress? Please tell me that’s not a dress. Shit, that bag looks expensive.”
“It’s a dress. Kill me.”
Mara sets her wrinkled noodle cup down. “Okay, back up. Shit. You’re going to have to explain. You had a couture gown delivered to your workplace?”
“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I, fuck, I don’t even know what I said. He just called. I guess he knew I was still at work and sent it here instead.”
“Oh, he called.” Mara clearly wasn’t listening. It was valid, because you would’ve been very invested in your noodles too. “And you picked up. Shocking.”
“I was caught off guard, okay?”
Mara leans back, arms crossed. She’s settling in for a show. “Mm-hm. Off guard, even though you have his contact. And what exactly did our emotionally unstable sugar daddy.”
“He’s not my—whatever, he wants me to go with him. To this stupid black-tie thing. In Monaco—Mara, I’ve never been outside the country, and he wants me to meet more pissy millionaire with egos just like his? Goddamnit, I’m a blasted idiot. I should’ve hung up.”
“And now you’re here,” Mara finishes, “having a full-on meltdown over a man you keep calling a pissy millionaire, but whose name you’ve Googled so much your phone probably thinks you’re a fan account.”
You shoot her a betrayed look.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Just, are you sure you’re not into him? I don’t know, if you really hated it, you’d be gone.”
You throw a dirty, soaking towel at her. She catches it easily and puts it down. “Fine, fine. But listen, babe. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think he’s hot.”
“I hate you,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mara says, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “But you are going to text me photos once you get dressed. If you’re going to dance with the devil, baby, you might as well look smoking doing it.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
At some point, after pacing the suite, after staring too long at the ocean view, after wondering what the hell you were even doing in Monaco, the dress ended up on your skin. Now you’re cursing again, fingers fumbling at the clasp behind your neck. It’s a bit worrying how well the dress fits you. You’d be more worried if you had a spare thought. Currently, you’re occupied with trying to get this fucking clasp doe.
There’s a knock at the door. You wonder who it could be, because the hotel people usually announce themselves. One culprit.
“Lando, if you come in here—”
The door swings open. How the fuck does he have a key?
“Relax,” he drawls, stepping inside like it’s his suite, his eyes sweeping over you in one slow, sinfully amused pass. Well, he did order the room. Maybe he had a spare he didn’t bother letting you know about. “I knocked.”
You scowl. “Get out.”
But your hands are still twisted up at the clasp and he sees it.
“Need help, sweetheart?”
You spin halfway, trying to yank the zipper yourself, but it only slips lower, baring more skin, making you hiss under your breath. “No. Go away.”
He’s already crossing the room. There it is, that cologne, honey and saffron, so inebriating you almost close your eyes to savor the smell. It makes your pulse spike. You know that body heat amplifies the notes. Lando Norris is warm and right next to you.
“Stay still,” he says. His fingers brush yours, gentle yet firm, easing you out of the way. His knuckles graze your nape and your breath hitches before you can bite it back.
“I hate you,” you mutter, as his fingers work the clasp. You wonder if he’s done this many times before. The answer is probably yes.
“Mm,” Lando hums, mouth too close to your ear. “You keep saying that.”
He lingers, too long, his thumb ghosting over your bare skin. Your chest tightens; your hands flex at your sides.
“You think this is charming? Bursting into my room when I’m trying to change?” you snap, half-turning toward him. “Is this how you—”
He cuts you off, his eyes flicking down. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”
“Fuck you,” you breathe.
“Not yet.” Lando smirks. His voice is gasoline, about to set your insides—everything, really—on fire. You shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, but the contact jolts both of you. One hand is still on your back, holding you like he’s about to dance.
“You’re such an asshole,” you whisper.
“Guilty.” He lets go then. “I’ll wait downstairs. Ten minutes. Though I think you look ready.”
“And if I don’t come?”
Lando’s already at the door. “Oh, you’ll come.” His voice is absolutely certain.
You tell yourself you’re only going down because you need to tell him to his face you’re not doing this. That’s it. That’s the only reason. When you step into the elevator, your palms sweaty, you already know you’re lying to yourself.
The car is waiting outside (probably his, judging from the custom initials ‘LN’) with, you note, tinted windows. Lando’s hair is raked back.
“Took you long enough,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical little flourish.
“Fucking wanker,” you say. There’s no malice behind it.
The door closes with a soft, expensive thunk. You press yourself against the far side of the seat. You can still feel the heat of him even across the car, the subtle glance he steals when you cross your legs, the way his hand ‘accidentally’ finds your thigh instead of the gear shift.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” You want to wipe that smirk of this face. “Like I can’t decide if I want to ruin you or worship you?”
There’s a thought you have often when it comes to Lando Norris. What the fuck? You, who cusses every other sentence, have more decorum than this man. And he’s saying all this with a straight face. It might be sincere, if you didn’t know him any better. You dig your nails into your palm. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”
Lando looks away from the road. He’s way too confident to be driving safely. “Maybe. But you’re still in my car, wearing my dress, going to my party. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, sweetheart, but you already chose.”
You stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the glittering coastline smear past in a blur of gold, watch it turn into a cathedral of money and ego. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, women in dresses you’d need a mortgage to afford. Well, now you have a willing bankroller, maybe you don’t.
Lando doesn’t so much escort you as claim you. His hand remains at the small of your back, hot breath brushing your ear as he murmurs names you don’t recognize, introductions you don’t want. You slip away from him the moment he’s distracted by some sponsor, ducking toward the balcony again for air. As it turns out, you’re not alone.
“Big crowd, huh?”
You turn, startled, and find a brunette against the railing, glass of water in hand. His tie’s loose, hair slightly mussed like someone’s been messing with it all night. His smile is easy, genuine, the kind that makes your shoulders drop without meaning to. You let out a breath. Lando gets you all tense.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a lot.”
Alex chuckles. “First one?”
“Does it show?”
“Only a little.” He grins. “But you’re doing fine. Better than I did my first one. I tripped over a server. Champagne everywhere.”
Your laugh is genuine, this time. That makes the first nice person you’ve met all evening.
“I’m Alex, by the way.” He offers his hand and you shake it, thankful for the small, normal gesture in a night that’s felt anything but.
You introduce yourself and he brightens. “Oh, you’re with Lando tonight?” he asks lightly, with only curiosity. “How’d you two meet?”
You freeze for half a second—how do you even explain that? That he crashed into your life like a hurricane, arrogant and infuriating, with a check big enough to clear your debts and a smirk that’s been haunting your sleep ever since?
“Long story,” you hedge, a little helpless. “Sort of accidental.”
Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “He’s not all bad, you know. A menace, sure, but not all bad.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice.”
“Well, someone has to balance him out. You okay, though?”
Hell no, you want to say. Your mouths are already forming the words, before you smell that goddamn cologne. It’s like the electrical smell that precedes a storm, a warning. You turn and there’s Lando.
His eyes flick to Alex, then to you. “Making friends without me, sweetheart?”
Alex winks. “Just keeping her company, mate.”
Lando’s mouth falls into a frown, before he catches himself. “Right.” His gaze cuts to you. “Come dance,” he says, and it’s not a request.
You glance at Alex, completely helpless. He just squeezes your arm gently. “Go on. He’s useless without you.”
He leads you into the throng of people, fingers pressing into the silk at your hip. “Why’ve you been hiding?”
You twist, glaring up at him. “I wasn’t hiding. You dumped me for the wolves.”
“I was making the rounds.”
“And now what, you want a medal?” you snap. God, your heart is about to give out, as his thumb strokes a slow, deliberate line against your side. He spins you into him, just like that, the room tipping for half a second. His chest brushes yours. You feel the hard line of his arm at your back.
“Tell me,” Lando says, “how many of them have come over tonight? Kimi, Charles, George…they’re all wondering what you’re doing with me.”
“Makes sense,” you mutter, “so am I.”
“You’re not a model. You’re not anyone’s plus-one. You’re not chasing some influencer deal.” He lists them, all while keeping his eyes on you. “And you’re the only one in this room who actually wants me to fuck off all of the time.”
“Where’s this going, Norris?”
The edge of his thumb grazes your jaw. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t see you looking? You think I don’t know why you stayed?”
You snap, “I stayed because you booked me a goddamn plane ticket. And you keep showing up. And you don’t let people walk away.”
He leans in until there’s barely any air between you. You can’t breathe without inhaling every bit of him. “Neither do you. Couldn’t leave me without getting the last word, could you?”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“I know. You like to tell me that a lot.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Inside the suite, it’s all hush and gold. You sigh, dig your thumbs under the straps of your heels, and nearly groan when they drop to the floor. God, why did you tolerate them? Your feet are crying with relief.
He clears his throat.
Lando.
He has one hand braced above his head, elbow to the doorframe, watching you with a kind of feigned indifference. You can tell it’s fake because his searching eyes are anything but lazy. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, from champagne or the night air or maybe just arrogance. His curls are mussed in that artful, infuriating way that makes you want to bury your hands in them and tug until he curses, letting out a guttural sound in spite of himself.
Fucking hell. It’s obscene, really, how beautiful he is. How sculpted his mouth is, the flash of gold at his throat, though gold isn’t the right word when you look at his tan skin. You should not be noticing any of this. You should not be noticing how his shoulders fill out that jacket or how his chest looks under the thin black shirt or how his lips parted, just slightly, when you caught his gaze.
“Why are you still here?”
He pouts. “Missed you.”
“You barely even know me.”
He pushes off the door, saunters in. “That’s the thing. Don’t know you, but I do know you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.”
You shake your head. “‘Course not. Trophy’s a little too nice to describe you.”
“You’ve been pulling away.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “No I haven’t.”
“Come on, you can do better than that.”
“You can’t just fly me to Monaco, drop me in a five-star hotel, and expect me to—”
“To what?” His voice drops. “Want me?”
Your throat clicks when you swallow.
“Don’t.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t get it, do you? You walk into a room and it bends around you, like you’re a fucking messiah. I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”
And then he’s in front of you, crouching, one hand on your knee. Lando’s always had beautiful eyelashes. You’ve known since you first saw them that they would be the end of you. Now, they frame his eyes, those mesmerizing pools of light. They never stay one color. They might actually be clear, only reflecting what you want to see in them. He looks at you like you’re the moon, the stars, the sun.
His fingers are warm. Solid. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you stopped fighting this, if you leaned in, if you let him win.
“I don’t want you to keep your head on straight. Not with me.”
“Maybe I should’ve been nicer to you.”
The adoration lingers in his eyes, but there’s a glint. “Oh, I like you mean.”
God help you, you want to kiss him. You want to shove him back on the bed, crawl into his lap, see if his mouth tastes like champagne or heat or both. You want to know if his hands shake when they touch skin or if he’s always this sure of himself.
All you can do is whisper, “Are you staying?”
His fingers curl a little tighter around your knee.
“Unless you tell me to go.”
You’ve never seen him so compliant to your wants. It does something to you. You’ve been demanding to him, always swearing, always telling him to go fuck himself. Still, he’s patient in a way that makes you ache, beautiful in a way that makes you furious.
You might owe him a moment. Just one, you swear to yourself. Just this once.
You pull him by the collar. He’s shocked, lips forming a perfect circle before they crash into yours with the urgency of someone who has waited far too long. Honey and saffron. Honey and saffron. You’ve associated it with him so long you’re certain someone wearing the same cologne is enough to make your knees buckle in public. His mouth is soft and prying, bringing out a soundless intake of breath from you. His mouth melds to yours.
Lando’s lips part, his tongue teasing against yours. You pull back, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows, his lips trailing down your jaw, then your neck. It’s like he can’t get enough.
You grip his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. It’s useless. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling you back in. You see him in his euphoric haze, his lowered eyelids. He makes a noise like a whine when you leave, as if he physically cannot bear being separated from you, and you think you might actually drown in want.
“Lando,” you whisper. God, your senses. Your head feels light, dizzy with the taste of him.
“Mm, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, his thoughts are elsewhere.
Just once, you told yourself. Just once.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re still half-wrapped in the robe you swore you’d only wear for five minutes after your shower, hair damp, skin bare and a little too aware of itself. But it’s so comfy, like being wrapped in a cloud, and you really can’t bear to take it off.
The door flies open once more, only seconds after you hear the buzz of an accepted keycard. Lando Norris is hardly a gentleman. He doesn’t even knock!
What he is, however, is a vision of casual, expensive sin—white tee hugging his shoulders, curls damp like he’s only just come from his own shower—okay, those are places your thoughts absolutely should not be going. He smiles. He knows exactly how pretty he looks standing in your suite.
“What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too.”
You glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”
Lando gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug. “You looked like you might sleep all day. Figured I’d save you from the crushing boredom.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Why did you even book the hotel for longer? The event is over.”
For a second, you swear he’s surprised you noticed. “I wanted to show you around. Monaco’s wasted on you if all you’re seeing is room service menus and the inside of a suite.”
You fold your arms tighter, suspicion prickling up your spine. “Are you serious? You could have just texted.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to see your face when I said it.”
Your pulse jumps. Stupid, traitorous heart. You still need to talk to him about that whole kiss last night. Is now a good time?
He pushes off the doorframe. “You coming or not?”
Once more, the everlasting train of no, I really shouldn’t, what the fuck? You should remind him you’re not some prize to be paraded around, not some girl in his endless rotation of models and influencers. You’ve done that many times now. But it doesn’t matter. The real problem is, he knows you’re not, and it’s why you’re still standing here.
“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. There’s probably some sunscreen (expired, years old, from the last time you saw the light of the sun) and a water bottle in there. “But if you start acting like you own the place, I’m leaving you on the yacht or whatever ridiculous thing you have planned.”
“I’ll do my best. Deal.”
As you brush past him to the closet, you feel his fingers ghost lightly over your back. It’s nothing overt, just enough to set your skin humming, a sensation that’s only amplified when he pulls away.
“By the way, you look good in that robe.”
You nearly trip on the marble floor. Fuck. And he’s gone, before you can have him answer any of your other questions.
The café he drives you to is perched on the edge of the cliffs, all whitewashed stone and trailing flowers. Below, the sea stretches blue and endless. It’s so stupidly picturesque you almost laugh when you get out of the car.
He notices. “Yeah, yeah,” Lando says with a crooked grin. “I’m disgustingly good at this.”
“You? No, you probably have an assistant on speed dial for this kind of thing.”
He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I need help to be this charming?”
Inside, you settle at a little table by the window. He orders for you without asking (of course he does) and the worst part is, he gets it right. When the waiter leaves, his eyes flicker to yours.
“So. About that kiss.”
You busy yourself unwrapping the sugar packet. Hey, you were going to ask about it. He keeps beating you to the punch. Fucker. God, you want to punch him. “It wasn’t a thing.”
“Oh, wasn’t it? Didn’t feel like nothing to me. Actually, didn’t sound like nothing to me either.”
You flush, scowl at your coffee. There’s a foam design on it, swirling hearts, little stars, and you have an itching suspicion that’s not the way they make all the coffees. “I was, well, I don’t fucking know, man. I was tired, it was late, you were being—”
“Devastatingly handsome? I recall being on my knees for you, too, if that helps.”
“A pain in the ass.”
Lando’s grin widens. He sets his foot against yours under the table, light and shameless. “You know, you can just admit you like me. We’re past pretending, sweetheart. You’ve already travelled the globe just to be with me.”
You kick at his ankle half-heartedly, to which he recoils, then returns. “In your dreams.”
“Oh, you have no idea what’s in my dreams.” His voice drops. You have to look away because, honestly, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep making rational decisions.
“You’re such a fucking menace.”
Lando’s foot nudges yours again under the table, a teasing little tap that makes you jolt. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”
“You’re lucky this is good coffee, or I’d have thrown it in your face by now.”
He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You like me like this.”
“Fuck off.” You kick his ankle harder, but it’s not much of a deterrent. His leg just shifts, stretching out under the table, and now the toe of his shoe is tracing up your calf. “Christ, Lando.” You squirm in your seat, swatting at his knee under the table. That’ll stop him. No, it doesn’t. It only enhances that shit-eating grin.
“What?” he says innocently. “Just stretching my legs.”
“Stretch them in your own damn space,” you hiss. There’s no bite in it, not really, not when your skin feels hot where his foot brushes yours, not when he’s watching you like that.
“Tell me you didn’t think about it last night.”
You scowl. “Bullshit.”
“Mm.” His foot hooks lightly around your ankle. “Didn’t deny it, though.”
You groan and drop your head into your hands. “For fuck’s sake, you are relentless.”
“You’re cute when you swear at me.”
You flip him off without lifting your head.
“Adorable,” he says, chuckling.
After you have another cup of coffee (it really is that good, you wish you could bring it back to Bristol), he finally gets you to leave. “So, tell me. You’re wearing all this, and we’re on a beach in Monaco. Aren’t you hot in that?”
“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, though you can already feel the heat creeping up your neck.
“I mean, that dress. You’re practically suffocating in it. You should’ve gone for something lighter. You know, something a little more practical for the heat.”
His gaze traces over every inch of you. “It’s a fucking dress, not a snowsuit, Norris,” you say, feeling that faint heat rise between your legs from his words alone.
Lando steps closer to you, matching your pace, his shoulder brushing against yours. You want to push him away, to keep some distance. “I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve got all these layers on. Don’t you want to take them off?”
The way he says it, so casually, so confident…you freeze.
