pairing -> lando norris x quadrantPRdirector!reader
summary -> You’ve always been a rule follower. When a PR nightmare forces you into a fake relationship with your close friend and colleague, Lando Norris, you protect your heart the only way you know how: with strict rules written down in a notebook.
But lines quickly blur into a messy tangle of feelings neither of you can control. What started as a temporary fix to protect Lando’s public persona suddenly feels entirely too real. Now, you’re left wondering how much you're willing to sacrifice for the boundaries you insisted on. Falling for your best friend is inherently messy, and it scares you to death. How long can you pretend that getting lost in wonderland won't drive you both mad?
warnings -> fake dating. 2 idiots in love who suck at communicating. a wild magui appearance or two. Use of YN (I know, I’m sorry but it couldn’t be avoided!) timeline/race schedule is ambiguous and a bit hand wavey. Just go with it.
msb yaps -> i can't believe this is the last part of this series. i am so attached to this storyline its crazy. i hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i did! as always, thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for keeping me from jumping off a ledge and beta reading. gonna try keeping a tag list for this series, so lmk if you want to be on it. otherwise, you can follow @the-msb-library & turn on notifs there so you don't miss anything! divider from @somebitchprobably-graphicdump <3
chapter word count -> 5.9k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
“So it was all a lie?” Emma gapes at you from over her wine glass, aghast at what you’d just told her.
Swirling the wine around in your own glass, you nod slowly, “It was all fake from beginning to end. Magui wouldn’t leave him alone and I joked about hiring a Swedish model to pretend to be his girlfriend for a while and it just kind of spiraled from there.”
There were plastic containers of salmon rolls and spicy tuna crispy rice scattered on your coffee table, the soy sauce packets pooling in a messy pile in one of the lids next to a bottle of near-empty merlot. It was not long after you’d walked away from Lando and that devastatingly quiet hotel room in Spain. At first, you’d tried to handle the aftermath of what had happened by yourself, not wanting to bring any of your friends into it.
You were still nervous about people finding out it was fake and going to the press. There was one exception to your concerns though: Emma. She’d been in your corner so many times, you had felt guilty telling her the lie from the start.
The moment she’d answered your call earlier that evening, your voice still hoarse from the crying you’d done over the last 24 hours, she’d dropped everything, picked up sushi and wine, and had been at your flat without a second thought.
Now, she was curled up on the opposite end of your sofa, wide eyed as she listened to you spill all of the secrets you’d been keeping since you’d agreed to the disaster of a PR stunt back in Miami.
“So the kiss after his win? All of the very public PDA? The Instagram posts and comments…” Emma lists, incredulous. She was holding her wine glass halfway to her lips like she was too stunned to move. “All if it was fake? To throw Magui off the scent and get her to leave him alone?”
You nod, eyes fluttering shut as your cheeks heat in embarrassment. “None of it was real.”
Emma watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowed as if she’s trying to put together a puzzle that’s got her confused. Tilting her head to the side, she frowns at you, “Okay, so if it was all fake, then what’s the problem?”
“What do you mean?”
Leaning forward, Emma places her empty wine glass onto the coffee table before she turns back to you. There’s a ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You called me crying, babe! You don’t cry, ever! I think I can count on one single hand the amount of times I’ve seen you cry and 3 of them happened when you had to retake that calculus class in uni —”
“That syllabus was too advanced for a calc one class!” You protest.
Emma rolls her eyes and continues, “If it was all fake, why do you look like a five year old who just learned Santa isn’t real?”
Your chest aches, confronted by a question you didn’t want to say out loud. “I’m just exhausted.” You lie. “The constant travel, having to have that perfect, camera ready mask in place at all times, his crash —”
“You’re in love with him.”
Emma wasn’t asking a question.
It was a simple observation made by one of your closest friends, someone who knew you inside out and could read you like a book. You don’t know why you’d bothered hiding the truth from her, pretending that you didn’t have feelings for Lando in front of Emma was never going to work.
Maybe you hadn’t intended on lying to her.
Maybe you had needed someone to call you out because you were too afraid to face the truth yourself.
“Yeah.” You say softly, choking on the single word that feels raw and broken. You set your glass down before you could spill it, your hands are shaking so bad, and pull your knees up to your chest, burying your face against your legs. “Yeah, I am. I am completely, hopelessly in too deep with him, Em. Which is exactly what we didn’t want to happen. This wasn’t supposed to ruin us.”
Emma’s expression softens as she reaches over to stroke her hand over your hair. Before she can reply, you force yourself to sit up straight, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill over. You swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.
“It doesn’t matter though.” You continue quickly, forcing your voice to be calmer than you can possibly feel, that defensive wall sliding back into place in a matter of seconds. “It literally doesn’t matter. Lando never felt the same way. This was just pretend for him, a way to get Magui to back off. None of it was real and I was stupid enough to fall for the pretense of it all.”
Emma stays quiet for a long beat, studying the frantic way you’re trying to rationalize your own heartbreak into something that makes sense. Reaching across the sofa, she gently wraps her hand around your wrist before giving it a little tug to get your attention.
“YN.” She says quietly, waiting until you look at her with watery eyes. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
Austria was, objectively, a disaster. Though, not on track. On track, Lando topped the timing sheets for two of the three practice sessions and ended up P2 behind George when all was said and done. He had a good haul of points that brought him closer to the fight for third with the two Ferrari boys so in all honesty, Lando should have been happy with how the weekend had turned out.
Instead, he was miserable.
Racing in Austria was the first weekend since Miami that you weren’t around and Lando was distressed to find out how unmoored he felt without you in the paddock. He found himself looking for you in the crowd as he got out of the car, caught himself reaching for his phone to text you when an engineering meeting kept him late. By the end of the weekend, he’d spent a stupid amount of time staring at your contact photo in his phone, alternating between talking himself out of calling you and getting angry with how he’d somehow blown whatever it was that had started blooming between you.
After Austria, Lando flew straight back to London to start prepping for Silverstone. He couldn’t focus on much though, what with everything kept reminding him of you. By the middle of the week, Lando was in a miserable mood that everyone around him noticed, especially Max Fewtrell.
It was well past midnight and the relentless, rhythmic clicking of the controller was the only sound Lando had made in the last 45 minutes. In the dim light of Max's living room, he sat on the couch taking out his aggression on whatever unsuspecting opponent tried to virtually kill him.
The glowing light of the TV casts sharp shadows across Lando’s exhausted face as Max slid his gaze over to his best friend. On the screen, his Call of Duty character runs blindly into a sniper’s line of sight for the fourth time in a row, resulting in another immediate, violent death.
“Fucks sake!” Lando snaps, tossing the controller onto the coffee table in front of him with enough force that it goes bouncing across the smooth surface. Sitting back, he aggressively shoves his hands through his curls, his jaw so tight he was starting to get a migraine.
Beside him, Max slowly lowers his own controller before turning his head to gape at his best friend. He’d been putting up with this exact behavior for the last two hours and he was ready to snap.
Lando had arrived at his flat under the pretense of ‘blowing off some steam before the madness of Silverstone started’ but instead, he’d brought a suffocatingly broody cloud of misery into the apartment with him. He was snappy, his reaction time was abysmal and he was being a complete asshole to anyone who joined the game.
“Okay, seriously. You’ve been a miserable bastard since you walked through the door.” Max asks, completely abandoning the game. He shifts on the sofa, crossing his arms as he glares at Lando. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Lando doesn’t look at him, reaching for his water bottle on the coffee table instead. “I’m not a miserable bastard. I’m tired. Between the crash in Spain, then Austria and now with Silverstone coming up, this season is sucking the life out of me.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit. You’ve had worse seasons before and you’ve never acted like this.” Max calls his bluff, knowing that there’s something else lurking underneath the surface with Lando. “Did you and YN have a fight? Because I swear to God if you fuck it up with her so bad that she quits, I am going to sue you for emotional distress.”
Clearly, Max had noticed how you hadn't been around since Spain, choosing to work from home instead of coming into the office. You’d missed Austria too, which was strange since you had told him you had planned on going to all of the European races just a few weeks ago. It wasn’t like you to go MIA for so long.
The mention of your name has Lando’s chest seizing so painfully, he rubs at his sternum with the heel of his hand.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He groans, burying his face in his palms.
He’d been tied together with a flimsy piece of string since Spain and it was all unraveling right in front of his eyes. The weight of the last few weeks were finally catching up to him and being so close to you but not having any reason to see you was short-circuiting his brain.
“It was all fake.”
Max blinks at him, mouth dropping open. “I’m really hoping I misheard you because I swear you just said ‘it was all fake.’”
Lando looks up and for a moment and Max is caught off guard with how utterly wrecked his best friend looks.
“That’s exactly what I said. The entire thing was fake. We…” He pauses, shaking his head, “I came up with the idea in Miami after Magui showed up as a way to get her off of my back. She was trying to get back with me by any means necessary and I didn’t think I had any other choice.”
For several very long, agonizing seconds, Max just stares. Then, he lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“I’m not joking!” Lando snaps, looking at Max with a defensive sort of panic in his eyes that has Max snapping his mouth shut. “We thought that if we convinced Magui that I had moved on that she would leave me alone. YN insisted on rules and then the lines got blurry and…” He shakes his head, not really knowing exactly where it all went off the rails. “I don’t know when it happened but somewhere along the line, I fell for her. Hard.”
Max shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What the hell happened then? If you fell for her, why are you so miserable?”
“Remember that stream before Spain where she was in my lap the whole time?”
Max snorts, “How could I forget? I’m still getting TikTok edits of that bloody stream on my FYP.”
Lando leans back against the sofa, closing his eyes. “Afterwards, I went on and on about how it was going to piss Magui off and how real it was going to make us look.” Max groans. “I was a coward, okay? I didn’t want to admit that I had feelings for her because I didn’t want her to call the whole thing off!”
“That makes no fucking sense, you knob.”
Lando stands, throwing his arms out wide, “I know that!” He shouts. “I know that.” He says, repeating himself quieter the second time as he shoves his hands through his curls again.
Lando starts to pace like a caged animal.
“And then the crash in Spain happened and she completely lost it when I got back from the med center. I realized I didn’t just have feelings for her, I realized that I am completely in love with her.” He swallows the massive lump of regret that sits in his throat. “But she was already packing her bags. She had already booked a flight back to London without telling me. I just…froze. I didn't know how to tell her it wasn't a game to me anymore without looking like a pathetic idiot. So I just let her walk away and now she thinks I was faking it the entire time.”
Max stares at him with a completely dumbfounded expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to pick up the controller and throw it straight at Lando’s forehead. Shaking his head, Max stands so he’s eye level with his best friend.
“You,” Max jabs Lando’s chest with his index finger. “Are an absolute idiot.”
“Thanks, mate. Really helpful.” Lando grits out, crossing his arms over his chest as he struggles to catch his breath.
“Oh, shut up." Max barks. “I’ve watched you two the last few months since Miami. I’ve been on streams with you and in meetings. I saw the way she looked at you after you won Monaco, talked to her after your crash in Spain. She was a total mess, Lando. That reaction? That can’t be faked. The way she looked up at you during that stream? Like you’d hung the stars in the sky? Come on mate, you can’t tell me that she’s not totally head over heels for you too. Are you really that blind?”
Lando stops his pacing, his breath catching in the back of his throat as Max’s words drilled their way through his chest.
“She’s hurting because you made her think it was a game and she realized in Spain that she was in love with you too.” Max shakes his head as he walks towards the door where Lando’s keys sit abandoned on the entryway table. “She ended things because she got scared and thought that you didn’t have feelings for her.”
He tosses the set of car keys straight at Lando’s chest, “And here you are sitting in my flat being a broody asshole while she’s less than 15 minutes away in her apartment thinking she’s alone in this.” Max levels a glare so heated, Lando would’ve been burnt to a crisp had looks could set fire to something.
Lando says nothing. He can’t.
“God, you’re so fucking dense sometimes! Stop pouting and go tell her the truth, you bloody idiot.”
The muffled, rhythmic tapping of rain against your apartment windows was the only sound keeping you company at one in the morning. You’d long forgotten to remind Netflix that you were still “watching” whatever trashy reality tv show you’d turned on hours ago, so it had gone mute some time ago. You were sitting on your living room rug, back braced against the foot of the couch as your laptop hummed on the coffee table.
There were papers spread around you in a chaotic semi-circle of half-organized thoughts and lists, something that only you could understand. You’d spent the last few days after getting back from Spain burying yourself in mountain of work. It was a desperate, pathetic attempt to keep your brain from drifting back to your conversation with Emma earlier in the week.
Are you absolutely sure that Lando didn’t have feelings for you?
It was a question that was too uncomfortable for you to sit with because if you were wrong, if you started to think that maybe there was a chance and there wasn’t? You’d be destroyed all over again. You’d spent the entire time since leaving Lando in that hotel room in Spain building up your walls again, perfecting the professional mask that you’d need when you saw him that weekend. There was no way you’d survive another Spain.
Your eyelids are beginning to droop and you’re contemplating wrapping things up for the night when the jarring, aggressive buzz of your building’s intercom sends your pulse skyrocketing.
You freeze, staring over your shoulder at the offending intercom as it buzzes to life again. It was pouring rain outside and well past midnight. You weren’t expecting a delivery, not at this hour. Emma was with her boyfriend tonight, your parents at their home in the outskirts of London.
Leaving the mess you’d made over the last several hours on the floor, you push yourself up and make your way to the intercom that’s still frantically buzzing.
“Hello?”
“YN. It’s me. Can you let me up?” Lando’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding incredibly raw, slightly out of breath, and entirely unraveled.
Your stomach does a somersault over itself as you stare at the speaker. Without even thinking, you hit the ‘open’ button and within thirty seconds, there’s a heavy, desperate knock echoing against your front door.
The moment the door swings open, the breath leaves your lungs entirely.
Lando was standing in the dim hallway looking like he’d run through the storm that was raging outside. He was soaking wet in an oversized black hoodie and dark sweatpants. His hair was a wild, damp disaster from the rain, curls plastered against his forehead at all sorts of odd angles.
It was his face that made your chest ache though. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, shadowed with a deep sort of exhaustion you’d never seen on him before.
He doesn’t wait for an invitation, doesn’t stay in the hallway waiting for you to find your tongue. Lando steps right across the threshold into your apartment, his presence instantly consuming the small entryway as he brings the scent of rain, the cold air, and his familiar cologne into your space.
Desperately trying to protect the walls you’ve built, you take a few steps back towards your sofa, ignoring the hurt that flashes in his expression when you move away from him.
“Lando, what are you doing here?” You stutter, your hands shaking “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “Everything is wrong! I haven't slept in days. I just lie there, staring at empty spot in my bed that's supposed to be yours, trying to figure out how the hell I managed to ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
For a moment, you’re convinced you’ve fallen asleep and this is a dream. There was no way that Lando was actually in your apartment in the middle of the night saying the things that had just come out of his mouth. Your pulse hammers at your throat as you try to understand what was happening.
“What are you saying, Lando?” You ask, utterly confused.
Lando takes a step towards you and for once, you don’t shy away.
“I’m saying that this…” Lando gestures between your body and his, looking at you with wild eyes. The shadows betraying how truly wrecked he’s feeling. “That us being together hasn’t been fake for a really long time and I’m tired of pretending that what happened between us was just a stupid PR stunt that meant nothing to either of us.”