Lando sees you hesitate. “What, you can’t handle the heat? I could help you cool down, you know.”
“No, we are not shagging in a public space.”
“Uh-huh,” he hums, and his hand brushes yours. “Who said anything about shagging? You’re not fooling me. I can see it in the way you’re walking.”
“Don’t,” you warn him.
“What? Don’t what? Don’t call you out for being so hot and bothered? You’re practically begging me to notice.”
You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, not when his words are like a drug running straight through you. You step away from him slightly. Like all the other attempts you’ve made to clear yourself of his presence, it’s futile. He’s there, his voice in your mind, the ghost of his touch on your skin. He’s still right there. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You trail behind Lando as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You already bumped into two other drivers, one you don’t know, the other who looked like he belonged in a museum. Some French name, you forget. His girlfriend was also exceedingly pretty.
You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe sleek bachelor minimalism or cold, show-off money. But it’s surprisingly cozy. There are a few race helmets. The scent hits you next, nice laundry detergent layered with leather, engine oil, and beneath it all, unmistakably him. Sweet like honey.
Lando drops his keys into a bowl, sauntering off toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.
Your eyes wander. There’s the massive racing simulator near the window. It’s absurdly expensive, obviously. Framed photos of him on podiums, some with friends you half recognize (Max, you think his name is, Lando’s best mate.) Some are just his grinning face in a champagne shower. Photos, photos, trophies…a small handbag, perched on the back of the couch.
Next to it, delicate sunglasses, definitely not his. They’re too small to cover his face. And a hair clip, one of those pearly ones, girly and pink, resting on the coffee table like it belongs here.
You frown, fingers brushing the edge of the bag without thinking. “Uh…Lando?”
“Yeah?”
You pick up the clip, turning it over in your fingers. “Whose stuff is this?”
For the first time, there’s a pause. He stills in his movements. Then, “Oh, uh, Magui’s.”
You blink. You repeat, “Magwee?”
He pokes his head out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. “She’s a friend.” Lando’s tone is light, breezy. “Mostly PR.”
“Mostly?” you repeat.
“Why? You jealous, sweetheart?”
You scoff, dropping the clip back onto the table. “No.”
“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.”
The handbag. The sunglasses. That hair clip. Now it’s flipped onto the other side, you see gems spelling out ‘Magui.’ Magui. Who the hell is Magui? More accurately, what the hell is Magui? Who even names their kid Magui? Is it short for something? Marguerite? Magnolia? Some cool European thing?
You watch Lando move casually back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter as he opens the water. You cross your arms, aiming for indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re a thing anyway.”
His brow twitches. You almost miss it, because then he’s sauntering toward you. “Not a thing, huh?” he murmurs.
“Exactly.”
“Hmm. Funny.”
“What’s funny?” You glare at him.
“That you care so much for someone who’s not a thing.”
You answer, too quickly to seem casual, “I don’t care.”
“Sure, sweetheart. That’s why you’re glaring at a hair clip like it killed your cat.”
You open your mouth, splutter, “I don’t even have a cat—”
Lando plucks the clip from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “She’s just a friend,” he says, “we have fun at events. She knows the game.”
The game. Right. You know exactly what game. And yet, the thought of him with someone else—all golden skin and quiet smiles and easy laughs, God, you can imagine her already—punches straight through your stomach.
“Good for you.”
“You know, she always said I should bring someone to the next Grand Prix.”
“So?”
“So…” He flashes a slow grin. “Guess I already have someone, don’t I?”
“Lando, I have a job. A real one. With hours and a boss and everything.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t need a job. You have me.”
Your heart trips, stumbles, tries to right itself. “No, not really.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a cut slice of abs, just to be a menace. “When’s the last time you took a real break? You deserve one.”
“When is it even?”
“Miami. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Hell no. I already followed you to Monaco. I got to go back, I have assignments due. Absolutely not.”
“Please,” he drawls, sinking onto the couch and one knee brushing yours. “You’d look so good on my arm. You can do your work when we get back to the hotel, baby. It’s not all day.”
You try not to feel your insides go liquid. “I hate eagles.”
“What?”
“Miami. Eagles. I don’t know.”
His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “You would’ve loved Logan.”
You pull a cushion onto your lap, hugging it to your chest. “Is there another one? Somewhere…less Miami?”
“There’s always another one. But you might have to stay longer.”
“Whatever. Okay. This one.”
His whole face lights up. “Yay,” he says, and it’s so cute your heartbeat picks up. He brushes his fingers over your wrist like he can’t help himself. You hope he doesn’t realize.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
“Baby.”
You ignore him.
“Baby.”
You click aggressively on your document. It’s crazy that planes have WiFi. Thank god Lando’s rich, you can’t imagine how much it must cost to get this good of a connection.
“Sweetheart.”
You sigh, yanking one headphone out. “What, Lando?”
He’s sprawled across the leather seat across from you. He has one socked foot propped on the table and his hoodie looks very comfy. You’ve been working for two hours. Come nap with me.”
“Some of us have to pass our classes.”
“Some of us are world champions.”
You roll your eyes. “Go flex that on someone else.”
He does, apparently. Miami hits you like a slap in the face, like it’s annoyed you’re taking up so much of its mistress’s time, the mistress being Lando. You can tell he loves this place. You do not. You’re not going to miss the heat, the flashing cameras, the chaos outside the airport. Lando’s security team pushes through the crowd as reporters yell his name.
“Who’s this? Lando, is this your girlfriend?”
“Miss, what’s your name? Are you coming to the paddock, too?”
You’re stunned into silence. Lando’s arm finds itself around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says coolly. He wears a practiced smile as he steers you through the crowd. He’s probably done this thousands of times. You barely remember how you get to the car.
“Breathe,” Lando coos, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.
You shoot him a flat look. “You owe me so much coffee for this.”
So, you’ve never watched Formula One—aside from that one time Mara sent you a video of someone passing Lando—but this looks a lot more stressful than that clip. Speaking of Mara, you pick up your phone and dash a quick message:
you
bloody hell i hate this place
She doesn’t see it. She’s still sleeping, which is much nicer than your current situation. Cameras flash in your face. Women with glossy hair and model-long legs float past in designer dresses and tiny heels that shouldn’t work on gravel but somehow do. You grip the pass hanging from your lanyard so tight your fingers ache.
Lando’s hand is still on your lower back, an anchor you can’t leave. To be honest, you don’t want to. He’s the least irritating thing at the moment.
“Smile, sweetheart. You’re with the coolest guy here.”
“That is so debatable. We walked past Florence Pugh five minutes ago.”
“I said guy.” He grins, one-handedly signing a cap handed to him, posing for a photo, laughing with a sponsor. Lando looks perfectly at ease here. The attention craves him.
You just want to disappear.
“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. You turn and nearly crash into Alex Albon, beaming, casual in his shirt. “Hey, hey. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” There’s a gorgeous woman next to him, who he gestures at and says, “This is Lily.”
“Hi Lily, hi Alex.”
You hear someone say “Babe!” and it’s sure as hell not Lily, because her mouth hasn’t even opened yet. Your head snaps up. A girl with sun-streaked hair and model cheekbones walks up and kisses Lando’s cheek.
“I’m Magui,” she purrs, eyes flicking over you dismissively. She’s already decided you aren’t a threat.
“Oh. Hi,” you say, because what else is there? You hear yourself, how flat and awkward you sound, and you want to punch a wall.
Lando glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know Magui. Magui, careful, this one tends to cuss.”
This one. Not your name. Not even a soft tease. Just…this one. Magui laughs like she’s heard this joke before and tucks herself closer to him. You’re going to lose your mind.
When the clock ticks closer to the start of the race, you’re left largely to your own devices. There’s no Lando to latch onto now.You try not to look for Magui—you try—but your eyes keep flicking toward where she disappeared into the swarm of PR people. The lights go out.
It’s chaos into Turn 1. Lando’s there, starting in fourth (or something, maybe you heard wrong) carving his way through like a man possessed. P3 by lap 10, P2 by lap 25, and you can hear his engineer crackling through the headset:
“Let’s bring this home.”
Lap 40. P1.
P1.
You know, it would be a lot more interesting if you understood this a little more. P1 is at the front, you know. Everyone’s glued to the screens, to the track. You’re just worried he’s going to crash. Fuck, these cars are loud. And fast, but you already knew that. By the last ten laps, the whole McLaren garage is on its feet, the mechanics shouting, banging on the pit wall.
When the checkered flag waves, it’s like the world explodes. The crowd is screaming. The McLaren crew goes ballistic and you’re just frozen, stunned, chest so tight it hurts.
P1. Miami winner.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The champagne is still stuck to him after the podium spray. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his throat’s raw from shouting over the team radio (“fuck yeah, well done, team!” Or, more accurately ‘f***yeah, well done team!) because the FIA censors everything. You know, he almost slipped in a few more expletives, thanks to your bad influence), and there’s only one thing that could make his day better. Lando’s eyes dart through the crowd. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone but you.
Where the hell are you?
A hand wraps around his arm. “Lando! Oh my god, you were insane out there!” Her arms are around his neck, perfume sugary-sweet. She presses a kiss to his cheek, laughing for the cameras, pulling him in like she belongs in this moment. He stiffens.
“Magui,” he says quietly, trying to peel her off. He’s still looking for you and she’s blocking half of his line of sight. “Not now.”
She just giggles and loops her arm tighter. She’s basking in the spotlight, it’s too late to get her to snap out of it. Lando’s patience snaps like a wire.
“Magui,” he barks. It’s sharp enough that she flinches. “Did you say something to her?”
Her eyes go wide, faux-innocent. “What? Who?”
“You know who. Where the fuck is she? Did you say something to her? Did you screw this up?”
Magui’s lips part in a little gasp, that wounded look she pulls out when it’s convenient. Hell, the cameras are going to love this. “Lando, I didn’t—”
He swears under his breath, before yanking her limbs off him. He twists on his heel to scan the crowd again. The garage. Check. The gates. Check. The pit lane. Check. All the people chanting his name, all the cameras flashing. Normally, he loves it. Right now, none of it matters. None of it means a damn thing if you’re not here.
I just won Miami. Why the fuck aren’t you here?
He kicks at the ground.
“Maybe she left,” Magui suggests from behind him. Her voice irritates him, a little stab between his ribs.
His fingers twitch. Is he panicking, right now? His breath shallows, oppressed by the noise. His mind is a whirl. Did you see something? Did Magui corner you? Did you think you weren’t wanted here? That you didn’t matter? He can’t breathe, it’s like your presence is the only thing keeping the rock off his chest, and now you’re gone its plunging, weighing him down and—
You. His whole body kicks into motion before his brain can catch up.
There you are.
He hears someone yell his name, probably for an interview, maybe for a photo, and he ignores it, almost knocking over a cameraman.
He only wants you.
You looked pretty overwhelmed, shoved forward by the crowd but still somehow trying to disappear.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms. Lando buries his face in your hair, the scent of you cutting through all the smoke. His fingers tremble a little where they clutch at you. He was going insane looking for you. “I couldn’t fucking find you. Jesus, you.”
He pulls back just enough to see your face. His large hands cradle your jaw.
“I just won Miami,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “And the only thing I could think was where the hell is she—” Lando surges forward, hungry, desperate. All these people and he just wants you to anchor him.
You flinch back, hands on his chest.
“Lando,” you whisper, lips just brushing his. “no. Not here. I don’t want…”
He readjusts, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Okay. Okay. Not here.”
“Mate!” You’re not seriously leaving, are you?” He hears Max holler. You back off instinctively.
“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at his best friend, then at you. “My girl—”
Max whistles low, “Didn’t know we were calling her that yet.”
Lando flips him off half-heartedly, before pulling him into a quick hug. “Shut up.”
He side steps toward you, but you beat him to it, pushing off the wall, sliding in beside him, and you’re trying so hard to be relaxed but he can read it all over your face: the tight shoulders, the too-wide eyes, the quiet little “ugh” under your breath when another cluster of reporters swarms over. “Hey, hey.” Lando ducks his head to you. “You good?”
You sigh. “Fucking hell, man. Sure. Let’s go. I’m a bartender, I’ll make drinks for your cocky ass or something.” You wave a hand. Your eyes flick to the cameras and your mouth pulls tight again.
“That’s why I keep you around, sweetheart.” Before Lando can say more, the media hits.
“Lando! One quick word!”
“Lando, what changed after quali?”
“Who’s the mystery girl, Lando?”
“Will you be celebrating together tonight?”
“Is this your girlfriend? Are you confirming?”
You freeze. You’re plastered to his side. Lando leans into the mic with a smirk, his arm around you. “You’ll have to wait for the documentary, mate.” He’s still grinning when he steers you out of the crush. Obviously, a win brings a hell lot of adrenaline; but this, this right here, with your fingers knotting nervously into the hem of his sleeve?
This is what’s making him dizzy.
Lando’s enamored with how you lean on him, how your trust in him is something sacred. It’s something earned, something he has carved slowly with every word and every action. From pity to hatred to tolerance to…well, you kissed him, didn’t you? There’s a sweetness in the way you depend on him now, even if you can’t do it without cursing him and his mother, too.
He doesn’t want you to slip away, to ever feel like you could. It’s simple, really. Lando just wants to keep you close and needing him. Because you don’t, not all the time, not like all the others. He’s earned this.
To hell if he’s going to let it go.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
There’s plenty for him to focus on at the club, with bodies packed tight. There’s bass rattling his chest and too many drinks being passed around. Lando’s friends are out there, hollering, getting wasted, but he can’t look at anything but you.
You in that dress, that little black thing that glimmers every time you move. It rides scandalously high on your thighs, straps slipping just barely off your shoulders like they’re exhausted from the fight to stay up. Your skin practically glows under the club lights. You’re flushed from dancing, laughing, drinking. God, the way you laugh with your head tipped back. Lando swears it’s rewiring his brain. He’s never seen you so carefree before. Usually, you’re all sweet behind the bar, testy when its necessary, but that’s all to make the customers happy. You’re happy right now and its out of duty to no one.
“Jesus Christ,” Lando mutters, eyes glued to you. He doesn’t even hear Max at first.
“Mate.” Max elbows him. “You coming or just gonna stand here having a religious experience?”
“Fuck off,” he says jokingly. His eyes never leave you.
He’s not even drunk, not really. He’s had one, maybe two drinks, something shoved into his hand after the podium. And there was another raised in a messy toast when Max pulled him into a corner, but Lando feels wrecked.
Every inch of his skin is hot. He can’t stop touching you, can’t stop following you with his eyes. It’s like his body has locked onto yours, marking his territory. As usual, a palm on the small of your back. His fingers like to graze your wrist when you reach for a drink, almost like a nice bracelet. The way you fit under his arm, the way you lean into his space without even thinking about it, it’s all setting him on fire.
His mind is a mess:
You smell like vanilla and summer.
You feel like absolute sin pressed up against him.
He wants to ruin you. Desperately wants to pull you into a dark corner and shove you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on your throat, hips pressed so tight you’ll feel him in your bones. He wants to peel you out of that dress, watch it pool at your feet while you look at him. Wants to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, leave marks no one else can touch, can claim. He wants to leave them there for the whole world to see.
But more than that, more terrifying, is this ache in his chest. It’s not just lust, unfortunately. Lust is easy to deal with. If he just wanted to get in your pants, it would’ve ended that second time you met, when he was sober and at the bar. He wouldn’t have bothered to keep hounding you.
It’s the way you look at him like he’s just Lando, not the man on every billboard. It’s the way you call him out on his bullshit, the way you refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way you chew on your straw when you’re tipsy and overthinking. It’s the way you make him feel seventeen again, half-drunk on adrenaline and dizzy with wanting. The way he turns clumsy and nervous and utterly gone for someone who could shatter him with a word.
And when you come back from the bathroom, eyes lost until they land on him, when you light up like the fucking sun just because he’s looking at you…Lando feels his knees damn near buckle.
“There you are,” you tease, somewhat out of breath from dancing, “thought you were supposed to be the life of the party. Disappointing.”
“Yeah? You gonna dance with me, sweetheart, or just torture me from across the room all night?”
Your mouth comes dangerously close to his ear. “You look thirsty.” You press your drink into his hand. “Try not to choke.”
“You’re fucking killing me.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I really do.”
“You know what I keep thinking about?” His fingers trail up your spine, making you shiver. “How fast I could get you out of this dress. How good you’d sound falling apart for me. How bad I want you right now.”
He feels your body react to the words. “Lando,” you warn, “behave.”
“Not a chance, baby.”
Max whistles as he passes, wiggling his eyebrows. “You two gonna come to the afters, or are you skipping straight to dessert?”
“I’m a bartender, Max, I am the afters,” you laugh, shaking your head. Then, lower, so Max doesn’t hear, “c’mon. I owe you a dance.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
(SMUT STARTS HERE)
You step into the elevator, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Lando follows, eyes hungry, already deprived of what he’s been begging for the entire car ride. You know you’re going to regret holding him off. Well, it’s going to be enjoyable on your part.
“Did you plan this, or are you just cruel by nature?”
You turned your head away, as not to distract him from the road. Who’s flustered now?”
His fingers slid a little bit higher. “You want me dead? Well, you’ll get your wish if you keep acting like this.”
The car jolted forward. Lando’s hand tightened instinctively on your thigh. God, his hands were too close to your core. You meant to shift away. If he knew how wet you are, it’d be the end of your ego and dignity.