“But that night in your apartment, after Max’s stream?” Lando’s face crumples but you continue, needing to say what you’ve been ruminating on for weeks now. “You were so excited about how good we were going to look on socials. How much it was going to piss her off and make her realize that you were done with her.”
Lando shakes his head, taking one more tentative step towards you. You stiffen but don’t move away and he takes that as a win. Reaching out, his hands hover for a moment, as if he’s trying to work up the courage to touch you. After a moment, his hands settle on your hips.
He nearly cries when you don’t shy away from him.
“I lied.” He confesses roughly, the rasp in his voice scratching down your spine. “I was afraid if I told you the truth, you’d end it because we’d agreed on no feelings, we agreed that we didn’t want it to get messy. I just…couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you and if a pretend relationship with you was the only way I'd get to keep you, then I was going to do whatever it took to make sure I didn't lose you before it was time.”
“Lando…”
He shakes his head fiercely, one hand coming up to frame your face. “No, please YN. Let me get this out, okay? I’ve been miserable and spinning in circles since I let you walk out that hotel room and I just…I’m not good with words, you know that so can you give me a minute?”
You nod, the words you’d been prepared to say dying in yoir throat.
“I’ve been drowning since you left me in that hotel room. When my car hit the wall on Friday and everything went black, I wasn’t thinking about the team or the race or anything else. I was thinking about you. I was terrified that if I didn’t get out of that car in one piece, I’d never get to see you look at me again. I was scared and beyond pissed at myself that I'd almost broken my promise to come back to you in one piece."
“Lando…” You choke out, tears pricking the corners of your eyes hot and sudden as the gravity of what he’s saying crashes over you. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I have never meant anything more in my entire life, baby.” He murmurs fiercely, his grip tightening on your waist as he pulls you closer, your bodies touching. “No more lies. No more rules. I want all the strings and all the mess, everything that comes with loving you. I am completely and hopelessly in love with you."
The realization that you didn’t have to protect yourself anymore, that the man you loved was standing in front of you in your apartment, his heart bleeding out in front of you, causes your remaining armor to completely shatter.
A soft, broken sob falls from your lips as you grasp at the neck of his hoodie, pulling Lando towards you so your noses are almost touching. You're not entirely sure who closes the final gap but when Lando covers his mouth with yours, you feel it all the way down to your toes.
The kiss is explosive. It's fierce and desperate, a collision of lips and teeth and tongue that had been building since he’d knocked on your door. Its not gentle, nothing about you two was gentle or calm. It’s fueled by the lingering trauma of his crash, the agony of the time you’d spent apart, and the overwhelming, intoxicating relief at finally finding your way back to each other.
Lando lets out a log, jagged groan against your mouth, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your head. His grip on you is so strong, you knew there would be bruises blooming on your skin by the morning. He fists a handful of hair, tugging it so your throat is exposed as he presses his lips down the line of your jaw before sucking at that delicate skin of your neck.
It felt like he was trying to pour every piece of his soul into your chest.
When Lando finally pulls back, just a fraction and only to catch his breath, he rests his forehead heavily against yours while your brain tries to catch up to what just happened. Tracing a thumb down your damp cheeks, his ocean eyes drinking in the way you sigh against him.
“Tell me I’m not the only one. You feel it too, right?” He begs, his voice dropping into that quiet, rumbling tone that he used when you two were sharing a bed. “Please tell me I haven’t completely ruined us.”
You let out a wet, breathless laugh as your hands slide down over his shoulders to grip at the fabric of his hoodie, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing left in the universe.
"I lost my mind when you went into that wall.” Lando shudders, pulling you closer. “I was so panicked when Will couldn’t get you to respond to him. My first thought was ‘Oh my God, I can’t live without him’ and then I remembered our final rule and I knew I needed to end it, to protect myself.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lando asks roughly.
You shake your head, “I didn’t want to take the risk if it meant knowing you didn’t feel the same way. It would have ruined me.”
Lando draws in a deep, shaky breath. “You think I didn’t feel the same way? With the way I kissed you when I won Monaco? The way I drug you into the dark corner of that palace ballroom? You think I wasn’t completely head over heels for you with the way you folded into me at night and how it felt like the most natural thing in the whole world to wake up with you in my arms?”
The heavy, frantic tension that had dictated every movement since he burst back into your life finally breaks, melting into something deep and entirely soul consuming. Lando reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers with yours as he tugs you towards your sofa. He pulls you down onto his lap, his arms slipping around your middle as he brings you impossibly closer, like he can’t stand if there’s an inch of space between you. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of his cologne that mixes with the damp scent of outside.
“God, you have no idea.” Lando murmurs, his voice exhausted and gravelly. “Every time I had to get into the sim this week, every time Will or Jon tried to talk to me…all I could see was you walking away from me in that hotel. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t sleep. Zak asked me twice if I needed another med check for a concussion or something worse. I almost told him I just needed my fake girlfriend to stop treating me like a stranger and I’d be good.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you bump your nose with his. The last remnants of the heavy knot that had been tied up in your chest since Spain finally comes completely untied. Sliding your hands up his chest before interlocking your fingers behind his neck, you pull him closer to you.
“You were the one who kept talking about optics, Lan.” You remind him softly, though there’s no heat in the accusation. “You made it pretty clear after that stream that you were thrilled to slap Magui in the face with how successful our fake relationship looked from the outside.”
Lando’s expression turns panicked in a flash. “I was terrified, YN.” He admits, the confession raw and honest. His fingers dig into your hips as if he was afraid you were going to slip away again. “I was so afraid that if you got even the slightest inkling that I was falling for you, you’d end the entire thing. I couldn’t stomach the thought of not having you around anymore, of not being able to kiss you whenever I wanted and I panicked.”
He ducks his head, dropping a quick kiss on your temple, his pupils blown wide. “I didn’t care about Magui or what she thought we were doing. I just wanted an excuse to hold you in front of thousands of people and not have to explain why I couldn’t keep my hands off of you.”
The honesty of his confession strips away the very last dregs of your doubts. You look up at him, this chaotic, brilliant, boyish driver who had completely upended your orderly, professional life, and finally realize that you were entirely past the point of no return.
“Well,” You whisper, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, “Maybe next time you should let me be in charge of deciding how we’re going to approach the PR strategy, yeah?”
Lando huffs a quiet laugh, mouthing at the soft, warm spot behind your ear that smells like your perfume.
“That’s one rule I can follow.” He pulls back, looking at you seriously now. “But the others? All of those stupid fucking rules are getting tossed out the window, got it?”
You close your eyes, nuzzling deeper into his chest as Lando pulls you deeper into his chest. For a moment, you listen to the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear before you tilt your head back just a touch so you can look at him, “Got it.”
lando posted!
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liked by its_yn, emma_fairchild, max_fewtrell and others
lando for keeps this time🧡 (tagged: its_yn)
emma_fairchild can i like this one million times??? be nice to my wife, @/lando or else i'll come for you
>>>its_yn you'd better listen to her babe, emma is scary
>>>lando no plans on letting you go anywhere, pretty girl
max_fewtrell thank GOD
its_yn xox
>>>lando love you, bunny 🐰❤️
>>>its_yn omg
user002 THE SHADE AT MAGUI I AM LIVING FOR IT
>>>user21 omg i can't
>>>user556 this is the best day EVER
user12 M is never going to show her face around the f1 paddock ever again
>>>user216 and thank god for that
user005 fave couple everrrr
August, 2026
The rhythmic crashing of ocean waves swelling against the shore made you feel like you were a light years away from the chaos of your real lives.
You and Lando were spending summer break in Bali where the afternoon heat was thick and golden as it slipped by slow as summertime honey . The sun was in the middle of its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the tropical sky in bruised shades of peach and violet and for the first time in what felt like forever, you and Lando had nothing to do but be present.
You stir slowly, your face pressed against the soft, sun-warmed skin of Lando’s bare chest. A warm breeze swept across the private beach, rustling the palm fronds overhead as it cooled the light sheen of sweat on your body, sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin.
You blink your eyes open slowly, taking a slow, deep breath. For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of the ocean accompanied with Lando’s even breathing beneath you and for once, you’re not immediately reaching for your phone to check for any urgent emails or PR emergencies. Gone is that deep-seated anxiety and drive to check to make sure nothing was metaphorically on fire. You're pleasantly surprised that the feeling has been replaced with an overwhelming, heavy sense of peace.
You were entirely tangled up in Lando, who was still fast asleep next to and beneath you all at once. One of his legs was hooked over your waist, keeping you securely pinned against him in the woven hammock. He was wearing nothing but a pair of swim shorts, his skin bronzed from a week in the tropical sun. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm that gave away how completely relaxed he was in a way you rarely saw during the season.
One of his arms was looped tightly around your waist, his hand resting flat against your hip, fingers tucked beneath the fabric of your bikini bottoms. His other hand was loosely tangled in your hair, fingers resting against your scalp like he was afraid to let you go even in his sleep.
Waking up from a post-swim nap in his arms had become your absolute favorite routine of summer break. One that you were going to sorely missed once you both had to go back to the real world.
A soft smiled pulls at your lips as you shift just an inch, reaching to trace a gentle line down the center of his chest with one finger.
It was entirely surreal to think back to that stormy night in London a few months ago. It felt like it had been a lifetime since you had spent your life hiding behind rigid rules, terrified of loving the man you found yourself tangled up in now, the very thing that now felt as natural as breathing.
The small movement had Lando’s grip on your hip tightening. He lets out a soft, low rumble in the back of his throat as his eyelids flutter open to reveal those brilliant, ocean-colored eyes you adore, a sleepy and content expression finding its way across his face as he fully wakes.
“Hi.” He whispers, his voice thick and deep from sleep, the rough rasp of it scratching pleasantly against your skin. He doesn’t even blink against the bright evening light, just immediately ducks his head to press a kiss, warm and lazy, to your temple. “You’re awake.”
“Not for long.” You murmur, resting your chin on his chest so you could look up at him with wide eyes. “You were dead to the world. I think you were snoring a bit, actually.”
“Liars get left on the beach.” He teases, huffing a quiet laugh as he gently fists a handful of your hair to tug your head back just enough so he could look into your eyes. The playful moment melts away in a fraction of a second, quickly replaced by Lando looking at you with an expression so intensely soft and steady it made your heart flutter. "How long do we have until we have to go back to reality?”
“Another full week.” You remind him, grin splitting your face as he brushes his lips against your forehead. “No emails. No engineering meetings. Just us.”
Lando lets out a heavy sigh of relief, his shoulders sinking deeper into the hammock as he pulls you up his body until your lips were just inches away form his. Reaching up with his thumb, he gently traces the line of your lower lips before you take the finger between your lips, biting down softly with a heated expression that has his hips rolling against you.
“Good.” He says, pupils blown wide as he drinks in the sight of your sun-flushed face. “Because I don’t ever want to take this for granted. I know how terrified you were a few months ago. I didn’t make things easy for us at the start.” He pauses, fingers smoothing over your cheekbone as he looks at you with a softer expression, something that looks a lot like deep, all consuming devotion. “Thank you. For taking a chance on us. For not running when I acted like a fucking fool and almost put an end to us before we really got started.”
Your heart melts completely, a soft, sincere smile tugging at your lips as you lean into his palm. “Best risk I’ve ever taken.”
“I love you.” Lando murmurs, the words tumbling form his chest with such absolute certainty, your chest aches "So much it’s insane. I am entirely hopeless without you.”
“I love you too, baby.” You reply, lacing your fingers behind his neck so you can pull him down that final inch.
Lando smiles against your mouth as he captures your it in a slow, lingering kiss that sets your skin on fire. It tastes like salt and sunshine, a steady sort of confidence that you’d never experienced before. He holds you impossibly close as the waves crash on the shore nearby, the golden tropical sun setting on the horizon, leaving you both exactly where you were always meant to be: together.
its_yn posted!
1,398,218 likes
liked by lando, emma_fairchild, mclaren and others
its_yn out of office 🧡
lando we're never leaving. someone send an email to @/zakbrownCEO that i quit
>>>zakbrownCEO absolutely not, i expect you back at the MTC on time
>>>lando you're no fun boss
user94 what a dreamy life
>>>user441 seriously. so envious
a fic where oscar is a beekeeper and gets a call out to someone's home with an intense swarm and when he gets there for the removal the bees are like... different and nothing he's ever seen before.
so he completes his job and gets in touch with an entomologist and once he hangs up the phone, oscar realises he may just sound like a fool for being super excited about possibly finding a new species of bee in this day and age. but the entomologist sounds just as excited and tells him to come in with his findings asap
so he meets lando, the entomologist, and oh fuck he's hot. and oscar spirals all over again hoping that he really doesn't look like a fool right now but lando just welcomes him with a happy smile that immediately relieves oscar of any worry about being a bother.
so they get to business in their discovery but not without mundane work chats, insufferable insect jokes and unintentional flirting and—
oh, lando says suddenly with the most gorgeous wide eyes that sparkle with something so incredibly invigorating. it is a new specimen he's never come across before.
and everything just got a whole lot more exciting.
so lando tells him he'll stay in touch with oscar on what's to come next, because they may have just written a new part of history together on this random tuesday afternoon. they do stay in touch and at first it's quick updates regarding the start of extended research in very professional emails.
but one day lando asks oscar for his phone number and then calls him—saying the chance that this is a whole new species is looking quite likely. and with that they decide that texting each other is much better than waiting 2 business days for replies via email. and with that, of course it leads into conversations that are nothing about the bee research at all.
eventually the news comes that yes, they've discovered a whole new species. and holy fuck that's... awful? because it's over.
and oscar realises waking up to a new text message from lando each day about the research, or about his breakfast, or about this cute ass dog that he saw on his run that morning is something he's not ready to let go of simply because the main reason they met and talk is... done.
so he sits on that reality for a bit only because he is scared to make a move. because he doesn't want to look like the fool who got feelings for some guy who was just doing his job and only stayed in touch to be friendly.
lando gives oscar the honour of naming the species anything he wants. oscar hands lando the honour back, hoping that that might mean more than it seems. but it doesn't. because telling an entomologist that he has a choice of naming a species he spent a god forsaken time researching does not equal making a move in anyone's books.
then the official research and documentation is released.
piastrii — lando named the new species after oscar.
it doesn't go unnoticed. but it's painfully dumb that it takes oscar a very long time to realise that lando did that because he has feelings for oscar.
it takes them a hot minute to reconnect again after the research discovery. but it happens. and feelings are confessed and love blooms alongside spring flowers that the bees love to drown themselves in.
and in the future, lando loves to remind oscar that he was never a fool for being excited about his discovery that brought them together but he was definitely a fool for not realising lando had feelings for him all along.
hehe sorry also idk how insect research works bc im just a shit talker
FALL IN LOVE WITH OUR EYES CLOSED ✶ lando norris !
in which they make their relationship public, becoming F1's newest talking point for the months that follow
﹙ 🌊 ﹚ 𝒻em ! oc ✴ boyfriend ! lando ◟ 🫒 smau & written (2.6k) ◜ᴗ◝ radio. 1-2-3 mic testing. here she isssss. i think this is so unnecessarily long because i kept adding 2-3 posts that were never in the original plotmap. but yeah, my hands just ran away with it hehe. kinda requested but also not really ／ 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘.