“Lando.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, “I know, I know.” But his hand was still there, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against your skin.
The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal the plush hallway. It doesn’t matter that you’re not inside the suite yet. Lando’s decided it’s close enough to get started, plump lips on yours. He tastes like the last drink you mixed for him and you feel a flush of pride at that. He’s what you make him, isn’t he?
Your arrogance doesn’t last very long, because he smirks against your mouth when he draws out a lewd moan. Fucking hell. Lando’s hands roam your body, shoving you against the walls as the two of you stumble to the door. Hopefully, you’re not causing too much of a commotion for the neighbors.
“Lando—” you choke out. He has a special reaction to his name, a brief moment of lucidity, and the door is finally open. He spins you around, pushing you against the door in order to close it.
His fingers find the hem of your dress, hiking it up to reveal your bare thighs.
“Lando!” you hiss again, “what are you doing?”
There are no more questions out of you, though, because you’re rendered to brief whimpers as his fingers brush against your entrance. He’s shoved your panties aside in the haste to get to you. Almost as an afterthought, he loops two fingers around each side and pulls them down your legs. You step out of them and allow him to resume.
He’s back at your folds, fingers sliding up and down the wetness, almost in preparation. Having collected enough lubricant, he dips inside, curling up to hit that sweet spot. It’s astounding, really, how easily he did so. As if he knows you already, inside and out. You sigh, your head falling back against the door, gaze falling away from him. In, out, in, out. You hear nothing but your own ragged breaths and the sound of his fingers pumping against your slick.
He doesn’t like that. Lando's other hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He angles his hand so he grasps you under the jaw. You can only keep your head up now. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers picking up pace.
Your hips buck against his hand, body begging for more.
"Such…a fucking asshole," you pant.
Lando chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and drawing his name, over and over, like that’s enough to bring you to exaltation.
Then he stops, the cruel thing he is. Lando pulls out his hand, leaving you empty, legs bare to the air around you. His fingers are dripping, and he makes sure you watch him as he takes a taste. “Mm. Sweet. Well, come on, sweetheart. Can’t have our first time be against a bloody door.”
God, you’re trembling. You have to hold your thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to be where he once was. He’s ridiculously calm about all of this. You’re the one panting for more, he’s the one in control.
Lando watches as you stand before him, your body flushed with arousal. You know he can see your nipples, hardening under the dress’s sheer fabric. You didn’t wear a bra tonight. Bold choice. He’s noticing now, by the growing bulge in his pants.
"Clothes off," he commands. “I want to see you."
You hesitate for a moment, then your fingers fumble for the dress and yank down the flimsy material in one go. Lando's gaze never leaves you. He sits on the edge of the bed expectantly.
"Come here.”
You obey. You look at him, swollen lips, dark eyes, and wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.
“On your knees.”
Oh.
The words sink in. Want tightens, low in your belly. You drop, hands brushing the floor for balance, a shiver curling up your back as the cool air hits your skin.
How long has it even been since you’ve given a blowjob? You can barely remember, and that sharp flicker of panic slices through your arousal. What if it’s not good enough? What if this isn’t enough to hold him here?
No. You can’t have that. Now that you’ve finally let yourself give in, you’re going to make the most of it. Make him happy. Make him stay. God knows what you’d do without him, now you’ve gotten used to him. It’d be like trying to give up an addiction once you’re already useless without it.
You lift your eyes, fingers brushing lightly over his waistband. The way he looks at you—half-wild, like you’ve undone something inside him—makes the nerves fade a little. You work his belt loose, the sound of leather sliding through metal too much to bear. It only makes you think about what that belt would sound like against your skin. Stop daydreaming. He’s right there.
Above you, Lando’s breath hitches. When you glance up through your lashes, his hand is flexing at his side as a way of holding himself.
“Fuck…” he grunts, “baby, get on with it. Please.” His eyes are pinned to you, disbelieving. Like your mouth on his cock is something he’s wanted too long, and can’t quite believe he’s finally getting. You ease him free, feeling the weight of him in your hand. Bigger than what you’ve had before, definitely. You’d say six and a half, seven? Seven and a half? It’s hard to compare when your mind is so foggy.
“Look at you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth and prying open. “So fucking pretty like this.”
The praise hits you hard. Wetness pools again. Fuck. Such a tease. You let him guide your pretty mouth to his hardened erection, and lick at it, just a bit. You his breath punch out a muttered curse, his hips jerking just slightly.
“Jesus—”
You move slowly at first, widening your mouth and taking in him, bit by bit. You find your rhythm, your tongue tracing delicate patterns, learning every twitch of his body. Every choked-off sound that spills from his throat is a sign that you’re doing good, a beautiful sound you’re going to be replaying the next time you’re alone in your room. His fingers thread into your hair, tight enough to sting. For a second you wonder if he’s going to pull you back, but he just holds you there.
You try something new. You lick a slow line along the underside, feeling him twitch in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you, the muscles jumping as he swears again.
“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his hair teased with sweat that trickles down his neck. He’s golden, even now, a god in your palm. All yours to toy with. You have no doubt that if you asked for anything right now, he’d give it. His chest heaves, a flushed pink creeping down his body. He’s not even undressed yet and you can only dream about what’s under that shirt.
When you take him deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his whole body jolts. You hear a choked sound breaking out of him. The sound reverberates through his whole body, and in turn, through yours.
“Look at you,” he pants. You’re drooling a little from his sheer girth and he wipes it away. “So good for me, fuck! So good, baby.” You bob your head up and down, ignoring the urge to gag, trying to take his whole length. That does it.
“Shit—shit—baby—” His fingers yank hard on your head, wanting even more of you, wanting to fill you all the way, so nothing can ever come between you two. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—wait—”
He comes in your mouth, hot and salty. You have to move your head back so you don’t choke on all of him. You’re sure some of it makes it out of your mouth, drips onto your chin. He doesn’t mind. Lando drags you up roughly.
You’re dizzy, drunk on him. On the taste of him in your mouth, on the way his hands grip your hips like he’ll die if you move even an inch away, on the broken sounds that slip out of him like he’s never been this unmade.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice shaking, mouth grazing your jaw, your cheek, your temple like he’s blessing you with every kiss. “No one’s ever—”
And you realize it’s not even about sex, not anymore. This arrangement? Fuck, all the little details are lost in every moment you spend with him. He murmurs mine, mine, mine between half-kisses like a prayer.
“God.” Lando says, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. Really, it’s mixed with his, the culmination of whatever the hell this is. “You’ve fucking ruined me.”
You’re ruined right alongside him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs weak, lips parted. This hasn’t even started yet. No desperate, gasping stretch of bodies fitting together. You’ve only gotten the slightest taste of him, he only the slightest of you. There’s so much you don’t know yet, so much to discover.
“Come here. You’re mine, yeah? Say you’re mine.”
Your hands clutch at his shirt. “Yours.”
The sound he makes at that nearly undoes you both.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Now it’s hours later. You’ve lost track of time. His shirt’s somewhere near the minibar, your dress is long discarded. The sheets are twisted, dirty, pulled halfway off the bed. Lando’s asleep. His arm is locked tight around your waist. Unconsciously, his head is still in the crook of your neck. You can feel him, his breath hot against your skin, and judging by how ragged he sounds, someone’s having fun in his dreams.
His fingers keep sliding over your skin, as if the act calms him.
“Baby, baby,” you whisper. You can’t do this either. Might as well get him up, let him have the real thing. “Baby.” You turn around and the loss of contact is enough to wake him. His eyes flutter open, dazed, beautifully clear.
He croaks your name, the one thing he’s certain of. His lips graze yours, then your shoulder.
You’re drunk on him. The warmth of his skin, the way his hands know exactly where to go, the softness under all that cocky charm. You haven’t left the room in days. Neither has he. You reach back, threading your fingers through his messy curls, and Lando groans, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck.
There’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, blinking at each other. You’ve forgotten anyone else exists.
“I’ll—I’ll get it,” he says, voice hoarse. Lando scrambles into sweatpants, hair sticking up wildly. You admire the view, the way his chest peeks out under the hastily buttoned shirt. He opens the door just enough to grab the tray, mumbling something to the waiter you can’t hear, and then he’s kicking the door shut again. He’s grinning like an idiot.
“Saved the day,” he says, collapsing onto the bed beside you. “Hero.”
The food goes mostly ignored. Fries are stolen between kisses; champagne is knocked over onto the carpet, bubbling and forgotten. He feeds you a piece of a burger with his fingers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, asking for permission. You allow him, swallow the food, and yet his thumb lingers. His eyes are wide and pleading.
God, you’d do anything for him.
You glance up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Hours after his last orgasm, his pupils are once again blown wide, lips parted slightly. Slowly, you part your lips and let his thumb slip inside, just a little, your tongue barely grazing the pad.
The sound Lando makes is low in his throat, instant. His free hand fists the sheets, knuckles going white.
“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “Sweetheart…”
You pull his thumb deeper, hollow your cheeks a little, tongue brushing lazy circles over the tip. Your teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch and tighten his grip on the bed. You know exactly what it’s doing to him.
“So pretty for me, all for me.” he says. When you finally release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, his control snaps. His hands are on you in an instant, dragging you into his lap, kissing you open-mouthed, messy.
You can feel him, hard and aching beneath you. Lando’s not the only eager one here. You roll your hips, trying to find the right feeling. You rise up just enough to tug his sweats down, both of you breathless with laughter and gasps, trembling with how bad you need this, need each other. He’s perfect, red and angry, glistening with pre-cum.
Of course, this is no longer the first time. Your bodies know each other, have found the map to ecstasy. You sink onto him in one smooth plunge, swallowing him whole. Lando curses low and sharp, head falling back against the pillows.
You move slowly at first, a teasing roll of your hips. You spell his name, starting with the ‘L,’ a long roll downwards, then jerking to the side. It has him nearly sobbing beneath you, but you can’t stay slow for long. He bucks up into you, chasing every drag and slide. You hear his skin on yours, a slapping noise that reverberates around the room, his voice underneath you, pleading, praising, cursing. You bounce in his lap, legs on both sides of him.
And when it’s over, when you’re both boneless and shaking in the sheets, Lando’s hand slides lazily up your spine, caging you close. He starts, “oh, sweetheart, you’re—” but the words fall away.
You’re both still catching your breath when his phone, forgotten on the nightstand, starts to buzz insistently.
Lando groans, trying to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing.
Finally, he gives up and blindly grabs for it.
“Hello?” He winces. “Oh. Hi, yeah. Yeah, I know.”
You watch him, propped on one elbow, smiling as you stroke a hand down his chest. You draw little hearts on his abdomen, watching him breathe sharply with every ticklish sensation. He shoots you a helpless look as your hand wanders lower.
He says again into the phone, “I know I can’t stay in Miami forever…yeah, okay, okay, I promise.” Lando throws the phone to the side. “I can’t, technically, but I can bring you around, yeah?”
“Don’t talk about work,” you feign a yawn. “It’s boring me.”
“Oh yeah? Does this bore you?” he drawls, before shifting further away from you, towards the end of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going, before he pulls one of your legs across him, sitting you firmly on his face. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
His tongue laps at you and you squeal.
(SMUT ENDS HERE)
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re hunched over your laptop on the hotel balcony, knees tucked to your chest. The blue glow of the screen painting your face. Hot air sticks to your skin, plastering your hair across your forehead. Your inbox is overflowing, your Google doc blinking a half-finished sentence back at you, and every five minutes your school portal pings another notification. One of your professors has flagged your last assignment as ‘significantly late.’ You close the tab fast. That might make it less real.
Inside, the room is still dark. Although it’s nearly noon, blackout curtains are drawn shut. Lando’s sprawled across the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single deadline to his name. He probably doesn’t.
“Come back to bed,” he calls, not looking up.
You shake your head. “I need to finish this. I’m behind.”
Then: “Behind on what? You’re on vacation, sweetheart. You’re with me.”
“I still have work,” you say, and a little bit of temper makes its way through to your voice. “Just because you hauled me off to another country doesn’t mean my life disappeared.”
You hear the sheets rustle. Then he’s there, barefoot and warm behind you, crouching down so his chin rests on your shoulder. He kisses just below your jaw, softly, and the resulting absence only deepens your craving.
Lando murmurs, “you’re always working. Even when you’re with me.”
You stiffen. “That’s because I have a degree I need to get. I can’t afford to screw this up, Lando.”
His arms slip down, under your arms, around your waist, and he nudges the laptop closed with one finger.
“Hey,” he says, “no one’s asking you to screw anything up. But you’ve been so stressed. You haven’t smiled properly in days.” His lips brush your collarbone. “Don’t you want to just breathe for a second?”
You hesitate. You want to say no, because breathing for a second is not going to help you get anything done. You want to say this is important. But Lando has a voice of silk, wrapping around your ribs, and the laptop is already closed. He shifts so he’s in front of you, and now his hands are warm on your thighs, slowly maneuvering upwards, upwards.
“I can help you. Just take a break. Come lay down with me. We’ll get someone to handle whatever you’re behind on. I’ll make some calls. Easy.”
“You can’t just make calls to fix my classes.”
“You’d be surprised,” Lando says. It’s a joke, but not really. “Baby, you don’t need to kill yourself over a few grades. You have me now.”
“I like working,” you say. It sounds weak.
He kisses you again, on your cheek. Both your hands are in his. “You like overthinking.”
“Come on. Ten minutes. No school. No stress. Just me.”
Ten minutes of heaven. Ten minutes turn into twenty, thirty, and you’re in Lando’s bed for at least an hour before you check the clock, maybe longer. He’s in the shower. Your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you.
mara(malade)
babe you can’t be dying on me
mara(malade)
hellloooo?
mara(malade)
ANSWER MY FT
You answer, flipping the camera up too fast, revealing the luxurious headboard and the messy room behind you. There’s evidence of room service on the nightstand, a folded tablecloth under unused cutlery. Mara clocks it immediately.
“No. Are you in his hotel room again?”
You push your hair out of your face. “Yeah, just for a bit.”
“Don’t shit me.”
“I’m writing,” you lie, moving the laptop slightly to show the open doc, never mind that it’s been untouched for hours. “I’m almost done.”
“Dan told me you missed discussion again. Twice.” Dan is Mara’s boyfriend, a few years younger, and he’s in your class. What a snitch. You didn’t think he’d be watching your every action.
“I’ve been traveling. It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up—”
Mara frowns. A little crease forms between her brows. “Babe, you said that last week. I’m just worried.”
You shift, tugging the blanket up higher even though it’s not cold. “I’m fine. I’m going home after this one. Just this race.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m not going to drop everything for some guy, okay?”
You hate how Mara looks at you. She doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are tired, emphasized by the smudged eyeliner she likes to wear, like she’s already mourning something you haven’t lost yet.
Behind you, the bathroom door clicks open. Lando walks out, a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls out around him. He sees you on the phone and mouths who is it?
You wave him off and turn back to Mara. “I’ve got to go. We’re leaving for the track soon.”
Mara’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more resigned. “Okay. Text me tonight, okay?”
“I will.”
You hang up before she can say anything else. Lando’s standing at the end of the bed now, rubbing his hair dry with another towel, bare chest still damp.
“Everything good?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. Just Mara being dramatic.”
“Come here,” he says. “Come here.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Mara’s voice had been calm on the phone, but her words weren’t. “Just come back for a little. A week. You’re slipping, and I don’t mean your mental state—God, I don’t even want to touch on that. Babe, please. You’re scared to check your grades, aren’t you?”
You didn’t answer that part. You just sighed and said, “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a few days.”
When you told Lando, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a while, not moving, and you were a little scared why you couldn’t read him. Then he nodded, real slowly. “Right. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s just a week.”
“Sure.”
You tried to kiss him before you left and he let you. His hands stayed in his pockets, though, and he turned away before you got into the car.
You feel it as soon as you land. A few hours pass with no text from him. No morning check-in, no “you up?” not even a dumb joke. You text him first. He replies and it’s short.
lan
have fun with your school thing
You stare at your phone, heat prickling the back of your neck. Is he mad? He said it was okay. You try again later, sending a photo of the library, something neutral. This time, he doesn’t reply.
You lie awake that night wondering if you should’ve just stayed. If this means he’s over it. Over you.
You check your phone again. Still nothing. And you’re cold in your own bed, wondering when your own life started to feel less like yours and more like something you borrowed from him.
From your manager:
“Hope your break was fun. Let me know how many extra days you’ll be taking. If you’ll be back.”
You sit frozen in your desk chair, rereading the line over and over. You hadn’t even realized how many days you were gone. You think of Miami and Emilia Romagna as a blur of cameras, hotel sheets, and Lando’s breath against your skin. You think of how quiet it is now. How he hasn’t even texted today.
From your professor:
“Please come by office hours ASAP. I’m concerned about your last two assignments.”
You close the laptop. Everything feels loud. Your room looks like someone else’s now, dust on untouched things, half-opened drawers. You haven’t unpacked. You haven’t even told your friends much—ha! Aren’t you a regular comedian, what friends are you talking about? Mara? And maybe that one other co-worker who kept getting the same shifts as you, Lils? Mara, Mara, who has been so good to you. Mara keeps sending messages, checking in. You brush her off, saying it’s okay. You’re not sure if you believe that.