🗓 23 April 2022
liked by wagsf1 and 79.1K others
ln4_clues Did ﹫landonorris just show up with his GIRLFRIEND 👀
view comments ...
user somewhere in the world multiple women just fell to their knees
user just women? 😭🌈
user nooooo another hottie off the market 💔💔
user LITTLE LANDO NORRIS IS IN LOVE!!!!
user 🤭 i have literally never seen him cheesin this hard
user he is just a smitten kitten fr 💞
user you can feel the honeymoon phase vibes from a mile away ✨️ good for them honestly
user she looks so basic. not at all what i expected his type to be
user baby's first official(?) public relationship alert!!
user came in, hard launched out of the blue, casually bagged P3 and left. THATS MY 🐐
user UNREALLL
user what a day to be a carlando fan 😢 should i mourn or celebrate
user isnt that the girl who was dating King Eric's son? Marcel, i think
user no wonder she looked familiar!! she used to be at some of his games. heard they split shortly after lockdown
user another messy woman clinging onto the next wealthy man... whats new
user smells an awful lot like MISOGYNY bro 🐷🐷🐷
🗓 24 April 2022
liked by paddock.tales and 42.6K others
f1gossipofficial Meet the newest addition to Lando Norris' support system. Evelyn, a French-British architect based in Paris, is the F1 heartthrob's latest beau — and clearly serious enough to go public at the Emilia Romagna GP today!
view comments ...
user another nepo baby yayyy 🫡
user if somebody looked at me like that, i would simply melt. stay strong evelyn
user just checked her account and SHE IS A FREAKIN BARTLETT ALUMNI ☠️☠️☠️
user why put yourself through that hellhole willingly my gawwddd
user yep shes def on anti-depressants lolol
user joking about someone's mental health is not funny btw
user oh fuck off ! stop being such a wuss
user she is freaking gorgeous... HOW did bob pull her⁉️
user one thing me and lando have in common: we are both suckers for big blue eyes ✋️😩
user the devil works hard but fandom detectives work harder
user legend has it: Lando has not stopped smiling since they started dating
user neither would i if i were him 🤡
user surely SURELY he can't fight all of us???
user FINALLY A WAG WITH SOME PERSONALITY 🤩🤩
user she sings, she surfs, she snowboards, shes an architect at one of the biggest global firms, graduated from the top school for her field & won two national awards 🫦💖 ma'am that is a real life barbie
🗓 28 April 2022
♥︎ by maxfewtrell, flo_norris_showjumping and others
landonorris replied to your story
landonorris Are you still mad?
⤷ evelynderieux i flew all the way over from LA just for you to say wakeboarding is better
⤷ evelynderieux what do you think genius
landonorris No, I said its better than falling on my face every time I get on a surfboard
⤷ evelynderieux tomato to-mah-to 🍅👎🍅👎
landonorris God you can be annoying 💙
⤷ evelynderieux pot, meet kettle 🧡
⤷ evelynderieux now get me another slice WITHOUT PINAPPLE or you sleeping in the lobby 2n8
landonorris 🫡🫡🫡
liked by celebculture and 31K others
wagsf1 Lando talks about his girlfriend in the Vanity Fair article!
view comments ...
user its giving orange cat gf × golden retriever bf 🥺💗
user this is taking me back to nicole scherzinger days and i am actually unwell !!!!
user hell yeah bring back WAGs who actually give a shit
user never thought Lando fucking Norris would be so loverboy-coded but here we are (ADORE THIS & THEM OMGGGG ^3^)
user the fact that Evelyn probably used to watch Schumi two decades ago and Ferrari still haven't won a WDC since
user man i HATE this fuckass team
user THAT SHOULD BE ME holding your hand 🎶💔
user alright Mr Possessive with that hand on her thighs 🙈
user wait... is she in Miami? dang here i thought this one would be different
user why are you this pressed over how strangers live their life 🤷🏻♂️
user no Karen, i care about what sort of people are being lauded as role models by young girls. you think being a trophy wife and following a man around the globe should be life goals??
user SHE. HAS. A. FULL-TIME. JOB. and we've only known they are tgt for 2 weeks. give it a rest 👋
user that first pic oof 🔥🔥 feel like we should nawt be seeing all this so casually 🤭
🗓 3 May 2022
♫ Megan Moroney • Sorry... I Meant Tonight
liked by landonorris , carlossainz55 and 703K others
evelynderieux onto the 23rd chapter 🌟🎀
view comments ...
charlottesiine ✪ plus âgée, plus chaude, peut-être plus sage? ♥︎ by author
evelynderieux ✪ seulement un peu :P
user shes friends with Cha? 👀 so her and Lando have been dating for a while huh
user also i never realized how many drivers have been following her since winter break!
user hi how are you so beautiful 💎
vivilavie miami is officially the best place for birthdays 🌺 ♥︎ by author
leon.derieux joyeux anniversaire sœurette. where was my invite ? ♥︎ by author
evelynderieux ✪ the dog ate it 🐶
user GIRLLLL 😭😭 she is PERFECT for lando
user bestie pls tell me you were at the race & ur just microscopic
user looking at her account, you would think she is a model
user Norris is 100% punching above his weight
user her older(?) sister ﹫laurendr.xoxo is a model so it makes sense
user HOW & WHY do you know that ??? ya'll are lowk creepy with celebs 💀
isahernaez ✪ happy birthday bebe 🎂💕 ♥︎ by author
evelynderieux ✪ joooo gracias bella 💗
user real job to influencer speedrun in 3...2...1...
user I RECOGNIZE THAT SWAROVSKI BRACELET IN THE 8TH SLIDE 😙🧡 Fewtrell is never getting it back lmao
user she was in Miami but not at the GP. no Lando in the comments either. is there trouble in paradise already??
user happiest belated birthday to my new fave icon ❣️
user icon just because she is dating a rich guy? the bar is in hell 👍
🗓 25 May 2022
In all the millions of years that humans have spent causing chaos on this planet, not one single person ever figured out the secret to perfect dating. It's not a one-size-fits-all retail trap but it sure as hell cannot be whatever ‘live laugh love and follow your heart’ crap sappy chick-flicks drag on about.
If anything, Evelyn would compare dating to the terrifying act of learning how to ride a bike. A trust thing, mostly — on the person holding onto you before you gain momentum, and then on the two wheels peddling you forwards.
Sometimes you will fall into a ditch or two but, God, the gentle breeze in your hair as you let go from a slope is worth every bruise.
Kind of... Not really.
She is having a hard time being grateful to the cuts and scrapes lining her bare legs as she makes it down the escalator towards a busy luggage claim at Nice airport. In hindsight, Vivienne did warn her about the wonky seat. But Evelyn — to nobody's surprise — was being too stubborn to face the morning rush on the way to Charles de Gaulle.
Except, blaming it entirely on one loose screw would be unfair.
She was too busy gaping at the text lighting up her Apple watch: ‘Mum and dad are here :)) Think theyr more excited to see you than me’, to have noticed the flock of pigeons and a whole bus hidden behind them.
She's lucky she ended up flat on the sidewalk instead of becoming a human crêpe on the asphalt. That luck runs out the moment she spots a familiar Monster snapback amidst the crowd. He is standing beside the carousel, probably dissociating.
Evelyn takes a deep breath, braces herself with a tight smile before walking straight up to the man rooted to his spot, fidgeting all the while. She's never been the type to second guess her actions, especially not with Lando, which means each one of her microexpressions let him read her like an open book.
“Coucou, cher.”
Lando looks up from his phone, grinning in the certain way his lips make a full heart. And it's so comically stupid how badly she wants to kiss him senseless in the middle of Domestic Arrivals.
“Hi” he chirps, already reaching for the backpack on her shoulder before his face drops. “I—Wha—You're bleeding!”
She silences him with a quick peck, their noses brushing together as she lifts the rim of his hat just enough to see his eyes. Her new favourite sea to drown in.
“Eh, just a little scratch. I'm fine.”
“You're fine?” He deadpans. “Then I must be hallucinating the three inch hole in your knee.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Evelyn trails off. They both glance down at the red tint of antiseptic clinging to the wound. “Looks worse than it actually is. Doesn't even hurt anymore.”
“And you couldn't get it bandaged earlier?” Lando asks, in mild disbelief. “Is first aid a foreign concept here or something?”
She cracks a grin. “Careful. Your citizenship is still a work in progress. Bad time to offend the French right now.”
“Bullshit. Monegasque people can't stand you guys. If anything, I am earning more brownie points.”
“Oh, is that so?" Evelyn crosses her arms. "Been chatting up all the locals, have you?”
“What can I say, I'm quite popular with the ladies,” Lando gloats, giving himself away with a chuckle.
There is a different air about him — away from the cameras and complicated machinery. Looking misplaced at first glance, but for once his shoulders aren't jumping to his ears instinctively and he's proudly wearing the brightest pair of sneakers he owns. It's good, it's perfect.
Evelyn juts out her chin, "You still haven gotten rid of those?"
Lando gasps. "Wow, rude. They are custom made."
"And they hog too much closet space. What's your point?"
Suddenly, Lando brings their interlaced fingers up to his lips. The sort of thing that once made her recoil now makes her two shades redder. “Let's go find your bag. I left the A.C. running inside the car but it's a joke in this weather. Haven't spotted a cloud since we landed. My folks are barely coping.”
And there it is, the elephant in the room— er, car.
To any sane person, meeting your partner's parents is obviously a huge step. But also a practical consequence when you're sure about spending the near future in each other's company. And Evelyn feels that way all the time.
In the goodnight texts waiting for her because Lando is asleep when she wakes up in some different timezone, the flowers showing up to her doorsteps every other week or the way he's been nothing but polite in every introduction to her friends ending with virtual strangers fawning over his job.
Because it makes her happy. And a few months back, over FaceTime from his Woking flat, nearly drowned out by the rain outside his balcony, Lando had confessed that he loves making her happy.
So Evelyn learned to hate herself just a little more each time he brought up the topic of meeting his parents. Hating the way her skin pricked and her heckles raised automatically. Hating how his brows pinched yet he simply nodded, accepting her apprehension and never pushing further. Apparently Lando is incapable of being anything but considerate when it concerns her.
But this time it was inevitable.
It all started when Lando announced he was planning on moving to Monaco. That wasn't completely out of the blue. With his spot secured in the grid at least till his contract expires, the tax benefits were starting to look more appealing. And half the paddock resides in the riviera anyway, so he wouldn't be out of his element.
The real kicker was when he mentioned that his parents were flying down to see his now fully furnished flat the same week Evelyn took off work to spend with Lando. Fleeting calls and a groupchat dryer than the Sahara later, all that separate her and the people who raised this endearing menace is a singular parking lot. Oh, joy.
Lando notices immediately when her steps falter. He sneaks a glance towards her, knocking on her head lightly. “Anyone home?”
She closes her eyes for a second, forcing herself to calm down. “I just–” she thinks of any way to put the ball of anxiety coiling inside her gut into cohesive sentences but ultimately deflates pathetically. “What if they don't like me?”
His eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “What is there not to like? You're lovely and smoking hot. That's an automatic win in my books.”
Evelyn levels him with a glare and his joking subsides at the flicker of genuine distress in her gaze. “You muppet, why the hell would they not like you? You are amazing at everything. At least way better at being a functioning adult than I am.”
Yeah, amazingly bad. What responsible adult falls off their bike because of a few pigeons?! If looks could kill, those moronic birds would be sheesh kebabs by now.
Lando's arms come round her shoulder, drawing her into his side. He smells like fresh laundry and an intangible mix of expensive cologne. “You going to tell me what's going inside that pretty little head or should I start mind reading? Professor X style.”
Evelyn snorts. “What a colorful CV you've got there.”
“Oh yeah, talk dirty to me,” he winks, before committing to staring at her persistently. Eventually, she rolls her eyes. Still dragging her feet as they make it out of the terminal at snail's pace, she chews on her bottom lip.
“I'm nervous,” she admits. The words come out smaller than she intended, stripped of all forced bravado. "Have been nervous all day. Maybe since you told me your parents were coming. I'm more nervous than the day I met freaking Bjarke, which is just–" She makes a vague, frustrated gesture. "A lot of nerves."
Lando's lips twitch. "I noticed.”
Evelyn continues, “And it's stupid because your parents are the nicest people in this continent.” He squints playfully and she stresses, “No, seriously! They bake holiday-themed cookies and organize Secret Santas for a whole neighborhood. Next if you tell me they rescue stray cats in their downtime, reckon I'd believe you.”
“And look at me,” she pointed towards herself, voice taking on a deprecating edge. “The one day that should have gone smoothly started off with me falling on my arse in the middle of traffic. That's not functioning, that is being a walking disaster. I don't even fucking know how to talk to people without imagining all the ways they can mug me off somehow. Your parents will take one look at me and decide you can do so much better.”
He lets her ramble until she is done spilling all her scattered thoughts, the cogs inside her brain whirring fast enough to catch up with her mouth or catch on fire.
Because all this is uncharted territory. Because the last time she had a long-term relationship, they were both busy trying to figure out how much audacity crosses the line to even think about meeting each other's family.
Then, Lando slowly maneuvers her so Evelyn is fully facing him, thumb soothing over the inside of her palm, slightly ticklish.
“My parents,” he begins, heaving a dramatic sigh, “are incredible people. That's the catch though, innit, they are still people. Yeah, they do help others all the time, because they can afford to. But they also make mistakes. Did I tell you about the time my mum managed to burn Christmas dinner because she was dead set on using the new grill indoors, but too stubborn to ask for help?”
“In the middle of winter?” Evelyn blinks owlishly. “She is ambitious, you've got to admit.”
Lando shakes his head, grinning. “Dad had already promised Boxing Day lunch for the whole village. Nobody had any meat in their sandwiches that year, thanks to us.”
She tries to bite back a smile, unsuccessfully. “A one-off surely.”
“My point is,” he says, ignoring her pointedly, “you are losing your head over nothing.” Lando reaches out to flick a loose strand of hair away from her forehead, ducking down quickly to press a kiss there. “They are lovely and normal. Most of the time. Probably have a whole list prepared of embarrassing stories of me that'll make you run for the hills. And they are just as jittery to meet you.”
Evelyn makes a noise of protest, pulling away to tug him towards the airport pharmacy. “Not true.”
“Is too,” Lando counters. “I don't even have to start anymore, they ask for you all the time. ‘How is Evelyn doing?’ ‘How are Evelyn's exams going? You better not be bothering her during finals’ ‘When are you bringing Evelyn home?’”
She feels her cheeks burn. “What the hell have you been telling them?”
“Revealing all your dirty secrets,” he replies without missing a beat, tilting his head in that oddly puppy-ish way, a knowing glint in his ever-changing eyes. “You have nothing to worry about. They already love you, because I do. One terrible day is not going to make them hate you.”
Evelyn stares at him for a long moment, slamming back into the version of herself standing in the middle of a public space, brushing shoulders with strangers whilst getting a pep talk by her boyfriend about meeting his parents. She may be a paranoid mess on her best days but that makes Lando an enabler.
“That's so unfair,” she mumbles, looking anywhere but his face. “Using the L word out of nowhere.”
“Ha. Get used to it.”
Fuck stupid hot British boys, with pointy ears sticking out under their hats and their gorgeous eyes.
She kisses her teeth, rolling her shoulders. “Okay.”
Lando fishes into one of the pockets of his joggers, recovering a half melted Wispa Gold bar, offering it to her like he would to a wild animal. “Okay?”
Evelyn practically beams, snatching up the chocolate and tearing into it immediately, happy to be led towards private parking.
Turns out, she is also great at creating a storm inside a teacup. The second they reach the car, Lando's mum is waving enthusiastically through the backseat window of the Urus. His dad hops out to open the boot, his smile familiar because she's seen it so many times on her boyfriend.
“Evelyn! It is so nice to finally see you in person. The pictures don't do you justice,” Cisca Wauman gushes, opening the door to offer her a seat when she sees Evelyn hovering awkwardly off to the side. “Not that they are bad, oh no, but you get what I mean.”
Lando looks up from where he is helping his dad sort her bags into the boot and nods encouragingly.
Evelyn finds herself in a warm hug as soon as her back touches the soft leather. “Thank you, Mrs. Wauman. You look lovely yourself,” she chuckles, unable to help herself. Honestly, it might just be another nervous tick.
“Now you've done it,” Lando's dad says as they settle into the front, exchanging a glance with his wife.
For a second she thinks she said something wrong—but Lando had definitely said his mum still carries her maiden name!
Thankfully, the woman herself cuts through her hesitation with a bright grin, “Just call me Cisca, love. Mrs. Wauman is my mother.”
“Mum, still too early for dad jokes,” Lando groans from the driver's seat, carefully making his way out of the airport he's only just learned to navigate.
Mrs. Wauman—Cisca—scoffs. “Oh, you little hellchild. First you don't call for days and then it's ‘too early for dad jokes’, is it? Reckon you'll have to just deal with it.”
“See, this is exactly why I don't call often. Always making a big deal out of everything.”
“Where do you think you get your flair for dramatics from?”
Evelyn looks back and forth between them, brows shooting up in amusement. Adam turns to her slightly, faux whispering, “This is completely normal for us, by the way. I suggest wax earplugs, they work wonders.”
She properly cracks up over that.
Chatter flows easily from then onwards. About the scorching Mediterranean summer, Adam's rigid opinions about the British cricket team, Cisca's newest crocheting fixation, and the best local spots for lunch. Not once do they exclude Evelyn, sharing tidbits eagerly and listening to her just as intently.
Lando was right, Evelyn comes out of the small drive to this Italian place at the outskirts of Monaco with so many childhood stories.
But it's also the little things she finds interesting.
The way Adam talks with his hands, just like Lando. Or how Cisca physically cannot hide a smile when she remembers something interesting to tell, just like her son. And Evelyn feels honored to know this version of the man she adores, the version that exists in the eyes of people who have cherished him all his life.
It's not until they have found a table and placed their order that Lando taps her on the shoulder. “We should wrap up that gash before it gets infected.”
Evelyn winces, only just remembering the dull ache and drying blood on her knees. “I'll just go to the bathroom. Some people can get squeamish, and I'd rather not do first-aid in front of their salad. Where did you keep the stuff?”
Cisca is moving to stand up as she plucks up the brown paper bag filled with a roll of bandage, gauze and antiseptic cream. “Come on, I will help.” Before Evelyn can protest, she adds, “Two pairs of hands means we'll be done before all the food is gone. Trust me, these lads eat like pigs.”
Adam frowns. “That is defamation, that.”
“Think you'd be used to it after thirty years,” Lando eggs him on, earning a clap on his shoulder that he brushes away with laughter.
Evelyn's eyes flick towards him and Lando straightens up, shrugging. She tuts, letting go of the last traces of apprehension to link arms with Cisca. “In that case, we better sprint.”
Sometimes, things are just that simple.
🗓 18 July 2022
liked by f1waggossip and 65K others
norrieux.updates Lando was recently in Paris with Evelyn, as seen through ﹫ethan_smz's posts 🎮
[The video captures a studio apartment with a couch full of people yelling over each other, arguing over what characters to pick for a Mario Party. A voice, easily recognizable as Lando — who is the one recording — shouts, "I'm taking KoopaTroopa! Just pick the 150cc, mate, and crack on with it." Someone else, Evelyn presumably, protests instantly, "Hell no! I suck at this. Do not go too fast, or I won't play!"]
view comments ...
user they way he folded in 1 millisecond ughhh 👉🏻👈🏻💝
user they have fanpages now?? 🥸
user people be clinging onto anything just to feel like they're a part of these drivers' lives 🤷🏻♂️
user it was actually a 1 year sobriety party for her friend!
user wait so did she take lando to meet her friends?🤍
user idk. i saw someone say that this guy has known them since their school days
user lando and his unwavering loyalty to a turtle 🐢🏁 some might say it is poetic even
user FINALLY WE GET SOME EVELAN? NORRIEUX? CRUMBSSSS
user i forgot they were together for a hot second
user REAL :') there has been nothing on their socials to suggest otherwise
user i am always taken aback by the fact that hes still a college aged kid lololol. hope they had fun
user lando's comment might seem joking but the way hes subtly wishing another clean year for ethan is so 🥹🥹🥹 THATS MY DRIVER!!!
🗓 23 July 2022
liked by norrieux.updates and 48K others
ha1oteacups Transcript from Post-Qualifying Interviews with the starting grid of #FrenchGP2022
Lando: Of course. I wouldn't say I enjoy spanking people, but um...
🎙: Is your girlfriend aware? Big drama waiting for you if not, hey.
Lando: Yeah [laughs, taken aback, voice rising a couple octaves] Yeah– she knew what she was getting into [looks towards the camera, biting his lip]
🎙: Oh. Should've covered my ears, oh dear. But tell me, what's the plan now? Going to overtake a Mercedes, maybe a couple Red Bulls, try for a podium?
Lando: Laying it on thick. Nah, that's just delusional. We are nowhere near the top guys right now.
🎙: Where is the fire, the fight? You should say 'I'm going to win tomorrow!' Show off a little!
Lando: [grins, shaking his head] Good thing there's nobody here that I want to show off for!
view comments ...
user no Evelyn for her own home GP? 💔
user to be fair, she wasn’t there at silvo either
user Lando comes off as so full of himself but he looks SEXYYY doing it 🥀🥀
user honestly gotta give it to them for not treating a relationship as a brand. they are not blasting every personal milestone on the internet and its refreshing
user if i was a WAG ,, you best bet on you grandmas grey hairs that i would drop everything to follow my man to every race
user spanking??? she knew what she was getting into??? SIR??????
user oh they are FREAKY 😼😼
user wanna be a fly on the wall of whatever room they are in
user THAT SLUTTY LIP BITE JESUS CHRIST 🫦💥💦
user what does Evelyn have that i don't. shes just another basic bitch
user did bambi teach you nothing?? if you have nothing nice to say, don't fucking say it
user smh girl hes not gonna pick you 😂
🗓 7 August 2022
🗓 20 August 2022
liked by f1gossipofficial and 66K others
wagnationunited This was definitely meant for the Close Friends story. We feel a hard launch coming sooonnn 💋
view comments ...
user foaming at the mouth currently over "late night softy. 10/10 would recommend" !!!!
user boy ain't nobody care about that fucking icecream!!
user BEGGING his PR manager to free him from the shackles plsplspls
user Lando no middle name Norris, you want to post your girl on main so bad 😶🌫️🔮
user whoever thought evelyn would be the one giggling kicking her feet and vagueposting romantic stories PACK IT UPPPP
user he's a lover boy confirmed ❤️❤️ what a cutieeee ♥︎ by evelynderieux
user HELP— DID *THE* EVELYN DERIEUX JUST LIKE MY SILLY COMMENT??????? girl i adore you 🙏
user they don't know it yet but they are my parents ⭐️💌
user Reddit was having a meltdown discussing if she moved in with him. tho tbh i don't see it. but we are SO CLOSE to a full face reveal ❕️❕️
user i need to know exactly what Ev said in her prayers to get a millionaire Formula 1 racer who can barely contain himself from shouting on the internet how badly hes whipped
user this >>>>
user easy! first make sure you are born to one of the victorian society heirs (her maternal great grandma is an actual countess😵💫) and one of the biggest chef/restaurateurs of this century. then go to the same elite boarding school as your future lover and have a whole 'red string of fate' romance arc
user my jaw is on the fucking floor WTAF😭😭💗
user the tension between me and that highway is looking mighty delicious 🚶♀️
user i am not the type to fawn over celebrity relationships, but dear god, i hope they are infinite🧿🧿🧿
🗓 1 September 2022
liked by mclaren and 121K others
norris4eve_r Evelyn Derieux is at the Belgian Grand Prix with Lando's older brother & his family. We got some wholesome interactions of #evelan with little Mila (Lando's neice) from Oliver's Instagram ! 🍫👒
user STOP IM GONNA BE SICK they are adorable 🤧
user oh so it is SERIOUS serious eh?
user can we officially name her the first lady of LN4 nation already thank yewwww
user girl it's *been* official since may. just watch the way they look at each other 🥰
user AUNTIE EV REPORTING FOR DUTY 📢📢💞💞
user dang evelyn REALLY likes those sunnies. we are going 2/2 right now
user as a fellow blue-eyed AND glasses wearing girlie, i get her on a spiritual level
user wait– she has prescription glasses?? could she get any more endearing 🛐🛐
user ﹫mclaren admin in the likes... Ariana what are you doing here?!
user just realized evelyn must have met lando's entire family by now.... who's cutting the goddamn onions?!!! 🥹🥹
user same omg. i feel so maternal about this guy (he's older than me 💀) and its like watching a little duckling grow up
user holy shit they they are literally trending on Twitter
user who wants to bet that lando foshure got baby fever seeing evelyn with mila
user i'll do you one better: they BOTH got baby fever and fucked about it 🥰😈
user YO HOMIE CHILLLLL
user idk if i wanna be her or be with her 💫
🗓 14 September 2022
landonorris ✪ and evelynderieux ✪
♫ JMSN • 'Bout It (Instrumental)
liked by danielricciardo , lnfour and 1.6M others
landonorris No one else I'd make an itinerary for date night with ❤️🐝
evelynderieux same time next year? 💘🐤
view comments ...
user FUCKING FINALLY 🚨🚨🚨 WAR IS OVER
user i used to pray for times like these
user EVELAN NATION WE WON TODAY
user this is basically lando through her eyes and evelyn through his eyes 🌼
user what do these emojis meannnnn LET ME IN!!!! 👺
user probably nicknames or inside joke
user anniversary + hard launch two birds with one stone. NOBODYS doing it like them 🙌🏻
user am i– am i supposed to assume they FLEW TO ABU DHABI FOR THEIR ANNIVERSARY?????
user lmao. wouldn't put it past them but that pic is from last year
user oh yes i remember all his friends posting pictures!!!
user so they were quite literally hidden in plain sight... fuck... we are losing our touch
carlossainz55 ✪ Finally official ♥︎ by author
user she is living my dream life
user the way they cannot keep their hands off each other rahhhh 😭😭😭
user the way they're squishing each others faces😭😭
maxfewtrell ✪ How did two of the biggest blabbermouths last this long? guess we'll never know ♥︎ by author
user you sound so done with them JAJAJAJAJA
user more like traumatized.. don't be shy max, spill the beansss
user two divas off the market but i am not complaining cuz they are stunning together 💅🏼💅🏼
vivilavie can i pop open the good champagne yet🥂? ♥︎ by author
user im getting FOMO over a couple. do they want a third perchance?? 😗
user super happy for you guys eeeee 💙🤍💙
user evelyn trained lando on all the good angles for pictures but i just can't prove it yet
★ notes — this is going to be the last TTCS/HLOAG chapter for a while, but you guys are welcome to leave an ask for what you'd like to see next. and if the anons who sent me the charles and firefighter!lando requests are reading this, i'm going to work on those asap!! till next time~
oscar piastri x yn! singer x ex! harry styles - masterlist
"I stretch myself a million miles across the desert to the moon, If you'd do anything for me, How come you never do?"
note — (all manips are made by me!!) messy timelines but it's fine.... i love this song so much i had to make a fic inspired by it, ignore any mistakes plz !! reblog's and comments are appreciated ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡
Liked by oscarpiastri, clairo and 1,847,258 others
yourinstagram few days down under 🍻🌴
view all comments
user1 you're now an honorary aussie with how much you're here
user2 "it's not the same as it was"
user3 mother is back in the studio????
user4 glad to have been a fan of her before she and harry dated 😊
->user5 it was such a happier time lowkey
->user6 he did bring a lot of haters i fear....
->user5 didn't make it any better that he didn't publicly seem all that into her
->user7 wrote all them songs about her only to never claim her smh
user8 that first picture 😍
user9 soft launching are we...? 👀
user10 Real life angel
user11 now why is oscar piastri here???
->user12 they're rumored to be dating 🤫
->user13 yepp they've been liking each others posts for a while
->user14 also been in the same city's a LOT recently
user15 who knew it was possible to look this good in the studio
user16 still not over you and harry 💔
user17 now who's in that last pic with you...?
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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 2,447,758 others
oscarpiastri 🍝🐈🛵
view all comments
user1 is that.....
yourinstagram ❤❤❤
->user2 this still doesn't feel real
->user3 lowkey the most random pair but i love it
user4 my jaw is on the floor
user5 im so confused
user6 can't even appreciate the oscar pictures because y/n IS HERE????
->user7 LIKE?!?!?
user8 the girlfriend effect is so real
user9 HE'S DATING Y/N L/N ??????
user10 i'm so jealous of him....
user11 SHE'S SO PRETTY 😭
user12 y/n hinting at dating someone and here comes oscar
user13 omg i love when hot people date hot people
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Liked by oscarpiastri, clairo and 4,731,853 others
yourinstagram my single 'never do' out February 6th <3
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oscarpiastri ❤ Liked by yourinstagram !
user1 I CAN’T WAITTTTT 😭
clairo i am screaming at my phone Liked by yourinstagram !
user2 Is it going to hurt me be honest..
user3 her at home watching him have all the fun that he promised they would have together
->user4 wait your mind...
->user5 after that interview im so scared for this song
user6 counting down the milliseconds
user7 MOTHER IS BACK
pinkpantheress Thank god Liked by yourinstagram !
user8 about to make this song my entire personality
user9 OMGGGGGGGGG
user10 its SOTY already
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Liked by oscarpiastri, clairo and 5,231,753 others
yourinstagram my single 'never do' IS OUT NOW!!!!!
first started writing this quite a bit ago and tucked it away for awhile because it hurt too much to try and finish, after revisiting a lot of songs i'd written this was one that stood out to me... feels good to put how i'd felt into words!!
hope you all love it as much as i do ily <3
view all comments
user1 so good.. can’t stop thinking about it
oscarpiastri Perfect ❤ Liked by yourinstagram !
->yourinstagram ❤
->user2 okay oscar love song when?
user3 This song is already going triple platinum in my household!!
user4 SONG OF THE YEAR.
pinkpantheress obsessed Liked by yourinstagram !
user5 the way this song both healed me and broke me at the same time 😭
user6 we love it and love you
user7 your inability to put out a bad song is astonishing
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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 4,447,758 others
oscarpiastri My everything ❤
view all comments
user1 this harry shade... he deserves it so it's fine
yourinstagram love you angel <3 Liked by oscarpiastri !
->user2 oh these two cuties
->user3 i love them so dearly
user4 you two are so cute i can't handle it
user5 this is what the fans wanna see (I’m fans)
user6 her face card wow i can't focus on anything else
->user6 this is such a cute post tho king <3
->user7 she's just unreal
user8 keep her happy plz
user9 she deserves this and much more!!
user10 they feel like endgame 🤞
user11 only couple ever fr
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✎…… i just know that when you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love comes out im going to make about 50 fics inspired by the songs
STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
pairing -> lando norris x quadrantPRdirector!reader
summary -> You’ve always been a rule follower. When a PR nightmare forces you into a fake relationship with your close friend and colleague, Lando Norris, you protect your heart the only way you know how: with strict rules written down in a notebook.