Lando hasn’t called. It’s worse without him here, without the promise that he can make it go away with a little wave of his finger. No. Fuck him. If he can’t even call, he can go with Magui and make her problems go away. You can do this. You haven’t needed him up until now—why does it have to change?
You show up to Professor Wilk’s office five minutes early. You tap your fingers against your folder, trying to remember what it feels like to be someone who’s on top of her work. Her door creaks open before you knock. “Come in,” she says. Her voice reveals nothing, but you know she’s already seen your grades. You sit down stiffly across from her desk.
“I’ll get right to it. You’ve been slipping.”
You open your mouth. No excuse comes. Nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous, at least. Sorry, I was off on vacation with my sugar daddy. Sorry, he said he would solve it and I believed him. At least until I realized the problem was big enough and maybe I should take care of it myself instead of crawling back into his bed. Sorry.
“I know the beginning of the term was strong,” she continues, looking at your file. “You wrote one of the best first essays I’ve read this year. And now you’re missing half your citations. You left a whole section blank.”
You swallow. All she’s saying is true. “I’ve been dealing with some things.”
Professor Wilk nods. “We all do. I’m not here to punish you. But I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”
You hesitate. You think of telling her that you flew across the world with a man who called you sweetheart before he called you anything else, who you knew first as a wreck that couldn’t get himself out of a pub. That you forgot what day it was because he kissed you like it was the end of the world, like there was nothing else he had to do. That your job is probably gone and your friends are worried and you haven’t had a proper thought to yourself in weeks. That it’s all been Lando this and Lando that and Lando please come back.
You tell her, “I’ve been distracted.”
“I can see that. I’m going to offer you a rewrite. A clean slate for your last essay. But I want to see you in my office every week until finals. Deal?”
You nod. “Deal.” Already, you’re wondering how you’re going to manage this. Lando’s not going to fly you back every week, is he? There must be limits to even his abilities.
She watches you for a moment longer. Gently, she says, “Don’t lose yourself for someone else. You’re too smart for that.”
You wonder if she knows. Not exactly who, maybe, unless she’s seen the tabloids. After all, Lando Norris isn’t exactly nobody in Bristol. But the way you look right now, tired, expensive sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you, the faint shadow of a bruise under your collar…maybe she doesn’t have to know everything to know enough.
You leave the office quietly.
lan
everything okay
You pause and stare at the singular message. There are no question marks, even though he’s asking things. And this is the first time he’s texted. Maybe three days since he responded. What does he want now?
you
she offered me a rewrite
lan
great
you
but i have to meet w her every week
The read receipt pops up almost immediately. No reply, though, and you know what this means. He only confirms it.
lan
so you’re staying longer?
you
only a few more days i want to get things under control
lan
ok then, sweetheartdon’t let them stress you out yk you don’t have to prove anything to them
you
i know
lan
come back when you’re ready
lan
or just come back now
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
a/n: part 1! i have beef with tumblr, why did it make me split my beautiful story into two parts.
summary: (17k) you learn that winter doesn’t have to be cruel and brittle, spring doesn’t have to be full of new beginnings, summer is not only tangle of desire and heat, and fall. it ends the fall of ‘29. fall, beautiful fall, where the wrong things fall away, where home becomes where the heart is.
notes: read part one first!!
part one / part two
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It’s a call. Lando.
“Took you long enough,” he says. Over the phone, his voice is low. That might be because of the volume, which you turn up.
“Sorry. I’ve been—”
“Busy? Yeah. I know. Too busy to text. To call. I had to find out from Instagram you were out with your friends last night.”
“It wasn’t a big thing,” you explain. We just went to dinner after the library.”
“You didn’t even tell me you were going.” Lando exhales, sharp through his nose. “And I was waiting for you, I thought you’d call me or something. I’m not trying to be the bad guy, okay? I just miss you.”
And I was waiting for you.
“I feel like you’re slipping away,” he adds.
Just like that, guilt surges in your chest. He was waiting for you. You should’ve asked first, maybe he thought you were avoiding him. You should be better at communication, stop overthinking. Two overthinkers never make a good relationship.
“I’m not, I swear. I needed to focus for a second. My professor, well, she’s making me check in every week. She was worried.”
“Worried about what?”
You say, “about me. About if I was okay.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “You are okay, sweetheart. You already made it.”
“I didn’t, though,” you whisper. “I kind of stopped showing up for everything.”
There’s a lulling quiet, before Lando breaks it.
“And why do you think that is?”
You don’t understand. “What?”
“Why do you think you’re burnt out, hm? Who’s been there for you every time you needed to breathe? Me. I’ve done nothing but take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t know when you need a break.”
It’s not untrue. It sticks in your throat. He’s right. When you’re tired, he makes you nap, so you can focus better. When you’re just staring at the screen, he tells you to come back to it later. When you need a drink—fuck, he’s there right beside you.
He softens again. “Just come back. I’ll make everything easier. We’ll go somewhere, forget all this crap. Promise. You don’t even have to come to race week. No media, nothing.”
Your phone shakes slightly in your hand. You sit there, eyes unfocused, staring at your desk piled with papers. “I’ll think about it,” you say quietly.
“No, sweetheart,” Lando says, “don’t think. Just say yes.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
He hasn’t responded to you in a few hours, though there’s no ‘read’ to be seen yet. Maybe he’s just busy. You hope he’s busy. You take another bite of your sandwich and go back to your paper, flagged full of your run-on sentences.
Knock. Knock.
It’s late. Who could it be, at this hour? The cursor still blinks on your laptop screen, which you slam shut. You shuffle in your sweats to the door, aware of how raggedy you look. Your bun is barely a bun, more like a knot of hair, and your brain is fried. You must look like a panda. But you’re finally feeling like yourself again, or maybe just starting to. At least you know what you’re doing.
Knock. Knock.
You come to the door, pull it open, and who else could it be?
“You weren’t answering,” Lando says, by way of explanation. No hello. He has his hoodie on, the one you remember stealing in Miami, and a rolling suitcase stands by his side.
“I texted you,” you say, “you didn’t respond.”
“Too busy to say you miss me? You never ask about us, sweetheart, it’s always about your work and your life and I just…” You step back, letting him in before your neighbor gets a look. He drops his bag and starts pacing.
“Lando,” you say, trying to console him.
“What the fuck?” Lando’s voice isn’t raised, no, he would never raise his voice at you. “I haven’t seen you in how long? Two weeks? You’re not answering half my messages, and now you’re, what, academic weapon again?”
“Don’t. Don’t make fun of me for trying,” you snap.
His eyes flash. “I’m not. I’m not. I just,” he runs both hands through his hair. “I don’t get it. We were—God, we were so fucking good. And then you leave and it’s like you flipped a switch. Like I’m out of your life.”
You fold your arms. “I had to leave. My job, my grades, my life, I couldn’t do it if I was following you like a lost puppy across Earth.”
“Your life,” he echoes. “What about ours?”
Ours.
Ours. His and yours, yours and his, him at your job, you at his race, him in your apartment, you in his Monaco place, you in his bed, him, maybe, maybe, in yours. If you’ll just let him in.
“I booked Monaco. You never even replied. I won, and I was hoping you’d change your mind and maybe I’d see you out there, because you thought I was important and I tell you you have nothing to prove to anyone, but sweetheart, I have everything to prove to you. You’re gonna pretend that I didn’t mean anything to you?”
“I didn’t ask you to book it.”
“You didn’t have to.” You hear his voice crack. Your heart does a little, too. “You’re everything to me, you know that? You’re the only one who knows me.”
You don’t know what to say. He looks like he hasn’t slept, even though his skin is still as bronze as you’d expect a fallen deity. There are creases under his eyes to match yours. His fingers shake, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Those gossamer eyes, they mirror all you want, all you know you shouldn’t want.
“Can I stay, just for the night?” Lando asks. You’re going to say yes, of course, because you can’t leave him out, not when he’s done all this for you. You’re going to say yes, even though you know it’s not just one night. Once he’s back, it’s never just one night.
You nod.
He wraps his arms around you like he’s drowning. Honey and saffron invade your senses, so tantalizing. You hate how much you missed him.
“I’ll be good. I swear. I just needed to see you.”
You let him in. You know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The coffee’s shit but it’s keeping you going, so it’s half-finished and sitting on the windowsill. Your coursework’s going well again. Your inbox is clean, your professor’s last email had actual praise in it, golly gee! and you finally caught up on shifts at the bar. It feels like your life again.
It’s background, really—you plan on going to Netflix, but the first thing that pops us is the weekend sports wrap-up. The screen fills with F1 coverage, highlights from team press conferences, shots of the paddock in Imola.
You hear a voice say, “still no Lando Norris at media day, we’re missing his presence.”
You glance over your shoulder. The Lando Norris in question is sitting on the couch, a hand on your thigh, like he can’t bear a single moment away from you. He looks up from his phone, to the TV.
“Turn it off,” he says.
“Lando…”
“Please, baby.” He sets his phone down, looks at you properly. “Just turn it off.”
You hesitate. “When do you plan to leave? You have to race, you know, you booked the tickets, yeah?”
“I know,” Lando assures you. “I’m going. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not doing your press. Your training. You’re barely checking in with the team—”
He cuts in, lifts his hand from your thigh and intertwines it in yours. “Because I want to be here. I like this. You. This flat. Waking up and seeing your books everywhere, you making shitty coffee in that sweatshirt with the bleach stain.”
“But you have a job, too,” you say, treading carefully. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Lando brushes his thumb over your wrist. Softly: “No, you’re not. But I’ve never had this before. Someone who doesn’t just want me for that other stuff.”
You should feel flattered. And you do. You do.
Yet part of you feels like you’re taking something from him. He’s slipping, a little, away from his life, and you’re letting it happen. You’re causing it, really, because would he be here in this place—probably costs less than what he gets a day—if you’d never met?
And he’s so happy, so happy he doesn’t see you freezing before you move to turn the TV off. Doesn’t notice the small frown on your face as you close your laptop, too. He’s so happy. You don’t want to ruin it.
This is perfect, you think. This is perfect. You won’t ruin it for him, for you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
He lingers in the flat even though he’s gone. Lando only bothered taking the important things: identification, phone, charger, etc. He leaves his clothes, a bottle of his cologne, and everything else with you. It’s a sign of trust, that he’s planning on coming back. The reminder warms you, like you’re a home for someone. That someone feels comfort in your presence.
As promised, you’re watching the live F1 feed. Lando’s on screen again, this time in the post-qualifying interview. You see his caps pulled low, eyes flicking off-camera like he’s itching to leave. He answers the questions, yes, but even you know he’s doing shit at it.
“P3. Not bad at all, Lando. Car performed great today, I hear. But you look a little tense today. Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Just tired,” he says. “Car’s great, yeah.” He keeps saying ‘yeah.’
The moment his back is out of the frame, your phone vibrates next to you for the third time in ten minutes.
lan
why aren’t you picking up
lan
i hate thisi wish you were here
lan
i feel like i can’t breathe without you
you
i’m watching. you did great, baby
Three dots appear. Then they go away. You don’t blame him. What you sent wasn’t enough.
The broadcast cuts to the paddock camera. Lando’s walking fast, alone, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looks out of place, the second time you’ve ever seen him like this. The first time…well, it wasn’t the best situation for him to be in. You’re worried.
Your phone buzzes again.
lan
i’m sorry baby i just can’t sleep without you
lan
i can’t even eat the sameit’s not fair that you’re not here i know you’re busy i just
lan
it hurts
You rest your forehead in your hands.
You want to be strong. You want to stay on track, the way he always said you should. But the truth is, you’re not sleeping either. Not well. There’s a bottle of ambien, open, useless. Your grades might be up, your shifts handled, your life back on its rails. Fuck. None of it feels good without Lando. It’s like he brings you purpose and when he leaves he takes it all with him.
You look at the screen again. He’s already disappeared. Some other driver is talking.
You wish you were in his hotel room. Wish you could take off his fireproofs for him, kiss the red lines from his suit off his shoulders, trace the imprints of the earpiece on his face, tell him he doesn’t have to be perfect when he’s with you.
Because you’re not perfect either. You just want to be his.
You open your texts again. He deserves a little more.
you
babyyou’ll win tomorrow
you
and then you’ll come home, yeah?
you
i miss you too, lando
Your phone lights up again almost instantly. You see his contact photo, him curled up around your knee, eyes closed. He’s calling.
You press ‘accept,’ and before you can even say ‘hello,’ his voice fills your ear.
“Thank god,” Lando breathes. “I was going insane.”
You sink back onto your pillows. “I’m here.”
“I hate being without you,” he says. “I, well, I was in the paddock today and nothing felt right. My helmet felt too tight. My engineer was talking and I wasn’t even hearing him. You’re just in my head all the time.”
You take in his words. “I watched quali. You looked…”
“Like shit?” he offers, trying to laugh. It falls flat.
“No. Like you needed to be somewhere else. Are you okay? Fuck, no, you’re not.”
“Yeah. I’m not,” he whispers. “Know where I need to be? With you.”
You press your lips together.
Lando says, “you’re mad at me.”
“No, I’m not. I just…I don’t know how to be good at both.”
“What do you mean?”
You murmur, “This. Us. And school. And my job. I feel like when I’m with you, it’s all I want. And when I’m away, I feel like I’m betraying you somehow.”
“You’re not.” He’s fast with it, so fast. “You’re not. You’re so good, baby, you’re everything. I just—” Lando inhales, voice shaking, and you hear in it the same desperate plea as when he called out to the Universe, why, why; it breaks you, “I need you to want me enough to come back.”
“I do, Lan. But I also want other things. Things I gave up for a while. And I’m trying to get them back.”
More quietly: “I just miss you so much it makes me sick.”
You don’t hesitate before you say, “I miss you too.”
“I don’t sleep when you’re gone,” he murmurs. “I barely eat. I just…wait. It’s like, baby, you’re what keeps my world spinning.”
You wonder if he knows he’s saying all this to make you come back. If he knows it’s working. But Lando does look terrible, not like how he looks when he’s with you. You don’t want to hurt him, not like this. And it’s always better when he’s by your side, isn’t it?
“I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll win for you tomorrow. And then I’ll come home to you.”
Home to you. You’re his home now. You don’t know exactly what that means.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The trophy’s heavy in his hands, but it doesn’t feel like anything. P1, win, what does it all matter? All the chaos and sweat and perfect tire management and everything. It worked. It fucking worked. Good to the team, yeah, he says, while scanning the crowd like a lunatic. Hoping. Just in case.
You never said you’d be here. Never promised. He was the one who promised, said he’d win—he did—said he’d come home—and if he’s not on his way right now, fuck.
Lando’s cap is pulled sideways by one of the crew, doused again in champagne. He laughs on instinct, because that’s what you do when the cameras are rolling. He doesn’t think it’s funny, actually.
He wants to leave. Just get on a plane. He wants the hotel room dark and cold, wants your hair on his chest, your voice low, telling him he’s good, good enough for you, good enough for all this. Needs yo, right next to him. He wants your thigh thrown over his, and the weight of you making him feel like the world stops for a second. You make it quiet. You make it better.
Magui’s voice cuts through the haze: “You coming? Everyone’s going to the club.”
Lando blinks at her, like she’s speaking a different language. “I don’t want to fucking party.”
“You just won,” she points out. “You’re supposed to be happy.”
“I am happy,” he snaps, instantly regretting it. “I just. Fuck, Magui, can you let me breathe? I want to go.”
“Where?”
He doesn't answer, not like she’d understand. Lando just shoves a hand through his hair, reaching for his phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just your name in the recents, staring back at him.
God, he misses you. And you’re not even his. Not really. He wonders why you stay. The money? You don’t ask for it, never ask for it first. He always offers. He wonders if he’s really enough, if that’s all you want.
He won. And all he wants is you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
lan
hi baby, don’t know if you’re up yet but i won
lan
i thought you’d be here
i don’t even know why you never said you would
lan
just wanted you to see it
He doesn’t send the last message he types: Come back to me already.
you
hey
no i’m up, i was watching you
you
you deserve it lan i’m proud of youi wanted to come i really did
you
sometimes i don’t know how to be around you when you’re like this. when you win and the whole world wants you and all i can give you is me
you
miss you
lan
you’re everythingi don’t want the world i just want you
lan
please
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The first bottle doesn’t break.
It bounces. Pathetically, a dull thud against the floor of the hotel suite, spinning once on the carpet before rolling to a stop near the base of the bed. Lando stands there for a second, swaying slightly, glaring at the empty bottle of gin. It tasted like shit.
Then he picks up the second one.
That one shatters. Glass explodes against the wall, clear liquid dripping down in sharp streaks like tears. His breath comes out rough, uneven. He watches his work then grabs the nearest object—some expensive hotel vase—and hurls it at the window. It cracks, just slightly. Not enough. Not enough to match what he feels. The vase, not the window. The windows are remarkably strong.
“Fuck,” Lando says under his breath. Paces the room in fast, angry steps. His bare feet crunch over broken glass, probably bleed, he doesn’t care.
The room is a mess now. Pillows on the floor. Curtains yanked half off. The minibar gutted. Two chairs overturned. A lampshade split down the side. It still isn’t enough. Still doesn’t touch what was under his skin.
Your smile haunts him. Your text: “i wanted to come i really did”
Bullshit.