But lines quickly blur into a messy tangle of feelings neither of you can control. What started as a temporary fix to protect Lando’s public persona suddenly feels entirely too real. Now, you’re left wondering how much you're willing to sacrifice for the boundaries you insisted on. Falling for your best friend is inherently messy, and it scares you to death. How long can you pretend that getting lost in wonderland won't drive you both mad?
warnings -> fake dating. 2 idiots in love who suck at communicating. a wild magui appearance or two. Use of YN (I know, I’m sorry but it couldn’t be avoided!) timeline/race schedule is ambiguous and a bit hand wavey. Just go with it.
msb yaps -> oh my GOD it's finally here! i am so excited for this! six part series inspired by the song wonderland by taylor swift. as always, thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for keeping me from jumping off a ledge and beta reading. gonna try keeping a tag list for this series, so lmk if you want to be on it. otherwise, you can follow @the-msb-library & turn on notifs there so you don't miss anything! divider from @somebitchprobably-graphicdump <3
chapter word count -> 7k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
its_yn posted!
493,029 likes
liked by emma_fairchild, lando, quadrant and others
its_yn a little bit of this. a little bit of that.
user902 lando cheesin hard in that pic. haven't seen him this happy in so long omg
user113 lego dates? is this the perfect couple hotline??
emma_fairchild GAWD you are so hot omg date me pls???
>>>lando back AWF my girl
>>>its_yn now children
>>>user444 HIS GIRL??? confirmation that they're together together???
user093 omg does this mean she's going to be in canada with lando???
user402 i need her workout routine like now
user000 i just KNOW magui is somewhere throwing dishes against the wall
>>>user99 DID YOU SEE HER INSTA?! She posted from an airport...surely she wouldn't...
lando posted!
1,298,038 likes
liked by its_yn, emma_fairchild, max_fewtrell and others
lando surrounded by some pretty scenery lately ;)
user093 'pretty scenery' and it's just picutres of YN
>>>user948 boy is down BAD (liked by author)
user885 omg this is so cute
its_yn ❤️
>>>lando ❤️❤️❤️
>>>user009 OH MY GOD
max_fewtrell embarrassingly obsessed mate
>>>lando and what about it?!
>>>its_yn i think you're just jealous you've never gotten a dedicated insta post (liked by author)
>>>user938 i like it when YN bullies max (liked by author and its_yn)
user342 YN is so pretty omg (liked by author)
user042 lando in the comments liking all the nice things about YN. my guy is just sitting in the hotel room scrolling through the comments, giggling and kicking his feet bc he landed a baddie
>>>lando accurate
>>>its_yn such a simp
>>>lando i mean, have you SEEN how pretty you are???
>>>user042 this is the greatest day of my LIFE
The lobby of the hotel in downtown Montreal buzzed with the chatter of a few dozen voices, all milling about trying to sort out room accommodations in a muted sort of chaos.
It as already nearing midnight but due to a flurry of last minute flight cancellations leaving out of Heathrow earlier in the day, most of the McLaren team was still trying to get sorted for the night.
You stood off to the side of the crowded lobby, just out of sight of the main doors where there were surprisingly, several dozen fans waiting outside in hopes to catch a glimpse of someone important.
You’d been running in circles since early that morning, needing to finish up some media inquiries for an interview that Max and Lando had done with a London-based business magazine before packing for the trip to Canada. That, combined with the fact that you’d been too keyed up to even attempt a nap on the flight across the ocean had you feeling dead on your feet as you waited patiently for the team's travel coordinator to get to you with your room keys for the weekend.
Beside you, Lando leaned against the concierge desk, baseball hat pulled down low. He looked equally as wrecked at you, like he was about to fall asleep standing up.
“Alright, here we go.” A blonde woman wearing a McLaren team polo and black slacks steps over with a stack of envelopes. You’d worked with Dana before, coordinating travel plans when Max and the other members of Quadrant had traveled with Lando for various races and she had always been lovely to you. "I’ve got you guys up on the 25th floor, at the end of the hallway. It’s a bit more private and quiet. Lando, your mattress was delivered earlier in the day, so you should be good to go.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lando’s shoulders visibly relax. You knew how wrecked his back was from years of racing cars and having a special mattress delivered to every hotel was the one ‘diva’ move he was never ashamed of.
She hands an envelope to Lando. You wait for her to reach back into her handful of folders for your envelope, but she turns away as she starts shuffling through the stack again.
“Wait, Dana?” You call softly, your cheeks heating, “My key?”
Dana blinks, her smile turning knowing. “Oh, Lando called me from the plane. He said since things were…official between you two now, you guys wanted to keep things simple and share a room. It’s standard that partners are allowed to share rooms, so you guys are good to go.” She waves a hand towards Lando, who is looking particularly smug despite the exhaustion that claws at his throat. “There’s two keys in there, for when you need to split up this weekend for whatever reason.”
Your heart stutters, a flush painting itself crimson across your cheeks.
You open your mouth to correct her, to say that there must have been a huge misunderstanding. And then you catch a glimpse of Kym Illman loitering about fifteen feet away, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on your entire conversation.
Frustration burns in your chest as you clear your throat, brain moving a ten thousand miles a minute.
“Right. Of course. I just wanted to make sure we weren’t breaking any rules or anything.” You force a stiff smile. “Thank you for doing that, both Lando and I appreciate it.”
You were going to kill him.
Lando’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you closer. “Ready to go up, baby?” He asks, voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness that made you want to kick him in the shins.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” You mutter through your teeth, hoping that Dana reads the hostility radiating off of you as exhaustion.
The second the elevator doors slide shut, you turn on Lando, your fatigue replaced by sharp anger.
“Lando.” You hiss, stabbing him in the chest with your index finger. “What the hell was that? What about Rule Number One, huh? Romance stops at the door? Does that ring any bells?”
Lando just crosses his arms over his chest and grins like he’s not actually causing a migraine to brew right behind your eyeballs. “We discussed being believable.” He counters. “If we’re supposed to be this new couple who can’t keep their hands off of each other, it’s going to look a bit suspicious if we’re not sharing a room, don’t you think? Really, this is more me following Rule Four than anything."
“You’re a bloody menace, you know that?” You hiss just as the elevator slows to a stop.
Lando doesn’t even bother looking repentant as he watches you stalk out of the elevator. He looks entirely too pleased with himself as he follows you down the hallway. “I think you're just angry that you didn’t think of yourself.”
You consider the merits of throwing him out the window from the 25th floor.
“It’s brilliant really.” He continues as he swipes the card to your shared room. “No one can question us now, we’ve really sold this to everyone on the team.”
You push through the door first, resisting the urge to shoulder check Lando into the wall, ready to claim the bed closest to the window and the first shower. Instead, you stop in the middle of a marble floored foyer.
There, bathed in the golden glow of two bedside lamps was a single, sprawling, solitary king-sized bed.
“One bed.” You whisper, turning to look at him. “Lando, there is one bed.”
Apparently the universe was going to be the one breaking rule number one over and over again this weekend.
Lando clears his throat, palming at the back of his neck as he tries to form a coherent sentence. “Right. Well. It’s a very…wide bed?” He says, voice thin like he knows you’re about ten seconds from throwing him out the window. “I mean, you could totally fit an entire pit crew in there if you really tried.”
“Not the point, Norris!” You snap, though the sight of him looking suddenly flustered made your own heart hammer just a little harder.
“Look,” His tone goes soft, like he was trying to soothe a feral animal. “It’s late. We’re both dead on our feet. I’ll call the front desk tomorrow and have you discreetly moved to another room if you’re that upset. Can we just call a truce for one night? I’ll even sleep on the couch until we get this sorted, okay? I’m sorry. I guess I got a little caught up in the charade.”
You swallow, looking at how apologetic his expression is. Your stomach flips at the thought of sharing a bed with Lando. You look at the bedroom and then back at him. The lines were already blurring but you also knew that if you switched rooms and anyone found out about it, the rumor mill would be spinning faster than a tire gun during a pit stop.
Your eyes flutter shut.
“No, it’s okay. We can handle this.” You shake your head. “We’re adults. We can suck it up and just work through it." Why did it sound like you were trying to convince yourself rather than placate Lando? "If I’m going to be going to more races this season anyway, we’re going to have to get used to it.”
Lando blinks, a little caught off guard at how soft your voice has gone. He clears his throat. “Are…are you sure? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Heaving a sigh, you pick up your tote bag. “It’s fine, Lan. I’m just tired and in desperate need of a shower.”
“You get first dibs on the hot water then, I’ll start unpacking."
The shower was exactly what you needed to scrub the germs of international travel off of your skin. It didn’t do a thing to quiet your thoughts though. As steam filled the bathroom, swirling around in lavender scented clouds, all you could think of was that singular, massive bed that was waiting for you beyond the closed door.
When you finally step out into the main bedroom, dressed in a matching silk tank top and shorts and taming your hair into a French braid to sleep in, you notice how unusually quiet the suite was. The main lights were dimmed, leaving on the the warm glow of the table lamps to guide your way.
You wander into the living room, stopping short when you finally find Lando.
He was already changed into soft gray joggers and a t-shirt but he wasn’t unpacking or watching tv. Instead, he was wrestling with a set of thin hotel sheets, trying to tuck them into the cracks of the small loveseat. There was a single, sad looking pillow propped up against the armrest. The sofa was stylish, sure. It matched the decor of the room but it was narrow and clearly built for aesthetic and not comfort.
“Lan, what are you doing?” Your voice catches in your throat.
He doesn’t look up, totally preoccupied with smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket he’d found buried in deep in the closet. “Like I said, the couch is mine tonight. You take the bed, I don’t want you being more uncomfortable than you already are. I feel horrible for making assumptions without asking you earlier, I shouldn’t have done that.”
When Lando looks up, your chest squeezes at the look on his face. His brow pinches tight, eyes uncertain like he’s been emotionally beating himself up the entire time you’d been scrubbing the plane air off of your skin.
You knew his schedule for the weekend; how tightly it was timed, how busy he’d be in just a few hours now that it was well past midnight. He was going to be exhausted before he even got near the track and you knew that driving the car required an intense level of concentration that usually left him wrung out mentally and emotionally by Sunday night.
“Your back is going to be destroyed by Saturday if you sleep on that.” You say, stepping further into the room. “It’s like, five centimeters too short for you and about as soft as the couch in your drivers room.”
Lando shrugs, trying his best to look unbothered. His curls were a mess and there was a tired but stubborn half-smile on his face. “I’ve slept in trailers and on airport floors, love.” He shrugs as your heart pinches. “I can handle a sofa for a few days. Don’t worry about it, you being comfortable matters more than my back.”
“I am going to worry about it, Lando. I’m going to worry about you, you muppet.” You counter, taking a step closer to where he's standing at the foot of the sofa.
“Come on.” You say, holding out your hand to him.
Lando blinks, his expression uncertain. “What?”
“The bed is big enough for us to add a third person in there and still not touch.” You reason, your heart fluttering in that maddening, familiar way it does whenever Lando gets close to you lately. “I’m not going to let you ruin your back and compromise the race because you’re trying to be a gentleman. Just…stick to your side and I won’t have to kick you in the middle of the night, okay?”
Lando takes a hesitant step towards you, the blanket he’d been clutching in his hands slipping to the floor. The playful, smug demeanor he’d armed himself with in the lobby just an hour earlier was gone. In its place was just something hesitant and shy, an expression you were wholly unfamiliar with coming from Lando.
“You’re sure?” He asks, his voice dropping to a low and gravelly that makes heat stoke low in your stomach. “I mean it, you being comfortable is more important to me than my back. Sharing a bed wasn’t in the rules. In fact, it very much goes against Rule Number One.”
“Rules are meant to be adapted, Lan.” You whisper, desperately trying to be normal about what was about to happen. “And right now, your back needs a real mattress and I need to be an adult about this, okay?”
Lando watches you for a long beat, his gaze searching yours for any hint of second guessing before he finally nods slowly. “Okay. But if I kick you in my sleep, you have full permission to push me onto the floor.”
“Oh, I won’t just push you.” You tease, falling back into the familiar banter that feels like a safe space. “I’ll put the picture of you on the floor on my Instagram story and tag you in it.”
Lando lets out a soft, genuine laugh that pops the tension like a soap bubble. He grabs his phone from the side table and follows you into the bedroom, shutting the lights off behind him.
The mattress shifts slightly as you both climb in, you on the far left and him on the far right. The space between you was enormous, a wide expanse of high thread count Egyptian cotton. And yet, the room felt impossibly small when Lando shuts off the lights with a soft click.
In the darkness, the sounds of hotel are amplified. The hum of the AC, the honk of a taxi down the street, a distant thud of a door shutting down the hall suddenly. You lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling as you pull the duvet cover up towards your chin, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his side of the bed.
A few minutes pass and Lando murmurs your name.
“Yeah?” You reply, turning your head to look at him through the darkness.
“Thanks.” He whispers. "For…" He clears his throat. "For taking care of me even when I’m sure you want to strangle me.”
You can't see his face clearly, but you could feel the way he was looking at you in that soft way Lando saved for only you.
“Always, Lan.” You murmur back, barely resisting the urge to reach out for his hand. “Now, go to sleep. We have a narrative to maintain tomorrow. We don’t want people to get suspicious of us because we can’t think straight, right?”
“Right.” He breathes. “The narrative.”
Neither of you move but the silence that follows, the ‘fake’ part of the weekend feels miles away already, leaving only the two of you in the quiet of the Montreal night.
Morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of the hotel suite, casting the room in a sort of soft, hazy gold that had everything looking blurry at the edges. For a few blissful seconds, you existed in that strange, floaty space that you could only experience in the moments before you were fully awake. It was soft, warm, and safe. As you fully allowed yourself being pulled from sleep, you noticed you were surrounded by a weight that felt remarkably right.
It wasn’t until you blinked awake that the reality of what that weight was fully registers.
Sometime during the night, the line that had existed in the middle of the bed had somehow been crossed. As you orient yourself back to the world of the living, you discover that not only had that line been crossed, it had been obliterated.
You weren’t on the left side of the bed anymore, inches away from toppling over the side like you had been when you’d closed your eyes late last night. You were in the dead center of the bed, firmly anchored by the weight of a possessive arm draped over your middle.
Lando’s chest was a solid, steady warmth against your back, his breath fanning across the nape of your neck. His hand was tucked comfortably underneath your hip as he curled his entire body around you, legs tangling with yours beneath the sheets.
You freeze, entire body going still as your breath catches in the back of your throat. He smelled like sleep and that sharp, woody cologne he’d worn your first night with him alone in Monaco.
For one long, terrifying moment, you don't want to move.
And then, Lando's alarm starts wailing.
It’s a loud, jarring horn designed to instantly wake a certain racing driver who had the habit of sleeping through what could have been the end of the world.
Behind you, Lando jolts. The arm around your waist tightens instinctively for a beat before his brain has the opportunity to catch up with his body. You feel him go rigid as he sucks in a breath, his mouth dangerously close the crook of your neck.
“Oh.” He croaks, voice thick with sleep. “Oh no.”
Lando tries to yank his arm away quickly but it gets tangled in the sheets so it takes him an agonizingly long time to pull away. When he does, he's moving so fast that he nearly rolls of his side of the bed.
You find yourself scrambling away from him too, a move hampered by the duvet cover as you sit up, desperately trying to regain your balance and dignity at the same time.
“I —” Lando starts, his legs hanging off the side of the bed as he rubs at his face aggressively. His curls are a chaotic mess, sticking up every which way and there are faint indents painting their way across his cheeks from where the sheets had pressed into his face. He looks rumpled and tired in the best way and you have to avert your eyes to get your heart rate to return to normal.
“Jesus Christ. YN…I am so sorry. I didn’t —” Lando struggles for the words as you watch him scramble for an explanation.
“There you go, breaking rule number one again, Lando.” You deliberately keep your tone light and teasing, giving him a look that says ‘just play along and we’ll pretend this never happened’.
Lando laughs awkwardly, palming at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well I’ve never been one to follow the rules now have I?”
You huff a laugh, the tension in the room thankfully fizzling out as Lando stands from the bed. “You’ve never met a rule that you didn’t love to break, that’s for sure.”
Lando clears his throat, the sudden silence in the room settling like a thick blanket. “I’m really sorry though. I didn’t…I don’t want you to think that I was trying to take advantage of you or anything, I’d never do that.”
You laugh, high and thin as you try to put as much distance between yourself and Lando as you can. “Oh God, I know! That would never happen between us! Absolutely not. I know you don’t feel like that about me, Lan. This is just fake for the sake of getting Magui off your back, right? Nothing more.”
Lando looks at you like he’s wrestling with something and you feel your cheeks heat.
“Yeah, of course. It means nothing.” He says soflty, refusing to meet your gaze.
“I’m going to go take a shower, we uhh…we have to be down in the lobby in a bit.” You say, shuffling your way towards the bathroom, staying as far away form Lando as possible.
Lando clears his throat, watching you retreat away from him. “Yeah, good idea.”
As the bathroom door shuts, you lean back against the cool wood, head tipped back so it’s resting on the smooth surface. You could still feel the warmth on your waist where Lando’s arm had been, the way he’d held you burned into your memory.
On the other side of the door, Lando stares at the rumpled sheets that still smell like a mixture of your body wash and his cologne as he realizes that following the rules you had written down in your notebook was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
its_yn posted!
349,028 likes
liked by max_fewtrell, lando, mclarenf1 and others
its_yn oh canadaaaaaa! 🇨🇦
user008 wait that necklace is SICK
user113 already going to more races and more publicly acknolwedged than M ever was
user000 i love them together, they're obvs head over heels for each other
>>>user984 did you see them in the background of F1tv's weekend warmup? he kept teasing her with that ice cream cone? and then was all affectionate when she got grumpy. it was SO cute
>>>user000 omg i KNOW! what i'd do to have lando norris look at me like that
user432 i need her jacket in that third picture omg
The circuit is already a hive of activity by the time the SUV pulls into the car park later that morning. It's sunny that day, perfect conditions for the one practice session and eventual sprint qualifying later that afternoon.
You keep your gaze focused on the crowd outside the window, trying desperately to forget the way your traitorous heart was craving Lando’s touch. It had been all you could do to make it through your makeup routine with Lando pretending to not watch you, the way he kept stealing glances at you set your chest tightening in a way that felt too messy for you to be comfortable with.
Beside you, Lando shifts as the SUV slows to a stop. He pulls at the collar of his team kit, desperate for something to do with his hands that didn't involve touching you. Every time you moved, the scent of your perfume - the same smell that had been pressed against his skin just hours ago - filled the enclosed space.
It was driving him insane.
“Ready?” He asks, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Always.” You say thinly, your heart already thrumming faster than you’d care to admit.
Lando opens the car door and chaos pours in. Jon hops out from the front seat, grabbing Lando’s backpack as the crowd behind the barricades start to stir when they realize it’s Lando arriving for the day. Julie, Lando’s press officer for the weekend, is waiting patiently a few feet away, already tapping away at her phone.
Turning back to you, Lando watches as you slide across the seat to follow him out of the car. Like in Monaco, he holds out a hand to you, making sure you don’t tumble out of the SUV in front of the crowd. When your feet land in the dusty car park, you’re far too pleased that Lando doesn’t let go of your hand.
“Let’s try to keep a steady pace, we’re running behind and there are a lot of photographers here today.” Julie says, her voice professional and clipped as Lando leads you towards the paddock gates. “Let’s not make any comments about Monaco or the status of your relationship right now, we need to keep focused on the race.”
You bite your tongue, wanting to say that you understood what the play was this weekend. You were the one who had come up with the entire thing after all. Instead you keep quiet, smiling over at Lando as he squeezes your hand. The press of Lando’s palm over yours is grounding but it’s also a reminder of the way you’d woken up that morning, tangled in the sheets and his legs.
The walk towards the paddock gates is loud and jumbled, fans and photographers alike yell for Lando, hoping to snag his attention before he passes them. You can hear the shouts asking if you two are together, if Monaco was the first time you two had been out, people clambering for any kind of acknowledgment of the seemingly new relationship. More than once, you make out someone shouting about Magui, asking if they’re really over.
Lando was doing his best to listen to Jon talk about that morning’s strategy meeting and his plans for relieving the tightness in his lower back that Lando had complained about on the flight last night, but his focus was elsewhere. Every time your shoulder brushed his, his hand would tighten just slightly on yours. He found himself unconsciously pulling you closer, narrowing the gap between your bodies until your shoulder was flush with his. He was stuck on the memory of the quiet, sleepy weight of you tucked into his chest and how right it had felt before his alarm had ruined the moment.
“Everything okay, Lando?” Jon asks when Lando misses the third question in a row because he’s so caught up in his own mind.
“Hmm?” Lando drags his gaze away from you as he fishes in his pocket for his credentials. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, just feeling a little jet lagged this morning.”
You catch Jon’s subtle smirk as he taps his own pass against the scanner. He knows what Lando’s jet lag usually looks like: staring into space as he tries not to fall asleep, not staring at you with the particular brand of intensity he’s got going on that morning.
“Fifteen minutes until the engineering briefing, Lando.” Julie reminds him, checking her watch as you all clear the security turnstiles to step into the heart of the paddock. “YN, do you need anything from me? Lando mentioned you had some meetings scheduled this morning.”
You look over at Lando with mild surprise. You hadn’t thought he’d been listening when you mentioned you had some brand meetings with the Quadrant crew this morning. “Yeah, I can just set up shop in a corner of hospitality before practice.”
Julie nods firmly as she leads the way towards the McLaren hospitality building. You follow her in, the sliding glass doors whooshing open. The engineering room is on the main floor of the large, papaya colored building and you need to go up to the third. Gently disentangling your fingers from Lando’s, you ignore the way the loss of his warmth sends regret shooting up your spine.
“I’ll let you get to it then, Lan.” You say, drifting towards the stairs.
Lando stops, ignoring the way Jon and Julie exchange looks. The hustle of the main level seems to stall around him as Lando looks at you like he’s got something to say but isn’t quite brave enough to voice it.
“Wait.” He says quietly, reaching out to take your hand again.
Before you can ask what for, Lando leans in. You swallow thickly, unprepared for him to be in your space so suddenly. To your surprise, he brushes a firm, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s casual, confident, and completely devastating. You fight to keep from jolting backwards, knowing that half the team is watching what is supposed to be a casual kiss goodbye. Lando’s mouth is softer than you expected, tasting faintly of the mint tea he’d had at breakfast and it lasts just a heartbeat too long for it to be ‘just for show.”
You freeze. The air in your lungs feels like it turns to lead and your brain, usually so quick to come up with a calculated PR response, goes completely and terrifyingly silent.
Lando pulls back, his eyes dark and searching as they roam your face, checking for a reaction. A ghost of a smug, boyish smile pulls at the corner of his lips when he sees the slight daze in your expression.
There’s that mess he was certain you were feeling too, he thinks.
“See you later, pretty girl.” He murmurs, his voice low and husky.
It’s all over in a matter of seconds and by the way neither Jon nor Julie bat an eye, the display of affection seems to catch only you off guard. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribcage as you scramble to form words.
Lando turns and walks away with Jon, his stride suddenly lighter than it had been all morning, leaving you in the middle of the hospitality entrance. For a moment, all you can do is watch his retreating form, your brain still malfunctioning from the way Lando had just kissed you so casually.
“YN?” Julie asks, pausing by your side as she looks up from her phone. “You okay? You look a bit…pale.”
Snapping your mouth shut, you force your limbs to move towards the stairs. You wrap your credentials around the handle of your tote bag, willing your hands to stop shaking before someone notices.
“I’m fine!” You say a touch too quickly. “Just a lot to do today. I’m umm…I'm going to head upstairs now.”
As you walk up the stairs towards the quiet of the third floor you know is waiting for you, you yank the professional mask back firmly into place. You could not let yourself get caught up in these feelings that were clouding your judgement. It was unacceptable and only going to cause things to get messy. But as you step onto the landing of the quiet VIP section and make your way towards a corner table, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a window and know you have a very serious problem.
Your lips are burning, cheeks flushed and there was no amount of ’optics management’ that could hide the fact that Lando Norris had just kissed the professional right out of you.
You were in so much trouble.
You’re sitting in Lando’s drivers room later that afternoon, laptop perched on your lap later that afternoon when all hell breaks loose.
There was a break in the schedule, with lunch having just wrapped up so for the time being, you had both retreated into the quiet of his private room to take a break from the chaos that always accompanied race weekends. You were just reaching for a bottle of water when your phone started vibrating on the table in front of you. By the fifth notification, you know it wasn’t just a work email coming through.
You open your messages first. There are five from Emma, three from Max, and one from Keegan. All of them are of the same picture with various comments attached. Your stomach does a slow, nauseating flip as you read through them.
“Lando.” You whisper, voice tight.
Across the room, Lando is sitting on the edge of the sofa scrolling through some stint data to prep for qualifying in an hour. He looks up, sensing something is wrong by the tone of your voice. “What’s wrong?”
You don’t say anything at first, just turn your phone screen towards him. It’s a screenshot of an Instagram story that Max sent you with the comment ‘ALERT ALERT! WE HAVE A PROBLEM YN!’.
Lando leans forward, eyes squinting as he tries to decipher what he’s looking at. When he figures it out, the color drains from his face. On your screen is a photo Magui posted about five minutes ago. It’s a high-angle shot of the Montreal pit lane from the VIP balcony inside the paddock. The caption is simple: back in my favorite place. Good luck today @/lando.”
A heavy silence descends over the room as you watch Lando’s face transform. Gone is the soft, relaxed expression he only seemed to wear around you lately and in its place is a sharp, cold look of someone who is on the verge of a panic attack. His expression darkens with a mixture of disbelief and genuine anger.
“The fuck?” He hisses. “I specifically told Julie and anyone else who would listen that she was not to sweet talk her way into getting any more passes from us.”
“She must have gotten them from a sponsor or something, like she did in Miami.” You say, your mind already switching into damage control mode.
On one hand, you almost had to admire the bravery this girl was showing. In Miami, she’d been relegated to a brand tent off of turn three. Somehow, in the span of three weeks she’d managed to land herself paddock passes once again. You knew the moment the gossip accounts got a hold of the photo though, all hell was going to break loose. Her being in the paddock gave credibility to her claim that she was still with Lando. It was going to look like Lando was trying to juggle two women at once the moment people put two and two together. You could only imagine how bad this could get very quickly.
Lando stands up, pacing the small room like a cornered animal. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.” Thrusting a hand through his curls, he turns to you, eyes bright with panic. “I feel like I can’t even breathe in my own garage without someone bringing her up. You know a cameraman is going to try to get a shot of her this weekend. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already called Kym to let him know she’s here.”
He looks so vulnerable in that moment your chest squeezes. A surge of protectiveness, fierce and hot, flares in your ribs. This wasn’t about PR anymore, this was about Lando being forced to deal with someone who couldn’t seem to take no for an answer.
“Hey.” You stand, stepping in his path so Lando is forced to stop pacing. Placing your hands firmly on his shoulders, you wait for him to take a breath. “Look at me.”
Lando stops, chest heaving, but drags his gaze up towards yours.
“We are not going to let her win this, okay?” You work to keep your voice steady so the anger that is racing through your veins doesn’t show on the surface. “We knew there was a chance she’d pull something like this so we just continue on with the plan, okay? We show the world a united front. We don’t hide, we don’t look bothered and most of all, we do not acknowledge her little stunt, okay?”
Lando takes a deep breath, his hands settling heavily on your waist. His grip is tight and desperate, like he’s using you as an anchor to ground himself. You shift closer, your bodies dangerously close in such a small space.
“You’re right.” He breathes, resting his forehead on yours. Your pulse takes flight as you try to focus on his words. “I know you’re right, I just don’t know if I can do ‘happy and unbothered’ if I see her. I’m a dumb racing driver, not an actor.”
“Then don’t do happy.” You counter, stroking your thumb reassuringly over his shoulder. “Do ‘obsessed.’ Focus on me, just like I did when we were in Monaco. You got me through that and I’ll get you through this, okay? I’ve got you.”
Lando’s expression softens as he pulls back. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, pretty girl.”
The confession feels too honest in such a small space, like he’s not just talking about you helping him out with his crazy ex. Like there’s something deeper to his statement. Something that you choose to ignore because you don’t know how to deal with it.
“That’s what friends do for each other, Lan.” You say, taking a step back, suddenly needing a bit of space.
Lando blinks. “Friends, of course.”
You manage to dodge Magui for the rest of the afternoon, getting through qualifying and the engineering debrief despite her obvious efforts to put herself in his path. You catch a glimpse of her skulking around the edges of the hospitality suite right before qualifying, pretending to wait for someone.
It’s not until after Lando is done with his last meeting of the day and you two are making your way towards the car park to head towards the hotel that Magui manufactures the moment she’d been trying to set up all day.
You’re walking down the sun-drenched path that leads out to the waiting SUV, your hand tucked firmly in Lando’s. He’s still buzzing from a solid qualifying session, his thumb tracing idle circles over your knuckles, when she appears.
Magui is leaning against a light pole looking like she’s posing for a magazine spread. She doesn’t look angry and she doesn’t look like she’s about to make a scene. Instead, she looks perfectly composed with a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she watches the two of you approach. There’s no escaping her either, she’s placed herself directly in the path that will take you out to the car park so there’s no other choice but to walk right past her.
Lando’s grip on your hand turns iron-clad in a split second. The hair on the back of your neck prickles as your gaze darts around, trying to take in who could possibly overhear what you know is about to go down.
“Lando.” She says softly, pushing off the pole and stepping right in the middle of the path. She ignores the few fans that are still lingering alongside the dozen or so photographers who are loitering around, hoping to catch a nice photo op. “I was wondering when you would finally finish up. You’ve always been such a workaholic.”
Lando doesn’t respond. He just stares at her, jaw set so tight you can see the muscle fluttering. You step forward slightly, your PR instincts flaring. “Magui, this isn’t a good time. We’ve got a car waiting and dinner plans with the team back at the hotel.”
Shifting her gaze to you, Magui gives you a slow, sweeping once over that drags from your face down to your intertwined hands and back up. It’s not a look of hatred that you see in her eyes, it’s a look of cold pity.