You said it. What does that mean? I love you I really do but then I run off with another guy. Words mean nothing. You’re back at school, posting dumb little stories with your friends and smiling like everything was fine. Like you don’t have a boyfriend losing his goddamn mind three countries away.
Boyfriend.
No, he doesn’t get to use that. Officially, he is your sugar daddy. He trades in money, you trade in companionship and favors. Officially. The ugly truth is that his mind had ignored that a long time ago. You mean things to him.
Clearly, he doesn’t mean things to you. You look happy and he can’t fucking stand it, because Lando doesn’t know how to be happy without you. Not anymore. Doesn’t know how to sit still, or think clearly, or go more than four hours without checking if you’re online. You made him feel real. You make him feel real, when he’s next to you. Without you, he doesn’t know what he is anymore, just a shaking, destructive mess of ego and want and desperation.
He takes another drink straight from the bottle—vodka this time. Bitter and burning and useless, just like him. He thinks that blithely. Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and snarls, “she says she wants me but she’s fucking fine. She’s fine without me.”
He’s trembling now. He swears he can smell your perfume, feel your skin under his fingers, hear your laugh from across the room. He hates how much he misses you.
It feels like being fourteen again. Like being small and lonely. Like everyone good eventually leaves.
Two knocks on the door. He doesn’t register it at first, too wrapped up in his own fury.
“Lando?”
He turns around slowly at the sound of your voice. Like a man possessed, he’s turning the door handle. You, an apparition, in the doorway. Your expression is caught between confusion and fear. He can’t speak, can only stare at you.
“Lando,” you repeat, gently this time. You look around the mess of a room. “What the hell is going on?”
“You said you wanted me.”
“I do, baby.”
He knows he sounds childish when he says, “then why the fuck are you smiling in pictures with people who aren’t me? Why does it look like you’re happier when I’m not there?”
You step in and shut the door slowly behind. “Lando. I came back.”
“Not because I asked you to,” he says, bitter. “You didn’t come when I needed you.”
“Don’t be an ass, Lando. I came once I could.”
“Me? You left.”
“I didn’t leave you. I just went home. I told you I’d be back. I told you I wanted you. Why can’t you believe that?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His face twists like he’s trying not to cry. But then he is already crying—just quietly now, silently, the kind of tears that come when there is nothing left to throw or scream or burn.
“I don’t know how to keep you,” Lando whispers.
“You don’t have to keep me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t. But he can’t say it, so he falls into you instead, hot with shame.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The hotel bed smells just like him. You’re overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sensory details—honey and saffron, Lando curled into you like a child, one arm around your hips, his hair tickling your jaw.
You remember that night, how you found him. Trowing things like the rage might turn into wings and take him somewhere far from the hollow ache of missing you. You’d stood in the doorway, too stunned to speak at first, your suitcase still in hand. He had looked at you like salvation. Then he collapsed.
Now he sleeps, days later, face pressed to your skin, like nothing happened.
You brush a hand through his curls. Lando sighs, burrows deeper. You don’t move. You don’t breathe too loudly. There’s something fragile about this moment, like if you shift wrong, you might tip him back into that chaos.
It worries you, really. He wrecked a whole place over you. To be flattered or frightened, that is the question.
Lando stirs. “You’re awake,” he mumbles, voice sleep-warm.
“Yeah. You okay?”
“Mhm. You’re here. I’m okay.”
It’s simple. Sweet.
He opens his eyes and you see it: the desperate joy, the relief so intense it makes his hands tremble as they skim your back. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers. “Please.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t promise. Something inside you knows you can’t, not if he keeps unraveling like this. Not if his love starts to feel like a trap lined with silk sheets and broken glass.
You hold him anyway, for as long as you can.
Bzz.
“I’ll get it,” you murmur, untangling one arm to grasp for your phone.
He makes a quiet noise of protest, tightening his grip on your waist. “No. Stay.” You slip out of bed as gently as you can.
Your phone is face-down on the floor, near a toppled plant. You crouch, pick it up.
“Baby, c’mon. Leave it.”
You turn slightly. He’s watching you now, chin in his palm, yes sleepy but alert.
“Is that work?” he asks flatly.
“No, Mara.”
“Of course it is.” Lando flops back onto the bed with a sigh, one hand thrown dramatically over his face. “She wants to take you away again.”
“She’s just checking in. Haven’t texted her in a bit.”
“You’re here now,” he says, sitting up suddenly. “That’s what matters. Right?”
You don’t answer right away. He climbs out of bed and pads toward the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee. You want breakfast? I got those stupid little French pastries you like.”
“Lando—”
“I’m fine, really,” he calls over his shoulder, cheerful in a way that feels like armor. “You being here fixes everything.”
mara(malade)
you know if you run off you should really turn your location off
mara(malade)
look babe i think you both need space
mara(malade)
is he okay?
mara(malade)
more importantly, ru okay?
You want to say yes. You want to believe it. Lando—beautiful, brilliant, broken Lando—is now singing softly to himself in the kitchen. You move to sit at the counter, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“I warmed up the croissants,” he says, placing a small plate in front of you with a flourish. “Fig jam, your favorite. You’re spoiled, you know that?”
He’s smiling too much. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You pick at the corner of a croissant. “Lando.”
“Black or oat milk?” He’s already reaching for the mugs.
“Lando.”
He pauses. “What?”
“I just…I wanted to talk about…that night.”
“What about it?”
“You were upset,” you say carefully. “And the suite—”
“I said I was fine.” Lando won’t look at you.
You set the croissant down. “I know. But seeing all of that, it scared me a little.”
“You’re not scared of me.”
“I didn’t say I was. I just, well, I want to understand.”
He laughs under his breath. It’s not happy. “Understand what? That I missed you? That I didn’t know if you were coming back? That I was losing my fucking mind because I thought you were gone?”
Your heart twists. “You weren’t losing me. I texted you that morning.”
“I don’t know that.” Lando’s staring at you now. There’s something wounded in his eyes. “You don’t need anything from me. Not money, not help. You have this whole life without me, and I’m just—fuck, what am I supposed to be if you don’t need me?”
“I want you, Lando. That’s supposed to be enough.”
“You say that like it is.”
He doesn’t mean to sound cruel. You know that. His hands curl into fists on the counter. You stand up, come around slowly. Place your hand over his.
“Then let it be enough. Let me want you. You don’t have to break everything to make me stay.”
Finally, he exhales. Presses his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to be okay without you.”
You don’t answer. You hold his hand tighter. You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is you didn’t know how to be okay when your mom died, that’s how I found you. I made sure you didn’t die that day. Will you always associate your escape loneliness with me, now?
The coffee finishes brewing, but neither of you move to pour it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re watching a sitcom on the television. Lando loves making fun of you for your taste, but you know he secretly enjoys them too.
His phone buzzes on the counter. Lando looks at it and groans. “Manager.”
You don’t say anything. He answers on speaker. “Yeah?”
“Lando,” the voice is clipped, slightly exasperated. “We need to talk. We just got the hotel’s report.”
“About what?”
“You know what. Smashed mirror, broken fixtures, bottle damage, water damage, hell, they said there were footprints on the mini bar.”
You stare straight ahead at the show. People are laughing. You try to remember what the joke is about.
“I’ll pay for it,” Lando says, flatly.
“That’s not the problem. They’re asking if you're okay. We’re asking if you’re okay. Lando.”
He doesn’t respond.
His manager continues, “they’re saying you’ve been off since Miami. We all saw you show up with someone. You know. She’s not in the tabloids, her reputation isn’t a problem. We don’t know who she is. The problem is that ever since then, you’ve been unpredictable.”
Lando raises an eyebrow, though the person on the other end can’t see. “Unpredictable?”
“You trashed a hotel room,” his manager snaps. “You skipped media. You haven’t answered half your PR scheduling emails. You’re supposed to be gearing up for Monaco, and instead you’re—”
“What? Instead I’m where? Taking a fucking break for once? Letting myself feel something?”
“We’re not saying she’s the problem. We just don’t know what this is. And you won’t tell us. You’re shutting us out.”
“Because you treat everything like damage control,” Lando mutters.
“We need to know if we’re dealing with a temporary shift or a full derailment. If we’re going to step in.”
He lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Step in. Right. You stepped in real well when Luisa was getting death threats. You stepped in real well with Magui and look how that turned out. What the fuck do you ever do right?”
“Lando. You don’t get to disappear without people asking questions. You don’t get to change overnight without consequences.”
In response, he snaps, “I’m not changing. I just—fuck—I finally feel like myself. And you’re mad it’s not the version you can market.”
You shift on the couch, quietly turning off the TV.
“She’s not the problem. We just need to know if she’s going to become one. For the team. For you.”
Lando hangs up. He stands, frozen, then walks back to you, lying on the couch with his head in your lap. “They don’t get it,” he mutters. “They never fucking get it.”
“I don’t think they’re trying to blame me.”
“I know. They just don’t know what to do with you.”
You blink. “Is that bad?”
He looks up at you. “No. It’s perfect.”
He says it’s perfect, you want to think it’s perfect, but the way he clings to you tells you exactly how tightly he’s holding on. How scared he is that the world is trying to take you away.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
“Can I use your laptop for like ten minutes? Just email stuff. Mine’s broken.”
He yawns over his phone. “Yeah, yeah, it’s in the office. The black one. Passcode’s your birthday, you know.”
You kiss his forehead. “Thanks, baby”
You sit cross-legged in his desk chair, crack open the laptop, and type in his passcode. Mail is already open.
The first email, unread, sits bold at the top of the inbox:
Subject: RE: PR Proposal - Confirming Relationship Partner for Next Quarter
Re: Images from Miami
You click before you can talk yourself out of it. The thread is long, too long. God, this is invasive! Someone from marketing has pasted photos of you and Lando at Miami. Lando leaving your bar. Lando and you at dinner. Another of him reaching for your hand when you cross the street—bloody hell, when was this? You don’t remember half of these.
Below that: paragraphs discussing “optics,” “alignment with brand image,” and suggestions for “alternatives with higher familiarity quotient,” i.e., influencers with cleaner public profiles. One name is underlined.
The last message, from his manager, is curt:
Let’s discuss timing. If we move forward, need confirmation he’s on board by Friday. Otherwise we’ll have to talk to her.
What? Who is the “her” they refer to? You? Too many questions. You log in to your own account, reply to your professor Back in the living room, Lando’s messing with his new camera lens. He perks up when you return. “You find it, sweetheart?”
Yeah. Thanks.”
He pulls you back onto the couch by your wrist. Tugs you into his lap. “You’re quiet.”
“Just tired, baby.”
His fingers skate down your spine. Don’t work too hard. You don’t need to, you know? You could just not worry.”
There’s something curling in your chest that you don’t have the words for yet. You can feel it: the ache of being wanted, and the sharp sting of not knowing exactly why.
It’s late afternoon when he brings it up. You haven’t brought up the email, and he hasn’t asked why you went quiet, but you know he noticed. Lando notices everything when it comes to you. He finds you on the balcony just before sunset, staring out at the curve of the harbor. “You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice is low.
“Saw what?”
“The email.”
You don’t answer. Not really a point in lying.
“I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t want it to ruin anything.”
You stay quiet, waiting.
“They’ve been on me since Miami,” he continues, looking down at the tiles. “Didn’t tell you about it, didn’t think it would affect anything. They think you’re making me weird. Like I’m not showing up the way I used to. Like I care too much.” He laughs once, bitter. “Can you imagine? Caring being a problem? They’ve always pegged me as a crybaby, that kind of thing. Don’t know why it changes now.”
“I told them to fuck off,” he says. “I didn’t even open it until today.”
You turn fully now. “But you read it.”
“Yeah. Only because I knew you would. They don’t know you,” he murmurs. “They don’t get it. They think I’m just distracted. But I’m not. I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.”
“You’ve been drinking every night,” you say softly. “You’ve skipped stuff.”
“Because they don’t matter. Only you do.”
Not receiving a response, Lando brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know what this is. I’m not going to let them replace you with some model who smiles for photos and goes away when the weekend ends. I’d lose my fucking mind. I already have Magui, you know? Why do they have to fix me with someone new?”
You flinch at that, because you’ve seen what that looks like.
“I don’t want to be a problem for you.”
He tilts your chin up. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” And then, softer: “Please don’t leave again.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Sundays are race days. Today is Friday, the last day before race weekend, and he’s not here. He has a meeting in person.
He comes back scowling. “Lando?” you ask softly.
“I’m going to have to do it.”
You sit up straighter. “Do what?”
“The PR thing. They’re making me.”
You blink. “What do you mean making you? I thought you said—”
“I thought I had a choice. They pulled out numbers. Sponsorship clauses. Told me my Q-rating dropped after Emilia Romagna. Isn’t that bullshit? They’ve never cared that much about my Q-rating before. Said I wasn’t showing up right, too emotional, too impulsive, not focused enough.”
You stand. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been winning.”
“I know,” he snaps.
You reach for him, but he flinches back like your touch might break him. “They said you’re the problem. They showed me photos. You walking into the hotel. Me leaving early. That night I skipped the debrief? They think I was with you.”
“…you were.”
“Exactly.”
He looks at you for a long time. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding something in
“If I don’t agree, I risk my contract. Maybe not officially, but it’s leverage. They’re not going to make it look like a relationship,” he adds bitterly. “Just appearances. Photos. Maybe a dinner or two. Smiling next to a pop girl they can tag in headlines.”
“And me?”
His face crumples. “You stay here. You stay mine. No one touches this. I’ll lie to everyone else if I have to. I just can’t lose you.”
You think. “I don’t want you to lie,” you say.
“Sweetheart, just let me do this so I can keep everything else. So I can keep you.”
He says it like you are the only part of his life worth telling the truth for.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Lando’s wearing a shirt he didn’t choose, sitting at a table he didn’t reserve, waiting for a girl he didn’t ask to meet. She’s late. His manager checks his watch three times in the span of a minute.
When she arrives, it’s obvious why they picked her. She’s radiant, perfectly curated. Every strand of hair in place, nails glossy, lips done in the exact shade the camera likes. Based off the briefings, she’s basically Magui with no scandals. Some kind of television actress-slash-model, too. How coincidental.
“Lando,” she greets, sliding into the seat across from him like they’ve done this a hundred times. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
He forces a smile. He can do this, has done this before. “Yeah. You too, uh,” he remembers her name. “Camilla.’
Click. Someone’s taking pictures. Subtle. Just a phone angled from behind a wine glass. Another click. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head. She leans in, conspiratorial. “I think we’re supposed to look like we’re flirting.”
“Aren’t we?”
“Not unless you want to.”
Lando gives her no reply.
She reaches for the menu. “So here’s what I heard. We’re doing one dinner per city, you tag me once a month, and I show up in your team colors at Silverstone.”
“That’s what they told you?” He wanted to take you to Silverstone.
“Yep.” Camilla gives him a look. “Calm down. I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m just trying to sell a dream. You drive fast cars, I look good in photos. Everyone wins.”
He looks down at the menu, even though he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want food. He wants you, hair wet from the shower, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your busted old laptop even though there are so many other things you could be looking at.
She must catch the change in his face.
“They told me about her, too. She’s not part of the deal, you know,” Camilla says, almost kindly. It startles him.
“I saw the photo,” she explains. “The one they showed you. Don’t think I’m stupid, they put you up to this because they didn’t like her. Or you, when you’re with her. You look different with her.”
Lando swallows. Charming and smart. Fuck.
“Don’t worry,” Camilla says, settling back into her seat, voice returning to breezy indifference. “Your secret’s safe. Just so you know, pretending gets easier. Eventually. I’m sure you already know.”
The hell’s that supposed to mean?
He wants to walk out. But he’s already here, already in it. Damn it. One dinner, one photo, one fake smile at a time. He wonders if you’re still at his apartment. If you’ll still be there when he gets back. What if you’re already back at school? He checks his phone under the table. No messages, but Lando opens your chat anyway. He types something, deletes it, closes the app.
Click. Another photo.
When they come out, people notice he’s not smiling in any of them.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The crowd is loud, even from his balcony. Here, high above it all, you’re watching on TV. Not from the paddock or hospitality, because they thought it was better if you weren’t there.
“We just think,” Lando’s manager had said yesterday; his name is Mark, you think, “that it might be best if you keep a lower profile during race weekends. There’s a lot of media interest, and it’s distracting him, and we need him focused. I’m sure you understand.”
You nodded. You didn’t really mind. Lando had a nice apartment, good food, nice views. On the other hand, Lando had been furious. “It’s my pass,” he’d snapped. “I get to decide who comes.” But then he’d gotten quiet, and you could all but hear what he was trying not to say. They told him it wouldn’t look good, that he’d already raised flags by skipping events and showing up late. That they needed him to toe the line a little.
When the camera cuts to Lando in the garage, your breath catches.
He’s focused. Calm and zoned in, of course, but you can tell he’s tired. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he crosses the line and the commentators shout P2.
You don’t scream. You just smile and hug the pillow close.
The door unlocks forty—maybe an hour?—later. You stand from the couch instinctively. Lando walks in like he owns the world. His curls are damp with sweat, and he looks exhausted but triumphant.
“Back so soon, baby?” You say, then his arms are around you. “I thought you’d have interviews and all that. Tell Charles congrats for me, yeah?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbles into your neck. “Stop talking about Charles.”
“Sure, sure. I watched,” you say. “You were incredible.”
“I would’ve gone faster if you’d been there.”