“It’s okay, YN.” She says, her voice dripping with an unsettling kind of calm that makes your stomach churn. “I’m not here to make a scene. I just wanted to say hello to Lando.” Turning back to him, she takes a small step into his personal space. “I see you’ve been busy. It’s a cute look, really. The 'friends to lovers' trope is very popular right now."
“What do you want, Magui?” Lando says, low and dangerous.
“Nothing.” She shrugs, tilting her head. “I just wanted to remind you that I’m here. And that I’m patient. I know you’re having fun with your…” She flicks a dismissive glance towards you before turning her predatory gaze back on Lando. “Distractions. I’m sure she’s great, keeping your schedule tight and your image tidy but we both know that at the end of the day, you’re always going to come back to what’s real. You’re always going to come back to me, Lando."
Lando stiffens, his hand tightening around yours. “We aren’t real anymore. We haven’t been real in months, Magui. You know that. It’s over, it’s time to accept that.”
Magui lets out a soft laugh. She reaches out and for a brief moment, you think she’s going to touch him but she just tugs on the string of his team hoodie. “Is it? You can play house with the help all you want Lando.” Your vision goes red. “You can hold her hand for the cameras and share a hotel room to prove a point but we all know what you and I have isn’t like this. What we have is real, Lando."
She leans in, whispering loud enough for just you and Lando to hear. “I’m willing to wait for you to be finished with your little play thing because I know you’ll eventually get bored. You always do with things settle down and get too normal.” She looks at you then, her eyes sharp and cold. “You’re great at your job, YN. Truly. But don’t get confused. Lando doesn’t do normal, he doesn’t do boring, and he certainly doesn’t do safe, which is what you are.”
With a final, devastatingly causal pat on Lando’s arm, she grins as she steps aside. “You know exactly where to find me when you’re ready to feel alive again, my love.”
Magui turns and walks away without looking back, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and emotional damage in her wake.
Lando is frozen, staring at the spot where she stood, his face pale and breathing shallow.
“Lando.” You whisper, tugging at his hand. “Lets go. Now.”
He doesn’t move at first. When he finally turns to you, there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes that wasn’t there just minutes ago.
Her words had hit the one thing he was most afraid of, that he’d been avoiding thinking of until this very moment. He was afraid that this comfort that he felt with you, the safety and affection that was blooming between you two was just a temporary refuge and that eventually, the charade was going to have to end and the chaos of his life without you was going to drag him back down again.
“She’s wrong.” You say, your voice steadier than you feel as you pull him towards the SUV. “She’s just trying to get in your head, plant a seed of doubt that you’ll never be truly free of her.”
“Is she though?” Lando asks so softly you can barely hear him over the ambient noise of the track. “I thought that this was going to get her off my back, that you were going to be the final nail in the coffin for her, that she’d accept that we were over but it doesn’t sound like she’s going to give up that easily.”
You shrug, trying to keep your voice as calm as possible as Lando opens the door to the waiting SUV. “Then we wait her out. She can’t keep this up forever, socials are already turning against her. If there’s one thing Magui loves more than being associated with you it’s the attention she gets her fans online. The moment the brand deals start drying up, she’ll move onto her next target.”
Lando looks at you in the dim light of the SUV’s backseat. “And you’re willing to keep this act up until that happens?”
You think back to that morning, how waking up in Lando’s bed had felt so natural despite your desperate denial of what was going on in your head. “I made a promise to help you with this and I always keep my promises.”
Lando swallows as the SUV pulls away from the curb and out into traffic. Reaching out, he covers your hand in his larger one, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you.” He murmurs before pulling you closer.
For a brief moment, you forget about the promise to keep feelings out of it. You forget about the fact that the relationship has an end date. You forget that all of this is, one day, going to evaporate into thin air and your relationship with Lando will return to being a strictly platonic one and you allow yourself to fall into the charade and feel like there’s a possibility of a future with him instead.
f1_gossip_official posted!
f1_gossip_official DRAMA in the paddock today! lando norris' ex-girlfriend magui showed up (uninvited apparently) to the track ahead of practice and sprint quali. she posted a story wishing her ex luck but wasn't seen in the garage. YN YLN WAS however in the garage with lando all day. the new couple was seen walking into the circut together holding hands. after everything was done, some eagle eyed fans spotted lando and magui talking as lando and YN made their way towards the car park that evening. people who saw the interaction said it looked...tense. later that evening, YN and Lando were seen out and about getting dinner with the team, smiling and happy so whatever happened at the track, it seems as though it hasn't affected the new couple
user004 how embarassing for magui
>>>user32 right? i want to know how tf she got paddock passes!
>>>user211 AND WHY! why tf would you doooooo that! was miami not embarassing enough?!
user985 clearly M doesn't matter to lando any more, he seems all in on YN
user56 OMG I SAW THIS HAPPEN IT WAS SO UNCOMFY.
>>>user981 SPILL
>>>user56 she was legit waiting for them (pretending not to be but she so was) and was giving YN the side eye while flirting with lando right in front of her. Lando never let go of YN's hand and looked SO MAD after they left. Magui was PISSED afterwards. it was 50 shades of awkward.
>>>user981 omggggggggg
Description: You're planning the wedding of the decade—Max Fewtrell and Pietra Pilão's summer celebration at Villa d'Este on Lake Como. Forty-seven page vision documents, destination logistics, and a bride who knows exactly what she wants. You can handle it. What you can't handle is their best man: Lando Norris, fresh off a breakup, he's arrogant, he's relentless, he doesn't take no for an answer, and he's decided that making your job harder is his new favorite pastime. You just want to execute the perfect wedding, he simply just wants you.
Genre: wedding planner x best man, he's down bad immediately, all of the tropes, "are you single?" on first meeting, why are we soooo horny, rom-com meets porn, unresolved ending, ANGST, cheeky norris
Notes: um, idk, sorry ive been mia for months, hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!
WC: 17.5k
That was two months ago.
Two months of Pietra's color-coded spreadsheets, vendor calls with Italian florists who didn't speak a lick of English, and approximately sixty-three emails about whether the napkins should be ivory or ecru. (They're the same fucking color. You didn't say that, though, you're a an actual professional.)
Now you're standing in Cifonelli, a tailoring house in London where the building is approximately 300 years old and the man at the door eyes you up and down about twelve times before letting you come in. You arrived fifteen minutes early because that's what professionals do, tablet in hand, ready to make sure Max Fewtrell doesn't accidentally pick the wrong shade of midnight blue and give his fiancée an aneurysm.
Max is already here, standing on the fitting platform in his shirtsleeves while a tailor who looks approximately one hundred years old circles him with pins. The groomsmen are scattered around the room—Max's his brother is scrolling through his phone in the corner, and the other three groomsmen are huddled by the window arguing about something that sounds football-related but you're not paying attention.
And Lando Norris, the best man, is in one of the leather chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, watching you.
He's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes while you've been in the checking suit orders. You felt it. Ignored it. Felt it again. Kept ignoring it, like a professional.
Now you've got his garment bag draped over your arm and you're done pretending you don't notice.
"Norris," you call out.
He doesn't move right away. Just lets his eyes drag up from wherever they were—unhurried, unbothered, like you've interrupted something he was very much enjoying. "That's me," he says, and the smile that follows is the kind that knows exactly what it does to people.
"Dressing room two," you say, already walking toward the hallway. "Let's get you fitted."
You hear him get up. Hear him follow. The hallway is quieter, away from the chaos of the main room, and dressing room two is all dark wood paneling, it's exactly the kind of place where people spend obscene amounts of money and feel good about it.
You hang the garment bag on the hook, unzip it.
"Jacket first," you say without turning around. "Then trousers. If the shoulders don't sit right or the sleeve length is off, don't adjust it yourself. Just tell me."
When you turn around, he's in the doorway. Not coming in. Just leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with this look—eyes slightly narrowed, mouth not quite smiling, like he's just confirmed something he suspected and now he's deciding what to do about it.
"You're very good at this," he finally says.
"At my job?" You raise an eyebrow. "Revolutionary concept."
"No." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, slow, like the space belongs to him now that he's decided to enter it. "The whole—not looking at me thing." He tilts his head slightly. "You've been doing it since I walked in. It's very disciplined and I'm a little impressed, actually."
Your jaw doesn't move. Your expression doesn't either. "The suit, Norris."
"See, that." He stops close enough that you have to consciously not step back. Close enough that you catch his cologne—something clean and expensive and quietly devastating. He's taller than you clocked from across the room, and the way he's looking at you isn't rude, isn't aggressive. It's just certain, like he's already several steps ahead and he's being generous enough to wait for you to catch up. "That's the thing. You do this—" a small gesture toward you, vague, like he's indicating everything, "very professional, very unbothered. But you felt me looking at you."
"Everyone in the room felt you looking at me."
"Sure." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "But only you ignored it that hard."
The silence sits between you. He doesn't rush to fill it, just watches you with that quiet, completely unearned confidence, chin tipped down slightly, eyes steady, the kind of eye contact that doesn't shift or flicker, the kind that makes you aware of exactly where your hands are and whether your face is doing something it shouldn't be.
"Are you going to try this on," you say, "or are we wasting Pietra's fitting appointment?"
He reaches out and takes the jacket from the hanger himself. Doesn't look away from you while he does it.
"Quick question," he says and the pause that follows is long enough to be deliberate. "Are you single?"
You've got to be fucking kidding me. You shake your head, "That is not a quick question."
"It's three words." He shrugs the jacket on and takes his time with the second button. "Pretty quick to me."
You step forward and fix the collar before you've put any real thought into it. Professional and an awfully horrible fucking habit you've developed because right this second your fingers brush the back of his neck and you feel him go very still.
"Shoulders are good," you say, stepping back. This is absolutely fine. So absolutely not fine.
"You didn't answer."
"Because it's not relevant, Norris."
"To the fitting?" He turns to face the mirror, but his eyes find yours in it immediately. "Probably not. To me?" The corner of his mouth pulls again. "Little bit relevant."
You crouch down to check the trouser break. He looks down at you. You can feel it without looking up.
"You do this with all your clients?" he asks.
"Check the fit?"
"Go all quiet and professional when someone makes you uncomfortable."
You stand. "You're not making me uncomfortable."
"No?" He turns from the mirror to face you properly. You become aware of your hands. "Then why haven't you answered?"
The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. You're aware of the door behind him, the mirror to your left, the very small amount of air between you.
"The sleeve length is off," you say. It's a lie, but you reach for his wrist anyway.
He lets you take it, doesn't say anything while you pretend to check the cuff, while your fingers brush the inside of his wrist.
"You're single," he says.
You glance up and he's already looking at you, which is unfortunate considering how attractive the fucker actually is. His lip is quirked upwards at the corner, and his eyes are squinting in that specific way that tells you he is enjoying this very much.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He's still letting you hold his wrist, still watching you with that same certainty. "You would've shut this down immediately if you weren't."
You drop his hand and step back. "The jacket fits."
"Good." He shrugs the jacket off, and you watch the fabric slide down his arms, watch the way his shoulders move underneath the sweater. He hangs it back on the hanger with more care than you expected, smoothing the lapels before turning to the mirror. His hands go to the hem of his sweater, tugging it down, adjusting it. The movement pulls the knit tight across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—find yours in the reflection.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting for you to look. "So when are you free?"
Your throat is dry. "I'm not."
"For dinner." He's still watching you in the mirror. Still standing there with his hands resting at his sides like he's got all the time in the world.
"I know what you meant."
He turns around. The movement is slow, his weight shifts, his hips turn, and suddenly he's facing you instead of the glass. "That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"But it's not a no." The smile that spreads across his face is different from before—softer, more genuine. It makes him look younger, less like him and more like someone who actually wants to know your answer. And somehow that's worse. "Which means you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about how to get you to try on the trousers."
His hands drop to his belt.
The metal clinks as his fingers work the buckle loose and you freeze. Actually freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as you watch his hands—tanned, long-fingered, confident—slide the leather through the silver.
"What are you—"
"Trying on the trousers," he says, like it's obvious. The belt slides through the loops with a soft whisper of leather against fabric, and his shit-eating grin only widens. "That's what you wanted, right?"
"You don't have to—" You turn around and face the wall. What the fuck is going on? "There's literally a changing screen right there."
"There is." You hear the zipper, the metallic sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. Then fabric sliding down his legs, the soft rustle of denim pooling at his feet. Oh my god, oh my god. "But you're already in here."
Your stomach drops. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You draw in a breath—too sharp, too quick—and try to compose yourself. Try to remember that you're a professional, that you've handled difficult clients before, that this is just a suit fitting.
Except it's not. You both know it's not.
"I will actually leave," you say.
"Why?" He sounds amused. You can hear the smile in his voice, can picture exactly what his face looks like right now without even seeing it. "You're the wedding planner. Don't you need to check the fit?"
Your face is on fire. Your hands are clenched at your sides and you're staring at the wood paneling on the wall like it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. "I can check it when you're dressed."
"I'm getting dressed right now." A pause. Then, quieter, "You can turn around. I'm not naked."
You shouldn't. You should walk out of this room, find another tailor, maintain some semblance of professionalism.
He's in his boxers, black Calvin Kleins that sit low on his hips, and that stupid cream sweater that's ridden up just enough to show a strip of tanned, toned stomach. The jeans are pooled at his feet and he's just standing there, holding the suit trousers, legs long and golden like he spends half his life in the sun.
Which he does. Because he's a fucking Formula 1 driver. And you're trying very hard to look at his face, at the trousers in his hands, at literally anything except the very obvious bulge straining against the black fabric of his underwear.
Your eyes drop. You can't help it. The Calvin Klein waistband sits just below his hip bones, and the fabric is doing absolutely nothing to hide how well-endowed he is. Or how hard he's getting. Jesus Christ.
"Well?" he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher. Like gravel and honey mixed together. "Should I put these on, or are you going to keep staring?"
Your eyes snap up to his face and the grin there is absolutely wicked. Victorious. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, knows exactly where your eyes just were, and he's loving every second of it.
"The trousers," you manage. Your voice sounds strange—tight and strained and breathier than it should be—and you quite literally want to rip your vocal cords out. "Put them on."
"Say please."
Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"
"You want me to put them on?" He tilts his head, and the movement is casual, easy. Still holding the trousers in one hand, the other resting against his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Still standing there like this is completely normal. Like he stands half-naked in front of wedding planners every day. "Ask nicely."
This is insane. This entire situation is insane. You're alone in a dressing room with a half-naked Formula 1 driver who's asking you to beg him to put his pants on while he's very clearly hard and very clearly enjoying watching you try not to look.
"Please," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to. "Put on the trousers."
His grin widens. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He steps into them. One leg, then the other, and you watch—you can't not watch—as he pulls them up slowly and deliberately. The fabric slides over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Golden skin disappearing inch by inch beneath midnight blue wool. Over his hips. Over that bulge that's still very much visible, still obscenely obvious even through the suit fabric now.
He doesn't button them. Just leaves them sitting low on his hips, the zipper undone, the waistband gaping open enough that you can still see the black elastic of his Calvin Kleins.
"How's the fit?" he asks.
You can't speak. Your mouth is completely dry, your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you're very aware that you need to actually do your job now. Need to check the hem and the break and the waist, which means getting close to him again. Means kneeling down in front of him. Means being eye-level with—
"I need to check the break," you hear yourself say.
"Go ahead."
You move before you can think about it. Drop to your knees in front of him, and the position is—it's—don't fucking think about it.