You pull back. “Don’t say that.”
Lando snaps, “I hate that they’re keeping you away like this. Like I’m some kid who needs managing.”
“You don’t want them pissed before the race.”
“I don’t care,” he says. His mouth is on yours. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I’m even still here. Y’know that, right, sweetheart?”
You kiss him back, but it makes you a little sad, his words. You don’t want to be the reason he’s spiraling or winning. You just want to be his.
After he’s taken a shower and fallen asleep on your legs, you let yourself open your laptop. Race day is tomorrow and your flight back home is tomorrow, too. You think he’s sleeping. You’re mistaken.
“You working?” Lando asks, the words causing a sensation along your skin.
You coax, “just a little.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, baby. Just have finals to get through and I’m all your for the summer.”
You feel him frown. “What, now? For how long?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
He shifts, props himself up on his elbows. “So you’re gonna go back?”
“I need to.”
He doesn’t answer right away. You can see it all flicker across his face in real time, how quickly the relaxation falls away.
“You just got here,” he says finally.
“I’m staying ‘til your race is over, okay?”
“I’ll come with you,” he says.
“You can’t. You have Barcelona in a week.”
Lando mutters, “fuck that.”
“Lando.”
He looks at you then. “So what? You just disappear now? I did all this without you in the paddock, without even seeing you all weekend. And now you’re leaving again?”
“I’m not leaving, I’m doing my finals. Like a normal person. like someone who has other things going on.”
That’s what does it. The line stiffens him completely. He says, “I’m not enough, is that it?”
“No—” You shift closer instinctively. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No, it’s not. You’re enough. You’re more than enough. But I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for just because I love you.”
His eyes flash at the word. Love. You’ve said it before, but not like this. Frazzled, worn out, spine slightly hunched under the weight of everything you’re trying to balance. Suddenly, Lando straightens and pulls you in for a kiss. When you break apart, he’s quieter.
He says, “I just don’t know how to do this when you’re not around.”
“Then learn,” you say, not unkindly. You mean it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The café isn’t crowded. You still choose the booth in the corner, where the shadows feel soft and safe. You stir your tea until the milk clouds settle into a forgettable grey, and then Mara slides into the seat across from you.
“You look—” she starts then stops.
“Tired?” you offer.
“I was going to say thin.”
You glance down at your sleeves, tug them a little lower. “Not even a little tan?”
Mara doesn’t push. Just says, “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Only for finals.”
“I know.”
“I miss him,” you say eventually.
She watches you. “I figured.”
“It’s not that he’s bad to me,” you add quickly, because she has that look again, that braced-for-impact stillness. “He’s not. It’s just that he needs me. Like really, really needs me. All the time. It’s like I’m the only thing that keeps him from—” You break off. “He didn’t take it well when I left.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.” Your response is immediate. “But he drank a lot. Broke things. I came back and his hotel was a mess. And he was so happy to see me, like I fixed everything just by walking in.”
“That’s a lot to carry, babe. Over-dependency isn’t good.”
You look down into your cup. “I think part of me likes it. Being the only one he wants. The only one he lets close.”
“But?” she presses.
“But I can’t do this forever. I forget who I am when I’m with him too long.”
Mara doesn’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to prove your love by breaking yourself to keep him whole.”
“I know.”
Your throat is tight. You do, but you’re not sure Lando does.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Lando feels like an animal in a glass box.
Across from him, Camilla looks like she’d stepped out of a commercial. Her smile is perfect. Always just enough teeth, just enough warmth. She even reached for his hand when the first camera flash went off outside the window. He didn’t take it.
“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Did your team tell you about my Vogue piece? They want a few shots of me by the water. Something soft, romantic.”
Lando took a sip of his wine and didn’t answer.
“You’re in such a mood tonight,” Camilla says.
He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be here. Everything about this was wrong. Your voice had sounded small on the phone earlier, when you said you had to study. That you weren’t sure if you’d make it to Barcelona. You’d been quiet all week, and now he’s sitting here with a girl who knows which angle to turn her face toward the lens but doesn’t know shit about him.
“Still no word from your girlfriend?” Camilla asks lightly, swirling her drink.
Lando glances at her. “She’s not—” He stops himself. You are, to him, just not to you, maybe he should talk to you about that sometime. He doesn’t know how to hold onto you anymore.
Camilla leans in. “It’s just…people notice, you know? You haven’t been this moody in years. You were calm after Miami, happier. And now it’s, well.” She gestures vaguely. “The hotel room. The yelling at your engineer. You don’t seem yourself, Lando.”
“You don’t know me,” Lando says flatly.
She blinks once. Smiles again, this time a little too knowingly. “But I do know what they think of you. And how quickly the story shifts when sponsors get nervous.”
I don’t care about the fucking narrative.”
“Sure you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Lando looks away. He wants to throw something. Instead, he reaches for his glass again. Third refill. He doesn’t feel it yet.
“I get it. She’s the one who makes you feel real. Like you’re not just a brand. That must be addictive.”
That catches him off guard.
She leans back in her chair. “It’s okay. You can hate me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stares at her, something bitter rising in his throat. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“I enjoy doing my job well. You should try it sometime.”
Lando scowls at her, about to get up. “Tell them I smiled. Tell them I held your hand. I don’t care. But don’t talk to me like you know what this is.”
“I had a boy like that, too,” she says, and Lando stops in his tracks.
“What?”
“I had a boy like that, too. Worshipped the ground he walked on. You know why he left me?”
He’s confused.
Camilla continues, “left me ‘cause he found someone less suffocating. Who didn’t want me and all the shit out there, too.”
“All the shit out there?” he echoes.
“Press. Money. That kind of thing.”
“Are you saying I’m superficial?”
She points out, “you’re on a PR date with me.”
“She’s going to leave me for someone more real? Like her?”
“No, that’s not what I said. I said that’s what happened to me. Sorry if I’m a little cynical about it all,” Camilla says, not sorry in the slightest.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You had the photo saved. You didn’t want to, obviously, but it was there, at the bottom of your camera roll, right after a screenshot of your calendar and before that blurry video of Mara singing in the kitchen.
Lando. Camilla—that was his new PR girl, he told you; didn’t even tell you the name, you found out by clicking the tagged accounts. Outside the restaurant. Standing close.
He told you.
And still, when you looked at her, at how easy she looked in her dress and the way her face didn’t flinch under the camera flash, you felt it. That gross, clawing thing in your chest. Jealousy.
You’d googled her once. Just once. (Okay. Maybe four times.) She’s an actress, breakout role in some Netflix show. Dating history: one boy for the majority of her career, break-up four years ago, coinciding with when her show got popular. You watch Buzzfeeds where she plays with dogs, does lie detectors.
The interviewer asks, “you’re single, Camilla?”
“Yes.” The lie detector makes no noise.
“What happened to you and long-time boyfriend Jude?”
Camilla, half-smiling, says, “oh, you know Jude. He has a book out now. We’re still friends, but it didn’t work out in the end. I think he wanted someone who didn’t care as much. Not about him, you know, just preferred a quiet life.”
This is a different Camilla, less composed. The wranglers haven’t gotten ahold of her yet. You sense she wouldn’t say these words now. Too revealing. You stare at the subtitles for too long.
Mara walks in with two mugs of tea. “What now?”
You shake your head. “It’s not even the photo. It’s just. Why does he have to do PR?”
“You know why. You told him to go for it, babe.”
“Yeah but juggling is unfair. I hate that he has to be one thing for the world and another with me.”
“You’re not wrong,” Mara said, settling beside you. “But you also knew what this was. Who he is.”
You groan. “I know. I know. But I saw that photo, and she looked like she belonged there. And I don’t know how to not care. I want to be okay with it. I want to be cool. I want to say, ‘it’s PR, it’s part of the job.’ But sometimes I think I’m the problem. That I make him look messy. That I love him wrong.”
“There’s no such thing as loving someone wrong,” Mara says.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
He asks to see her. Not his team, not his friends, but his fake girlfriend. The car’s already waiting when she steps out of her building. When she climbs in, Lando’s quiet. He has sunglasses on even though it’s dusk.
“Thanks for coming,” he mumbles.
Camilla raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was urgent.”
“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I wanted to talk. About stuff. And this is good for PR, right? We’ll look like we have something going on.”
She waits.
“About your ex,” he elaborates.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
She leans back on the nice, plush car seats. “You’ve got PR girls, therapists, a race engineer, assistants, a 12-million-follower fan base, and you’re asking me for relationship advice? Your fake relationship?”
He shrugs. “You said you dated someone who wanted less of you? Or the public shit, whatever it was you said. Who wanted someone that didn’t care so much about everyone else.”
“Yeah,” Camilla admits. “I needed more than he could give.”
Lando nods slowly. “I think I’m doing that to her.”
Camilla stares at him. For a second, she thinks maybe he’s being dramatic. But then she notices his hands: how hard he’s gripping the edge of the seat. How he won’t stop bouncing one leg.
“I’m not trying to. I just, well, when I’m not with her, I lose my fucking mind. And when I am, I don’t know how to calm down.”
She notes how he’s being weirdly earnest.
“She came out of nowhere,” Lando says. “Didn’t care about the sport. Didn’t care about the attention. I liked that. I liked her. Y’know, I tried to pay her and she wouldn’t take the money. Had to show up at her job like a lost dog to get her attention. She hated me, you know? Despised me. Now she’s back home, and I’m here, and I feel, fuck, I don’t know. And I keep dragging her into this PR stuff and she’s probably sick of it, me having this double life.”
Camilla muses. She studies Lando’s face, says, “you’re not like me, you know.”
“I think I am.”
She shakes her head. “As much as that flatters me, I don’t think you care as much as me about the media.”
Lando scoffs. “Still sucks.”
“Yeah,” she agrees.
“You’re alright. Not what I expected.”
“Am I supposed to say thank you?”
“No.”
She says, “okay,” and they leave the conversation at that. So Camilla thinks.
Then Lando says, “but you said he wanted someone less suffocating.”
“What?” Not this again.
“It’s not just the media part. You said he wanted someone who didn’t want him and the media.”
“No, no, no,” Camilla says. “It’s the juggling, I think. You have to pick one. I was trying to do both and he realized before me.”
“What did he realize before you?”
“Doing both wasn’t just hard for me. It was hard for him, too. So he left.”
Lando frowns. “You’re saying I have to pick one. I can’t make her go back and forth while I want to just have her.”
“Oh, young love,” Camilla says.
“Seriously.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. My life isn’t your life, Lando. What happened between Jude and me isn’t what’s going to happen between you and your girl. We are not the same people.”
“I’m just looking for examples.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Lando is in Barcelona. Camilla is sitting next to him in the car. They’re talking while the car is parked. Late night conversation. He didn’t tell you about this.
The caption reads: “F1 driver Lando Norris and actress Camilla Young getting serious? Not the first time we’ve spotted them.”
You stare at the image. The angle doesn’t help. They’re leaning toward each other, talking like no one else is in the world. You can’t tell what he’s saying. You just know he’s engaged. He’s looking at her like she’s enough, that she’s answering his problems.
Your mouth is dry. You remind yourself that he told you. He said there’d be PR stuff. Dinners. That it didn’t mean anything. But this isn’t a PR dinner. They’re out at night, for fuck’s sake. You’re not even allowed in the paddock anymore.
mara(malade)
babe i know you’re scrolling
mara(malade)
stop thinking about it
You
just photos i don’t care
You do. And Mara knows you do, because she doesn’t respond with “okay” or “cool.” She sends a voice memo.
“Look, you said this was PR. You know it’s PR. That girl probably got handed a clause and a Chanel bag. You’re the one who knows where he lives. You’re the one who sees him without all that. And he’s the one who broke a goddamn hotel for you, remember? Flew across the country for you? Look, I think he’s clingy but in this case, I think that’s something to reassure you.”
You leave her on read.
What you keep thinking, the thought you can’t get out of your head, is that maybe he likes it better this way. When things are clean. When it’s professional. When the girl across the table doesn’t cry at night or ask for space or say, “you scare me sometimes.” When he knows he’s loved and doesn’t have to fight for it.
You know it’s unfair. You’re the one who asked for time. You’re the one who told him you had a life. Still. It feels a little like juggling. And you’re not winning.
Your phone lights up. You think it’s Mara, again, asking why you’re not responding. It’s Lando, and he’s blowing up your phone. He won’t stop texting. Calling. Double texting. Triple texting. Guilt-tripping you with voice notes that sound like they were recorded half-drunk, half-panicked.
You hate this. You hate that you love him like this. You also hate that you’re starting to feel like you can’t breathe.
He won’t tell you where he’s been. You saw the photos. You know it’s PR. You know it. He told you about it, technically. (He just didn’t mention the part where he spent the whole ride talking about you, asking Camilla how to not be too much. He’s embarrassed. He thinks you’ll leave if you know how desperate he is.)
You press call.
When he picks up, sounding like he sprinted to the phone, breathless, you don’t even let him speak.
You say: “I think we need a break.”
“Just for a little. I need to breathe, Lando. You’re everywhere and I love you but it’s starting to feel like I’m all you have and I can’t be that for you all the time. It’s not healthy. I don’t want you to be not okay if I’m not there.”
Still silence. You check if the line dropped.
Then he laughs. “Fucking knew it. This is what Camilla said happened. He told her the same shit. ‘You’re too attached. It’s not healthy.’ It’s not healthy to love someone that much, is that it?”
“Lando—” You say. What did Camilla tell him? About her ex? What does this have to do with you and Lando? You’re trying to make things make sense.
He cuts in, “no, no, just say it. You don’t want me like this, even if I love you. You don’t want me if I’m not put together and calm and acting like I don’t need you. You want someone who doesn't have a PR girlfriend, too? Look, I want you to be my girlfriend. We haven’t even talked about this.”
Even if I love you.
This is the first time he’s said those words.
“That’s not what I said,” you say, and his tangent is really confusing you. What about being his girlfriend?
“It’s what you meant.”
“I just need a little space. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Lando: “If you did, you’d be here.”
That one stings. You hang up. You don’t mean to, but your thumb slips and that’s it. Silence.
Lando stares at the “Call Ended” screen. He flings his phone across the kitchen. It hits the marble and clatters. He doesn’t care. It won’t break, fucking case. He presses his palms to the counter and breathes. In. Out. He’s not Camilla. He’s not. Right now, he can’t tell if he’s any better.
He has whatever’s left in the wine bottle on the counter. Red, too warm, acidic. Doesn’t care. It makes his throat burn and that feels like something.
He doesn’t even blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. For the cameras. For the pressure. He wanted you because you saw him inferior, wanted you so no one else could know that side of him. You didn’t want him, not at all. Not for the money, not for…so why did you end up staying? And now, he’s like this—spun out and raw and clinging too tight to someone just because she said I love you and sounded like she meant it.
He’s scared. He doesn’t know who he is without you, isn’t that fucking crazy? A few months into your life together and he’s nothing without you. Lando grabs a dish towel and wipes at the tears that surprise even him. Tries to pull himself together. He’s better when he’s with you, he thinks. How did you even start liking him? Maybe you liked him when he was suave and just playing cat and mouse.
It’s so pathetic, and he knows that, but he can’t stop thinking:
She said she loves me.
Why doesn’t that feel like enough?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
mara(malade)
u okay???
i saw your location was back at the library so.
finals or breakdown?
you
it’s both i think
i told him i needed space and he flipped
like fully lost it
i think i broke him
mara(malade)
hey no
you’re not responsible for his spiral
mara(malade)
and if you are then that’s…
kind of the problem no?
you
yeah
i just feel like i made a promise i can’t keep
like i said i loved him and now i’m backing out
you
but it’s not that
it’s that i can’t breathe around him sometimes
and he’s scared all the time that i’ll leave
you
but him being scared is making me actually want to
mara(malade)
that makes sense
mara(malade)
that’s what i meant before when i said he’s not all bad but he’s heavy
mara(malade)
like intense love is beautiful but not when it burns you alive to keep him warm
you
man when you’d get so poetic
mara(malade)
when my own life started going good and your life became a soap opera
you
fuck off
mara(malade)
❤️
you
he talked to Camilla about it
you
apparently she had an ex who left her bc he said her love was too much
and lando saw himself in her
you
and now i feel like i’m just proving him right
mara(malade)
babe if he’s projecting that onto you that’s not fair
mara(malade)
you’re not her ex. he’s not camilla. you’re YOU. he’s HIM.
and if he can’t tell the difference, maybe a break really is the right call
mara(malade)
even if it hurts
you
he didn’t even tell me they talked
that’s the part that’s pissing me off the most
you
he didn’t tell me anything
he just bottled it and drank and spiraled and then begged me not to leave
you
it’s exhausting
mara(malade)
i’m so proud of you for saying you needed space
mara(malade)
i know that wasn’t easy
and i’m here if you need me
you
ty
you
i think i just need to remember who i was before him for a second
like just me
you
not someone’s everything
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The sun’s out, annoying as hell. He hasn’t opened the balcony doors. His phone’s dead, face-down on the counter since last night. No new notifications. No new you.
Lando slumps lower on the couch. He hasn’t eaten. There’s a coffee from yesterday he keeps sipping, even though it tastes like shit. All it does is remind him you used to steal the first sip and make a face when it was too bitter. The front door buzzes. He ignores it. Buzzes again. The spare key turns, and Max Fewtrell steps inside like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. Just not lately, because Lando’s always with you. He can’t even say your name.
“You look like shit,” Max says cheerfully, dropping a bag of pastries on the table. The same pastries you used to like. Like, probably, you’re not dead. “I assume that means you’re not dead.”
Lando grunts. His friend kicks his feet up next to Lando’s and starts unpacking the bag. “I brought the fig ones.”
The exact ones you like. Lando doesn’t move. Max says, “you wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Lando presses the cold rim of the coffee cup to his lip. Finally: “She said she needed space. That we were too attached.”
“Was she wrong?”
He closes his eyes.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
“She said I scared her, Max. She said I made her feel like she’s all I have. That I don’t know how to be okay without her. I thought I was just loving her. The way she needed.”
Max says, “you did. You do. Sometimes people still drown in that.”
Lando huffs, “that’s what Camilla said. Suffocating.”
“You’re taking relationship advice from your PR cover girl?”
“She’s been through it.”
“Yeah, but she’s also an Oscar-nominated woman who drinks red wine before noon.”
Vaguely defensive, Lando says, “she’s nice. How do you know that?”
“Friends of friends,” Max says, “looks nice, yeah. Half the stuff I hear about her, though.”
Lando looks down at the half-eaten pastry on the plate. “I thought if I was good enough, if I just loved her enough, she’d stay. That she’d choose me, even when it was hard.”
Max says nothing.
“She said I made her happy,” Lando says. “I’m the kid who thought love would be enough.”
“Maybe it still is. But not like this.”
Lando’s hands drop to his lap. He stares ahead, eyes dull.
He doesn’t know how to love you less. He’s not sure he wants to learn.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Someone’s yelling about football, someone’s crying in the toilet, and you’re perched on a sticky barstool with Mara, laughing so hard her cheeks ache.
“Okay,” Mara says, poking you with a straw. “You’ve been smiling all night and I don’t trust it.”
“I’m done with finals,” you say, shrugging like that explains everything. “Also, I think I flirted with a guy who works in Parliament. On accident. He was like, shockingly boring. But hot.”
Mara snorts. “You’re deranged.”
“I’m fun.”
“You’re healing,” Mara corrects, more gently.
You don't flinch. You just knock back the rest of your drink and make another. You haven’t thought about Lando—really thought about him—in two hours. That’s a record.
When your phone buzzes, you don’t check it. You know who it won’t be. Instead, you fish a crumpled envelope out of your purse and slap it on the bar.
“What’s that?”
“My future, apparently.”
You unfold it with a little dramatic flair, sliding it across the counter. Mara scans the letter and immediately goes wide-eyed.
“Wait. Belgium?”
“Mhm.”
“For six months?”
“Yep.”
“With some freaky academic?”
You say, “little out of my area of expertise, but you know, work’s work!”
“You’re going to become a nun.”
“I’m going to become a scholar,” you say.
The offer is real. Your grad professor sent it over that morning, saying you’re one of the top students they’ve ever had. That a colleague in Amsterdam is running a new deep-dive research team. Your name came up.
You haven’t told anyone else yet.
Not even your mum. Not even Mara until now. You just wanted to sit with the idea. Let it feel like yours. Like something that isn’t about a boy or a breakdown or a stupid Monaco apartment you couldn’t breathe in.
Mara bumps your shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
“I know.”
“And you’re kind of glowing right now. Are you wearing highlighter or is that just the joy of emotional detachment?”
You kick her. “Shut up.”
“You know what I mean. You’re laughing again. You’re thinking again. You’re living again.”
You swirl your straw through your drink. “It’s weird. I think I loved him. I think maybe I still do. If I see him I don’t know what I’ll do. I think part of me maybe always will.” You pause. “But I don’t think I like who I was with him.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
"You’re sure you have your passport?" Mara says for the fifth time, clutching her chai latte.
You nod, bouncing on your heels. “Yes. And the visa letter. And the housing confirmation. And my reading list for the first three weeks. Mara. I’m not an idiot.”
"You are, though,” Mara says, voice thick with pride. “But a brilliant idiot. A Belgium-bound idiot. A—”
“Please stop.”
Mara does, but only to hug you again, tight and fast. It feels so final, standing there in front of the departure gate with your suitcase, your passport, and a hundred unread chapters in your inbox. Your coat is slung over your arm, your phone is buzzing with a reminder to change your SIM card once she lands, and your cheeks are flushed with the kind of nervous excitement you haven’t felt in years.
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Mara whispers.
“Me neither.”
They sit down on a bench near the gate, just to wait. Your heart is doing that jittery dance again. You lean back and watch the world pass by. Your future is somewhere over the Channel.
Then you see it.
Him.
Not him, not in the flesh. Him, plastered over a luxury advert. Sharp jaw. That same signature stare. Lando Norris, standing on a balcony like he owns the sun. You can almost smell his cologne.
Your stomach sinks. “I hate airports.”
Mara follows your gaze. “Want me to key the ad?”
“No. It’s okay.” You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in weeks. You just stare for a moment longer, then blink it away.
Your flight’s boarding. Your life’s waiting. And he isn’t part of it anymore.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The door doesn’t open.
He’d left it unlocked this morning. Not on purpose—he tells himself that, at least—but when he walked back in after his run, he paused by the foyer and waited.
For you.
He keeps using your shampoo.
Not because he wants to, but because it’s just there. It smells like winter, when you first met; like spring, when you warmed to him, like snow thawing; like summer, when you were in love. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like you’re in the next room.
He sits on the edge of the couch in the hoodie you left behind. He scrolls through his phone, not really reading anything. Sometimes he retypes messages to you and deletes them. Other times he just stares at your contact name.
The cafe you loved, with the fig pastries, closed down last week. He didn’t know until he walked there this morning.
The press says he’s locked in, matured.
What they don’t say is that he doesn’t go out anymore. He hasn’t brought anyone back to this flat in months because the idea of someone else sleeping in that bed, in that indent in the shape of you, makes him sick.
People notice. His friends don’t mention your name anymore. Max does, once, and Lando doesn’t answer.
You’re gone. Left. Disappeared into a world that doesn’t include him, with grad school and espresso and maybe, someday, someone new. He doesn’t want to think about that. He might puke. Lando breathes in the smell of your shampoo, trying to hold it fast. Pathetic.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You sit across from two of the most brilliant people you’ve ever met. It’s warm in the little canal-side restaurant, all amber candles and slow jazz. Samantha—Sam—orders for the table. And Johannes, with his thick-rimmed glasses and absurd vocabulary, keeps asking you questions like your opinions matter.
It’s disorienting.
You tell them about your undergrad thesis, and instead of blinking politely, Sam leans in and goes, “wow, you could expand that. Something publishable.” Just like that. Like it’s a casual thought. Like it’s no big deal. And she likes it. You try not to blush and fail, so you smile anyway.
Johannes, you learn, is only your age. He looks older, has the beard to make up for it. He speaks with a thick accent, tells the funniest jokes with the straightest face. Sam is a little more serious, but only a little more.
Sometime around dessert, her phone buzzes. She checks it and turns the screen toward you. You’re already friends. Oh, you love these people.
“This is my idiot cousin. You’ll probably meet him, he likes hanging around and trying to understand stuff. Don’t let him get into a debate unless you want to lose a full afternoon.”
You glance down. The photo’s grainy, taken outside in harsh sun. A man in a zip-up jacket stands half-turned to the camera. He squints mid-laugh, holding what looks like a massive trophy. Shit. You’ve seen those trophies. He has dimples, you note. You read the contact name aloud, “Max?”
“Unfortunately.”
The name rings a faint bell, like a headline you scrolled past once, or a conversation you half-heard. Something Dutch. Maybe racing? Definitely racing. Lando has the same trophy. Had? You push him out of your mind. Max. You’ve heard it before.
“He thinks he’s very charming,” Sam says. “He’s not. But he is useful. And he’s blunt. Sorry if he scares you off, I promise the rest of my family is normal.”
You smile politely and hand the phone back, already forgetting the photo. Just another face, another cousin.
You, on the other hand, have work to do. You walk home after, cheeks pink from wine and wind and compliments you’re still trying to believe were real. Sam is a big deal in the scholarly world. A big deal. Your flat is tiny, one room and a kitchen nook, but it’s yours. You unpack slow and careful. Books first, then the photos you didn’t think you’d hang but now decide to. Lots of Mara, of your mum, of your uni friends. You check the group chat, send a meme, and turn off your phone.
The reading list is already waiting: annotated articles, an attached PDF from Sam with a note—“welcome to the real world.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Sam’s office is beautiful. You want to live here. She also has great tea, which you poured a mug full of while Johannes argued about a footnote. He lost, so you’re laughing and choking on the hot liquid.
Knock. Knock.
Sam doesn’t look up, just calls, “it’s open!”
The door swings in, as does a tall man. His hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, blonde-brown hair a little messy. He doesn’t look like he belongs in an academic office, but he does look like he belongs in a room.
“Sorry,” he says. He sounds like Sam with a stronger Dutch accent. Not exactly, just the same cadences. “Didn’t know you were in a meeting.”
“No meeting, Max. Come in,” Sam says. She gestures to you, “hey, this is my cousin. Max. Max Verstappen.”
Oh, you’ve heard that. Definitely. Max Verstappen, Formula 1 world champion, retired. Lando’s talked about him.
You offer your hand, “hi.”
He shakes it, firm and quick. “Nice to meet you.”
You introduce yourself. His eyes pass over you like you’re just some grad student in a knit sweater and boots. Which, to be fair, you are.
“I came to borrow the espresso pods,” Max adds, glancing at Sam.
“In the cabinet. Far right.”
He starts rummaging through the drawers. You go back to your notes, trying not to think about the gossip photos, or the phone calls you haven’t answered. Sam is saying something to Max in Dutch, and you’re relieved. You’re not excluded, just invisible. It’s peaceful.
He says bye a minute later, espresso in hand. You glance up once, watch the way he ducks his head when he smiles at Sam. After he leaves, Sam murmurs, “ignore him. He doesn’t sleep. He also haunts this place because he has no friends.”
You laugh a little. “He seemed normal?”
“He is. Mostly.”
Martine, Sam’s good friend, says, “you’re just annoyed he always takes the good pods.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re squinting at the back of a box of cereal, trying to decode the language with your phone translator, when someone brushes your arm.
“Sorry—oh.”
You look up. He’s flushed from running. Max. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone here, at this random corner store five minutes from your apartment.
He blinks, equally surprised. “Hey. You’re Sam’s intern, right?”
“Yeah,” you say, setting the cereal down. Hopeless case, your translator. All it told you was the brand’s name. “You’re Max.”
“Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”
You don’t really know him. Still, you nod. “You live here?”
He gestures vaguely behind him. “Just outside the center. Needed air.” Awkward. What else are you going to tell him? “You finished shopping?”
“Almost. Unless you have cereal recommendations.”
“Not really. I buy whatever has the least sugar and looks edible.”
You grin, grab a random box, and fall into step with him outside. Somehow, you’re walking together. You don’t ask where he’s going and he doesn’t ask where you’re heading either. You go along with it, the silence. Not too bad, actually. Neither of you feel like you need to talk.
“How’s the internship?”
“Hm?” you say, startled by the question. “Honestly? I’m kind of loving it. Sam’s great.”
“She’s a menace. Not actually. Sam’s good at that. Letting you find your footing.”
You both cross a street, the sky softening overhead with hints of fall. Bree isn’t big, more quiet than Bristol. You like that nothing demands too much from you here.
“She mentioned you were coming. Didn’t think you’d actually show. She scared the last one off.”
You smile. “Funny, she said you’d be the one to scare me off. Anyway, I almost didn’t. Needed to get away from some things.”
Max looks ahead while he walks. “Yeah. I get that.”
You pass another block in silence. When you reach the turn for your place, you turn your head in that direction. Max nods once. “Good luck with the cereal.”
“Good luck with the running,” you shoot back.
You’re not sure what that was. It felt okay. Max Verstappen is a lot more down-to-Earth than you would’ve expected.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Today’s your day off! You start by taking a long nap, after which you see that dearest Mara has texted you.
mara(malade)
soooooooooooooo
mara(malade)
up up up!! rise and shine!! wakey wakey!!
You facetime her.
“Someone took their sweet time,” she says snarkily.
“I love you too.”
Mara smiles, “oh, you’re sappy today. What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing. My DMs are as dry as the Sahara desert.”
With a cackle, she says, “funny, funny. You’d be a wonderful comedian, you know?”
“Sure. How’s Dan?”
“Cut his hair. I’m mourning.”
“Hah.”
“You make any friends?”
“My boss is great. My coworkers are great,” you say.
“Work is going to eat you alive,” Mara scoffs. “I mean actual friends, babe. You go out to drink?”
You make a face. “Surprisingly—I mean surprisingly, I worked at a bar for so long—no.”
“Your life is miserable,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.
“Actually,” you say, “I think I do have a friend. It’s funny, though. Don’t laugh. I know it’s ironic.”
“Go on,” she says, expecting the worst.
You blow a raspberry. “So, this guy who used to race with, well,” you can’t say Lando’s name, not yet, “he’s my boss’s cousin. And he’s a big deal.”
“Driver?” Mara interrupts, “let me guess which one. Dan’s educated me.”
“Go ahead.”
“No, I need details. Personality? Don’t give too much away.”
You think. “Um. He’s Dutch—”
“—Max Verstappen.”
“What? How’d you get it so fast?”
“It’s that or Nyck de Vries. You said big deal.”
Bewildered, “who?”
Mara rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. That’s crazy. He’s a biiiiiig deal.”
“Thanks, Mara. I didn’t know.”
“Is he nice in real life?”
“Yeah, I’d say. We’re not super close, though.”
“Well,” Mara concludes, “one half-friend is better than none. Miss you.”
“Me too. You visiting me anytime soon?”
“My broke ass? I wish.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The thing about living in Bree is that everything’s walkable, and that’s a bit dangerous when you’re used to structuring your life around needing a car or a schedule or something big to do. Here, your calendar is soft. You have a little structure in the meetings, reading hours, and grocery runs.
Max keeps showing up on those.
You never plan it. Yet, most Saturdays, when you walk the streets toward the market square, you’ll hear the soft rhythm of footsteps behind you—quicker than yours, like he’s jogging—and there he is.
“Do you time these, or is it just fate?” you ask him this morning as he falls into step beside you.
“I have a sixth sense for overly ambitious grocery lists,” he says, pretending to peek at your phone. You’ve learned about his sense of humor. You enjoy it. “Tell me you’re not buying three different types of mushrooms again.”
“I like mushrooms.”
“You bought oyster mushrooms last week and forgot them in the fridge.”
You scrunch up your face. “Snitch.”
“Clean your fridge. You’re going to die of something,” Max says, straight-faced.
The walk to the market is short. You both pause by a new flower stall. He eyes the tulips. “Too obvious,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?”
“If I brought someone tulips, they’d think I picked the first thing that came up when I searched ‘romantic flower Belgium.’”
You tease, “You spend a lot of time thinking about being romantic?”
He gives you a look. “I spend a lot of time around Sam. She tries to set me up with her yoga instructor every time I breathe.”
“Is she cute?”
“Very,” Max deadpans, “but she thinks Formula 1 is a type of protein shake.”
You laugh harder than you should. At the produce tent, you hold up a tomato. “Good or bad?”
Max squints, shakes his head. “Looks smug. Pick a different one.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m helpful. It’s my only marketable skill.”
“Sure, driver,” you say. You’re halfway through your list when you realize he’s carrying half your items. Max has two apples in his hoodie pocket, a baguette slung under one arm, and a jar of honey that he’s twirling idly in his hand. “You know you don’t have to do this with me.”
“I know,” he says easily.
And he does. He always makes it feel like he’s just passing by, just joining for a bit, just walking you home because it’s on his way. There’s a difference between obligation and presence, and he’s never once made you feel like a chore.
He pauses outside the bakery, staring at the cinnamon buns in the window. “Do I want one or will I regret it?” he asks you.
“You always regret it. But you also always eat it anyway.”
“Sounds like a metaphor.”
You lift a brow, say, “about?”
Max shrugs. “Something Sam said. About people, who we trust, that kind of thing, bad decisions. You know Sam. I think she’d be a psychologist if not…whatever she does.”
You don’t laugh, even though it’s funny. It rings a little too close to home. “Get your cinnamon bun. I’ll go grab the milk.”
When you meet again outside, he’s already taken a bite, cinnamon dusting his fingers. Max tears off a corner and offers it to you, which you accept.
The walk back is quieter. You’ve said enough for now. You know he’ll walk you all the way to your front step. He always does. As you unlock the door, he leans against the wall, still chewing thoughtfully.
“You ever think about staying longer?” he asks suddenly.
“In Bree?”
He shrugs. “Here.”
You don’t answer. You think about tulips and expired mushrooms and his hoodie pocket filled with apples.
“Maybe,” you say.
Nodding, Max responds, “See you Monday.”
“Don’t forget your bun wrapper on the ground this time.”
“Wow. No faith.”
You hear him chuckling down the street long after you close the door. You open your bag of groceries and see another cinnamon bun inside. It makes you smile.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The article William sent you makes your head swim. You need to talk to him about it, not now, he’s never in the office. He’s always running around and finding new papers other people should read. Must be fun assigning work.
Sam walks in with two mugs of tea. Hers always smells like something earthy and medicinal, yours sweeter. She sets one down beside you without comment, then plops into the chair opposite.
“You and Max went shopping again?”
You shrug. “He just shows up. I don’t invite him.”
Sam lifts a brow. “Of course not. He just senses your lack of upper body strength and offers to carry potatoes.”
You grin, half-embarrassed. “That was one time.”
“Mmhmm.” She lifts her mug to her mouth. “You know he doesn’t do that for everyone, right?”
You blink. “Do what?”
“Grocery walk. He likes his solitude. Usually dodges people like they’re reporters.”
“Maybe he’s just bored,” you say, a little too fast. “Or being nice. Or, I don’t know, we live nearby, it’s easy.”
Sam gives you a look. “Max doesn’t do things just because they’re easy. He’s too stubborn for that.”
You glance back down at your article.
“He told me,” she adds, “that you gave him grief about his cinnamon bun habits.”
You groan. “He eats so much, I’m concerned about his health. I know they’re good. That many, though, he’s going to get diabetes.”
“I think he likes that you tell him things no one else does.” You pause, your pen frozen in hand. Sam watches you quietly. “He talks about you, you know. Not much. More than he talks about most people.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says gently. “You just seem happier.”
“I’m still me.”
She agrees, “You are. But you’re not looking over your shoulder anymore. Anyway! William has notes for you. Thank me, not him, I requested them.”
Later, after she’s gone and you’re packing up for the evening, you find a folded receipt tucked inside your notebook, from the market bakery. Two cinnamon buns. Scrawled across the top, in Max’s messy handwriting:
you’re right.
regret but worth it
You stare at it for a while. You don’t throw it away.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
As you said at the very start of this tale, the death of what, exactly? You don’t know. The death of the old Lando. You mourn, sometimes, what could have been. If you had been an artist, maybe you would’ve captured it like this, him the fire, you the tinder. Eventually, you would’ve burnt out. It was a matter of keeping yourself alive. Would you have died for his happiness? Maybe the old you. There, the death of that too.
You see him in the tabloids, less than before. He’s still single, as far as you know. Camilla has a boyfriend, but they seem to remain friends. His career’s going great—this, Max tells you. You trust him on that. You think, good for him. In the end, he didn’t have to choose between loving his sport, his fans, and you. And he seems happy. He smiles on the podium. Smiles everywhere. Not the same smile he used to give you, of course, but he still smiles. That’s better than nothing. Then again, it’s none of your business, not anymore.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The second-hand bookshelf you picked up from a Facebook group is stubborn. You accept the truth: you are going to break it, or yourself, or both. Your toolbox is open. Your patience is waning.
So, somewhat shamefully, you text Max.
you
ru busy
you
i have a shelf that’s defeating me
You’re not even sure he’ll reply. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and he’s probably on one of his mysterious forest runs, or on his SIM machine again.
Three minutes later, he responds:
maximilian
On my way.
maximilian
Don’t touch anything. I mean it.
He types like an old man. You always say his name wrong, on purpose. Maximilian, like it’s one word. That’s how you greet him at the front door.
“Why are there two fucking screwdrivers?” he asks.
“Dunno.”
He snorts, crouches beside the pile. “You have it upside down.”
“Oh.”
You sit on the floor again while he sorts the screws into neat little piles with a strange kind of reverence. You watch him from the side, the way his brows draw together, the precision of his hands.
“Is this what you do for fun?” you ask.
He glances at you. “You invited me.”
“Fair.”
You laugh whenever he swears under his breath in Dutch. He teaches you a few of them, a favor you can’t return because English doesn’t have enough. Godverdomme, you now say instead of goddamn.
At one point, you accidentally knock over one of his carefully balanced structures and you think he’s going to die from exasperation, but instead he says, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”
“What?”
He blinks, unfazed. “I said—”
“No, I heard you.”
“Okay then. Don’t get a big head about it.”
Eventually the shelf stands, slightly uneven but proud. You both sit back against the wall, staring at it like it might collapse just from your gaze.
“Honestly,” you say, “I hate to say this, but I might never put anything on it. Too risky.”
“Probably smart.” His arm is warm beside yours, close but not touching. You look over at him and find him already looking at you.
“What?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
He shakes his head. “You’re different from when I met you.”
“Different how?”
“Less sad.”
You blink. You hadn’t realized how much you’d carried into Bree, how much of it had slowly started to peel off without you noticing. You don’t answer, and he doesn’t push. Instead, Max tilts his head toward the shelf. “Think it’ll hold at least a book?”
“No,” you say honestly. “But maybe plants.”
“Plants are good.”
He gets up, stretches, and offers you a hand. You take it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Wine, what a glorious thing! Sam had left you both a bottle as a thank-you—something about helping her rearrange boxes in the archive room—and you’d cracked it open after dinner, half as a joke, half because you were too lazy to leave your apartment to get anything else. Max is sitting on your floor again, following your choice.
He asks, “you always sit on the floor?”
“You always ask obvious questions?”
“Fair.”
The wine is good, warm in your chest. Your bookshelf, the one he built, is already half full. He noticed earlier and made a quiet joke about it. Something like, “you didn’t even wait a week to tempt fate, huh?”
The new development is that he brought up Lando a week ago and you went completely still. You knew they were friends, yeah, but not still in touch. Max knows you dated, just didn’t tell you. He knows. What to do with that? He offers, “was he really that bad?”
The ‘he’ needs no clarification. You don’t talk about Lando, not here. Not in Belgium, your new life. But Max’s voice is careful. Just curious in the way of someone who might actually care.
You sigh. “No. I don’t think so. Not at first. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. You know how we met? He was drunk at the bar I worked at. After he lost his mum, yeah. Then he kept coming into my life, wanted me to be his sugar baby, then I guess I was his girlfriend. Then it was everything. And then it was too much.”
The sentence stops there as you watch your wine catch the light.
“He got really intense,” you say, finally. “Jealous, mostly. Not of anyone in particular. He just needed to feel like I needed him.”
Max nods slowly. He looks at the carpet. “That’s a hard kind of person to let go of.”
“He told me he loved me when I said I needed a break.”
“Did it work?”
You shake your head. “I felt bad.”
Then: “He ever hit you?”
You look up sharply. “No. God, no.”
Max breathes out, almost like relief. “Okay.”
“But it still felt like I couldn’t breathe,” you add. “Like I was being watched all the time. And the worst part is, I think he thought he was being romantic. Like, that he was proving something. That he loved me more than anything else in his life.”
“Some people mistake possession for love,” Max says quietly.
You repeat, “he didn’t hit me. But he scared me. A little.”
He nods again. You appreciate that he doesn’t tell you what you should have done. Doesn’t offer advice. Eventually, you nudge his socked foot with yours. “You ever been in love?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“Thought I loved someone else. Too late when I wanted to turn back.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Probably for good reason. I didn’t know how to be soft with her until it was too late. Then I just stayed with Kelly. We had a happy family.”
You look at him a long moment. You know Max is divorced, that was a stupid question. But the love he talks about is not his ex-wife. It’s a girl, a woman before her. Love is complicated, hard to understand. Something in your chest folds up quietly into itself. You can understand this much of Max.
You don’t say any of that. Instead, you pour him the last of the wine, and when he bumps your glass with his in a quiet toast, you grin.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Sam might be a terrible cook, but she makes great bread. So the house smells like rosemary, just how she likes it.
Max stands near the edge of the kitchen. His free arm rests loosely against the counter. Familiar voices cloud his senses, people he’s known forever. He watches the doorway.
He doesn’t mean to. He tells himself it’s just curiosity—you said you might come, after all. Said you had to finish a draft for Johannes, but maybe you’d show up later. No promises, just the kind of answer you give when you’re trying not to assume you’re expected.
Then you do show up. At the right moment, when people have stopped glancing at the door, when the first bottle of wine is already gone and Sam is mid-speech with a cookie in her hand. Max sees it before anyone else. You looks around the room, scanning. Max doesn’t think. He just moves.
“Hey,” he says, reaching you before anyone else can.
“Hey.”
“You came.”
“Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t figure out what to wear, and then my email crashed, and—”
“You look good.”
You stop, brain short-circuiting. “Oh. Thanks.”
It comes out too fast, too easy. He doesn’t take it back. He watches your shoulders drop a little, relaxed. “You want a drink?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen.
Later, you end up on the balcony together.
It’s colder than either of you expected. You wear a thin sweater, shivering slightly, so he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without asking. You smell like cinnamon, or maybe it’s just the drink you’re nursing.
Inside, someone’s laughing too loudly. Sam, probably. She’s a little drunk. Everyone’s a little drunk.
“Happy birthday,” you’d said earlier, pressing the tiny bag into Sam’s hands. “It’s just a notebook. But it’s handmade. I saw it and thought of you.”
Sam had actually teared up. Max hadn’t even brought a gift. Whoops. He did bring drinks, though, which makes it up a little.
“You’re good at this,” he says now, tilting his glass toward you.
“What, parties?”
“No. Showing up.”
You look over at him, brows drawn slightly. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”
He shrugs. “Maybe both.”
“You’re weird, Maximilian.”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
You lean forward on the balcony rail, letting the wind lift your hair slightly. He watches you in profile, the curve of your jaw, the way you press her lips together when you’re thinking.
It hits him then, low and sudden and unannounced. He wants you to stay.
Not just tonight. Not just in Bree, even if you have to leave after these six months are over. He wants you in his routines, in his late grocery runs, in the silence of his mornings. In the spaces he never thought anyone could fill without making noise. You’re not doing anything extraordinary. You’re not even looking at him.
Max thinks about how easily you fit into this evening. How naturally you’ve been showing up in his days, one by one.
Shit.
He knows, now. He knows.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you stop. Just stop, mid-circle, toothpaste foaming, because the way Max looked at you tonight won’t leave your brain. Not in a creepy way, not even necessarily in a romantic way. He noticed something and didn’t rush to define it. You spit and rinse before grabbing your phone.
Mara picks up on the third ring, groggy. “It’s like, two a.m. here.”
“Okay, sorry—”
“No, I’m awake. I’m awake. Are you okay?”
You sit on the edge of your bed, still in Max’s jacket because, yeah, you forgot you were wearing it. “I think I have a crush.”
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything yet.”
Mara’s silent. Which is worse than anything, actually.
“I didn’t mean to,” you say, curling your legs under yourself. “We were at Sam’s birthday party, and he gave me his coat, and then we were talking outside, and he made this weird joke about how I ‘show up,’ and like, who says that? But also, it was nice. And I didn’t feel weird. I didn’t feel like I had to try.”
Mara exhales. “Woah. Stop. Max Verstappen?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure he’s not just being polite?”
“No. I mean, well, maybe? But no. I don’t think so. He helps me carry groceries sometimes. And he built my bookshelf. And he remembers how I like my coffee. And it’s not like. I don’t know. It’s not like Lando.”
There it is, his name, the pause it still pulls from you.
Mara catches it too. “You think he’s different?”
“I know he is. It’s not the same thing. Max is so calm. He doesn’t ask for anything. He’s like an old man, you know, he’s retired and has money and just does what he likes. Not a lot, surprisingly. He doesn’t need me to reassure him. He just shows up.”
She hums, “so why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”
You bite your lip. “I think I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
You look at the ceiling with its yellowing corners.
“I think I’m scared it won’t last. That I’ll ruin it. That I’ll care and he won’t. Or worse, he’ll care, and I won’t be ready. I don't know if I'm capable of doing this again, Mara. Not after what happened with—”
“Hey.” she cuts you off gently. “You’re not the same person anymore. And he’s not Lando.”
You say, “he stayed on the balcony with me. Didn’t even check his phone once.”
“Then maybe start there,” Mara says. “One small thing at a time. You don’t have to fall in love. You can just let someone care about you.”
You sniff, smile. You didn’t realize you were crying. She adds, “also. If you do fall in love, please tell me before the internet does this time?”
You laugh. “Deal.”
You leave his jacket on when you hang on. You don’t need to decide anything tonight. But Godverdomme, it’s warm.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Your canvas tote is a little heavier than usual, but Max carries most of it without asking. Like always. Like always. You're going to miss this. You're already missing it, and you're not even gone yet.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, looking at you.
“Just thinking.”
He doesn’t push. Like always.
You say, “I think I don’t want to leave.” You don’t mean it to sound so honest. Still, it comes out that way.
“You’re not going far, are you?”
“No. But it’s not here.” You admit, “I didn’t think I’d like it so much. When I first got here, I didn’t even know what side of the street to walk on. I was scared all the time.”
Max says, “And now?”
You smile, looking up at him. “Now I know which stall has the best tomatoes. And that Sam always brings pastries on Mondays. And that you take the same running route every morning.”
His mouth quirks into a smile. “You’ve been spying?”
“I have eyes.”
He laughs. You walk a little longer, past the bookstore that always has one light still on, even when it’s closed.
“I’m going to miss this,” you say.
He’s quiet. Then Max says, “I’ll miss it too.”
You glance over at him. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like to stop moving?”
“Sometimes. But I’m not very good at standing still.”
“You seem like you are.”
“That’s because I like walking with you.”
You stop walking. He does too, but doesn’t look away. You eye the bread in your hands, and say, “it’s still warm.”
“You want to eat it now?”
“Obviously.”
So you sit on the nearest bench and tear the loaf in half. It’s no cinnamon roll, but it’s good. No promises, you think, just this. You, and Max, and something that might last even if you leave
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It’s been a long week. Final paperwork, goodbye emails, thank-you cards. Everyone at the institute has been kind. Sam said you’ll always have a place here. William, in his way, offered to write you letters of recommendation for any program you wanted. Johannes gives you a nice pen with your name on it. He says he presents a similar one for each of his good colleagues.
“Hi,” Max says, on your doorstep.
“Hi.”
You step aside.
“Are you busy?”
You glance at the half-folded t-shirt in your hand. “Nope.”
He nods. You shut the door behind him. He stands in the center of your living room before holding out the bag. “I brought those stroopwafels you like.”
Your brows rise. “From that café near the canal?”
With a grin, Max says, “I bribed the guy. He’s closed Mondays.”
“You didn’t. Max!”
“I did.” He shrugs, smug and sheepish all at once. “I figured if you’re leaving next week…”
You take the bag gently. “Thanks.”
He looks around, sees the half-packed suitcase near the kitchen counter. “So it’s real, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“Feels fake.”
He doesn’t say much. He never has to. You just fell into him, quietly, slowly, like water finding the cracks. “So,” Max asks, “what happens when you go back?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ll go back to your life. That guy?”
You shake your head quickly. “No. No. That’s done.”
He studies your face. “I think I forgot how it feels. To want someone and not have to perform it. Not for cameras, not for anyone. Just want them.”
You look at him expectantly.
Max says, “you made everything quiet again.”
“Max…” You look at him, look at his eyes. Lando’s were clear and only reflected what you wanted. Max’s are the color of the ocean, more green than blue, resolute in the way he holds himself, knows himself.
“If I kiss you,” he says, “are you gonna pretend it didn’t mean anything?”
“No.”
“Then don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”
You’re already moving. You don’t know who leans in first, just like you don’t know most things with him. It just happens, a breath you’ve been holding in for weeks, maybe longer. His hand cups your face, slow and reverent. He’s asking with his gentleness.
You answer him in how you don’t pull away. In how your hands find the hem of his hoodie.
It deepens. Max exhales into your mouth. “That okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He drops his hand, pulls you in by the waist for a hug. “Good.”
You sit like that for a while. This is, you think, the aftermath of something that’s been building since your first grocery run. You think, this isn’t complicated.
It really isn’t.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It ends the fall of ‘29.
Maybe ‘30, if you want to be specific with these things. Somewhere late in ‘29 is when you fall in love with him. ‘30 is when you start dating “officially,” meaning that the rest of the world finds out. It takes a while. It’s never easy, learning a new pattern, a new language that means love; but with him, it’s never difficult. There’s no question of reassurance. But you don’t feel like categorizing everything meticulously. With Max, you take what comes and he’s always full of surprises, so that’s not a problem.
This is where you’re meant to be. This is something real, something that stays even when the autumn leaves fall, when nights get cold and neither of you want to leave the bed’s comfort. He stays, as do you, through all the seasons, all the moods, all the years.
You gave a part of yourself to Lando, fit it into his heart—saying his name doesn’t hurt; you look back and maybe even smile—and the emptiness no longer bothers you. It’s no longer there.
“Lieverd?” you hear the familiar nickname. Sweetheart, Max calls you, in his own way, in Dutch. Sweetheart, just like how Lando used to. You tell him this and he only laughs.
Same and different, he comments. You mull over his words. Same and different. Same love, different love. You stop thinking about it. Max calls for you again, so you hurry over. Tonight’s dinner is his patat special, your favorite, too.
Max: how do you begin? He is not your life, not all of it; he makes everything that is better. You included.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know any of your thoughts <3 i love hearing them
hi! i haven't been on here in a while. i've gotten some questions about the works i've taken down. i privated nobody's soldier and war of the foxes. i've updated my masterlist to reflect that.
thank you for all the kind asks. sorry, i can't respond to all of them right now, but i appreciate you guys checking in on me. i've just been kind of burnt out recently because i spent a lot of time on my lando/max fic and i felt like that time was wasted.
for the anon who requested the holger rune x leclerc!reader fic, i'm working on it! i won't be doing any other submitted requests for now, sorry.