Your hands reach for the fabric at his ankle. The hem is perfect. You both know it's perfect. Pietra sent the measurements three times, the tailors here are the best in London, there's no way it's wrong.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up. But you smooth the fabric anyway. Adjust it against his shoe. Check the length with fingers that are definitely not shaking.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly above you, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
Fuck it.
You let your hand slide up from his ankle. Slowly. Palm flat against the fabric of the trousers, fingers spreading wide as you move up his calf. The muscle is solid beneath your touch, tense. You feel it twitch as you pass over his knee, and you keep going. Higher. You feel his leg go rigid under your touch. Hear his breath catch—sharp and sudden.
"You think so?" you ask, still not looking up. Your hand keeps moving. Up his thigh now, and he's gone completely still above you. Not moving. Not breathing. Just frozen.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice has gone rough. Strained. "I do."
Your hand reaches the very top of his thigh. You pause there and let the moment stretch. Then you slide your palm over the bulge straining against his trousers and squeeze.
He makes a sound—sharp, shocked, something between a gasp and a groan. You stand up slowly, keeping your hand exactly where it is. Keeping pressure. His hands come up like he's going to grab you, touch you, pull you closer, but he freezes when you press harder.
"Fuck," he breathes.
You're close now. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, close enough to feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His hips shift forward into your touch and you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
"You were saying?" you murmur, tilting your head up. Your mouth is inches from his.
"I—" He swallows hard. Can't seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to your lips and you lean in closer. So close your breath ghosts across his mouth. Your hand moves slightly, rubbing through the fabric, and he actually groans this time.
"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.
"Tomorrow," he manages. "Eight. I'll—fuck—I'll pick you up."
"Mm." You lean in like you're going to kiss him. Let your lips almost brush his.
Then you let go, step back, and knee him directly in the dick.
Not hard enough to do real damage. But hard enough.
He doubles over with a choked sound, hands flying to his crotch, and you step around him calmly. You pick up your tablet from where you left it on the chair, and take one final look at Lando Norris.
"The trousers fit perfectly," you say, voice perfectly professional. "I'll let the tailor know we're done here."
You ignore Lando Norris for the rest of the fitting.
It's not difficult. He stays in the dressing room for a solid ten minutes after you leave, and when he finally emerges—fully dressed, thank fucking god—his face is doing something between amused and aroused and genuinely shocked.
You don't look at him. You focus on Max's final adjustments, on coordinating with the tailor about the timeline, on making notes in your tablet about pickup dates and alteration appointments. When Lando tries to catch your eye in the mirror, you turn away. When he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, you start talking to the elderly tailor about mother-of-pearl versus horn buttons.
Your hands only shake once you're in the car back to your flat. That evening, you send Pietra a follow-up email:
You don't mention Lando. There's nothing to mention, it was a fitting. He tried on a suit, everything went fine. Pietra responds within an hour with twelve exclamation points and a gif of someone crying happy tears. You close your laptop and don't think about Lando Norris for the rest of the night.
Or the next day.
Or the day after that.
Three weeks pass.
Three weeks of vendor calls and seating charts and a truly deranged argument with the florist about whether "white" and "ivory" roses are actually different. (They are, apparently.) Three weeks of normal, professional wedding planning work where you successfully do not think about Lando Norris or the fact that you kneed him in the dick in a Cifonelli dressing room.
You're good at compartmentalizing. It's a necessary skill in this job. You've dealt with difficult clients, bridezillas, grooms who show up drunk to their own rehearsal dinners. One overly confident racing driver who doesn't understand professional boundaries is nothing.
Except he keeps showing up in your email thread with Max and Pietra. Little comments on the group chain about the bachelor party planning, questions about the timeline, a truly chaotic suggestion that they do sparklers at the reception that Pietra immediately vetoed. You don't respond to him directly. You address Max only.
You're fine. Everything is completely fine. It's a Wednesday night—11:00 PM, to be exact—and you're on your couch in your pajamas with a pint of Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream that you've been working through for the better part of an hour. Some reality show is playing on your TV. You're not really watching it, too busy scrolling through the seating chart for the reception, trying to figure out where to put Pietra's uncle who allegedly had an affair with Max's aunt's best friend in 1987.
Your phone rings. Unknown number. London area code and you ignore it, taking another spoonful of ice cream. It rings again thirty seconds later. Same number.
You sigh, set the pint down on your coffee table, and answer. "Hello?"
"So, I've been thinking about you."
You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. That voice. You know that fucking voice. "Norris?"
"Lando," he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Hear the way he's settling into this conversation like he's got all fucking night to terrorize you. "And before you hang up—which I know you're about to do—I need to tell you something."
"How did you get this number?"
"Max," he says easily. "Told him I needed to coordinate some best man stuff. He gave it to me, no questions asked. Great guy, but a bloody terrible judge of character."
You close your eyes. "It's eleven o'clock at night."
"I know. I waited aaaaalllll day to call you." He pauses. "Didn't want to seem too eager, ya'know."
"You're calling me at eleven PM. That's the definition of eager."
"Fair point." He sounds amused. "Sooo, are you wearing panties right now?
You choke on your ice cream. Actually choke, coughing and sputtering into your fist while he laughs on the other end of the line. The pint nearly tips over on your coffee table and you have to grab it with your free hand, still trying to catch your breath. "Are you—" More coughing. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Completely serious," he says. "It's a yes or no question. Pretty straightforward."
You set the ice cream down. Hard enough that the spoon rattles. "I'm hanging up."
"No you're not." And the worst part—the absolute worst part of all of this is that he's right. You're still sitting here, phone pressed to your ear, face burning, while this man asks you about your underwear at eleven o'clock at night like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Why are you like this?" you ask.
"Like what?"
"Insane. Mmm, iInappropriate, I don't know maybe the completely lack of boundaries."
"I prefer 'direct,'" he says. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"I'm not answering that."
"So that's a yes." He sounds pleased with himself. "Good to know."
"That's not—I didn't say—" You stop and take a breath. "What do you want, Lando?"
"I told you. I've been thinking about you."
"Then stop thinking about me."
"Can't." He says it simply, like it's a fact he's already accepted, like it's a facet that you're supposed to also accept. "Believe me, I've tried. Spent three weeks trying to forget about the dressing room. Didn't work. So now I'm calling you at eleven PM like a psychopath because apparently that's what you've reduced me to."
Your stomach does something stupid. You cannot do this right now. Seriously, you cannot. "I reduced you?"
"Yeah." There's rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. You picture him sprawled out somewhere—on a couch, maybe, or in bed—phone pressed to his ear, that insufferable grin on his face. "You put your hand on my dick and then kneed me in it. That's not something a person just forgets."
"You deserved it."
"I did," he agrees immediately. "Completely deserved it. I was inappropriate and pushy and I basically stripped in front of you. Very poor form. My mum would be horrified."
"God, no. She thinks I'm a perfect gentleman." He pauses. "She'd probably like you, actually. You seem like the type who'd keep me in line."
"No one can keep you in line."
"You did a pretty good job with your knee."
You close your laptop. Pull your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. This is insane. You should hang up. You should block this number and email Pietra tomorrow and tell her you can't work with her best man. But you don't, because despite every alarm blaring in your brain, you're enjoying this. "What do you actually want?" you ask quietly.
"Dinner," he says. No joke this time. No flirting, just honesty. "One meal. You pick the place, you pick the time. If you hate it, I'll never bother you again."
"You'll bother me anyway. You're the best man."
"Fine. Then I'll be professional. And completely appropriate. I'll call you 'ma'am' and everything."
"You're not calling me ma'am."
"See? You care." He sounds pleased. "That's progress."
"That's me stopping you from being weird."
"I can be weirder." He pauses. "Much weirder. Want me to prove it?"
"No."
"No, I think I can," he goes silent for a brief second. Then, "Uhhhhhhh, oohhhhhhh, mmmmm—"
Your brain short-circuits. "What the fuck are you—"
"Oh god, yes," he moans into the phone, and it's so obscene, so deliberately pornographic that your face catches fire. "Just like that!"
"Stop!"
"Okay, okay! Say you'll will go with me!" he says in a higher pitched voice, clearly imitating you, before dropping back to that low groan. "Oh yeah, baby, just like that!"
"Oh my GOD, Lando!"
"Right there, don't stop, don't fucking stop."
"Goodbye, Lando!" You're already pulling the phone away from your ear, face burning so hot you might actually combust.
"Friday, eight PM!" he shouts before you can hang up. "Wear something nice! I'm taking you somewhere expensive!"
You hang up. Sit there on your couch, ice cream forgotten, staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you.
Friday comes too soon.
You spend Thursday trying to convince yourself to cancel. Draft three different texts saying you can't make it, that something came up with work, that this was a mistake. Delete all of them. Pietra sends you an email with fourteen exclamation points about linens. You have a call with the florist that somehow turns into a forty-minute argument about garden roses versus peonies. You confirm the string quartet for the ceremony and the DJ for the reception and the backup generator for the lights because Pietra is convinced there will be a power outage even though Villa d'Este has never had a power outage in its three-hundred-year history.
You don't think about Lando Norris. (You think about Lando Norris constantly.)
Friday morning, you have a dress fitting in Knightsbridge for another bride who can't decide between two nearly identical shades of white. Friday afternoon, you meet with a new client in Mayfair to discuss color palettes for their engagement party—"We're thinking sage and blush, but like, elevated sage and blush, you know?" You nod. You take notes. You smile and say yes, you can absolutely source elevated sage napkins.
You don't cancel. By the time you get back to your flat in Monaco—you live here because half your clients are here and the tax benefits are obscene and you can pretend it's a practical decision and not because you've always wanted to live somewhere beautiful—it's 6:47 PM and you have one hour and thirteen minutes to get ready.
You shower. Stare at your closet for fifteen minutes. Pull out four different dresses and hate all of them. Settle on a black slip dress that's simple and elegant and shows just enough without being obvious. Nice black Manolo heels, with your hair down and makeup that looks effortless but took thirty minutes. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing. Your phone buzzes at 7:52 PM.
After rushing down the elevator, you push through the glass doors and step outside into the warm evening air. And there it is.
A Porsche GT3 RS. Forest fucking green, parked directly in front of your building like it belongs there, which it absolutely does not. The engine is running, that distinctive Porsche rumble that turns heads even in Monaco where supercars are background noise. The driver's side door opens and Lando Norris unfolds himself from the car, and—fuck. He's wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into dark trousers that fit him obscenely well. No tie. Top two buttons undone. His hair is slightly messy in that way that's definitely intentional, and when he sees you, his entire face lights up.
"Hi," he says.
You stop on the pavement. "How did you know where I live?"
His grin is shameless. "Max."
"Of course."
"Also—" he gestures at you, vague and all-encompassing, "—wow. You look incredible."
"Your selfie was terrible."
"I know." He doesn't look embarrassed. "But you responded, so it worked." He walks around to the passenger side, opens the door for you. The interior is all tan leather and you might come just from sitting inside of it.
"Shall we?" he asks.
You should turn around. Go back upstairs and text him that this was a mistake. Instead, you get in the car, he closes your door, walks back around to the driver's side. Slides in and the door shuts with that solid, expensive thunk that only German engineering can achieve.
"Seatbelt," he says, already reaching for his own.
You buckle in. The belt clicks into place and he's already pulling away from the curb, the Porsche responding to the slightest touch of the accelerator like it's been waiting for permission to move. The streets of Monaco blur past. He drives fast—not recklessly, but definitely confidently. Like he knows exactly what the car can do and exactly how far he can push it. His right hand rests on the gear shift, fingers drumming against the leather. The left is on the wheel, relaxed, assured.
Then his right hand moves and lands on your thigh. It rests there, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing against the inside of your leg. You look down at it. Then at him. He's watching the road. Completely focused like his hand isn't currently on your thigh, like this is totally okay to do upon meeting someone for the second time.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"Driving." He glances at you briefly, grin tugging at his mouth. "Why, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"Your hand?"
"What about it?" He squeezes gently, once, then goes back to that light, proprietary touch. "Problem?"
"Yes, actually."
"Hm." He doesn't move it. "Want me to stop?"
You should say yes. You should absolutely say yes. "I didn't say that."
His grin widens. "No, you didn't." He shifts gears and his hand moves with it, then returns to your thigh. Higher this time. Not quite at the hem of your dress, but close enough that you're very aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and yours.
"You're very presumptuous," you manage.
"Uh-huh," He takes a turn smoothly, the Porsche hugging the curve like it's on rails. "Also, you haven't moved my hand. So clearly I'm doing something right."
"You're doing something, that's for sure."
"Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"This." His thumb moves, a slow stroke against your inner thigh that makes your breath catch. "Me being charming and forward and completely shameless."
Your face is burning. "You're not charming."
"Liar." He glances at you again, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you. Something that makes your stomach flip. "You wouldn't be in this car if I wasn't at least a little bit charming."
He's right. You hate that he's completely right. "I didn't agree to let you feel me up in your car."
"You didn't disagree either." His thumb moves again, and this time you can't quite suppress the small inhale. He notices, and you want to grab the wheel and crash the fucking car. "Besides, I'm being a gentleman. My hand is barely moving."
"Where are we going?" you ask, trying to redirect.
"Dinner." His hand stays exactly where it is. "I made reservations at Le Grill. You know it?"
"At the Hotel de Paris?" Your stomach drops. "Wait—aren't people going to see us?"
He looks at you. Actually looks at you this time, taking his eyes off the road for longer than is probably safe. "People?"
"You're—" You gesture vaguely at him. "You're you. You're Lando Norris. People know who you are."
"So?"
"So, we'll be seen together. You and I."
"Good." He says it simply, turning his attention back to the road. His hand doesn't move from your thigh. "That's the point."
"The point?"
"Of taking you to a nice restaurant. In public. Where people will see us." He shifts gears smoothly, accelerating through a turn. "I'm not hiding you in some basement bistro. You agreed to dinner with me, so we're doing it properly."
"I didn't agree to being photographed."
"Then don't smile at the cameras." He grins. "Or do. You'll look good either way."
"Lando, please."
"Relax." He squeezes your thigh again. "It's just dinner. People eat dinner all the time. It's a very normal human activity."
The light ahead turns red. He slows to a stop, turns to look at you fully. His hand is still on your leg, thumb still doing that maddening stroke against your inner thigh. "Besides," he says, eyes locked on yours, "I already told Max I'm into you. He laughed. Said I should go for it. So if anyone asks, we're just two single people having a meal. Nothing scandalous about that."
"You told Max—"
The light turns green. He's already accelerating before you can finish the sentence.
There were photos taken outside the Hotel de Paris. At least six people with their phones out, asking for pictures, calling his name. Lando handled it the way he probably handles everything—with that easy charm that makes people feel like they're the only person in the room, even when he's already moving on to the next one. His hand never left yours except to pose for photos, and when he was done, it came right back.
Dinner goes well. Too well, actually. The restaurant is all art deco elegance and Lando is—fuck, he's good at this. Charming without being smarmy, confident without being obnoxious. He orders wine without looking at the list, pulls out your chair, makes the kind of casual conversation that feels effortless even though you know it's not. He asks about your work, actually listens when you answer, remembers details from Pietra's emails that he has no business remembering. And he's gorgeous in the dim lighting. That's the worst part. The candles catch the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you say something that amuses him. His shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and you keep noticing his throat, his collarbones, the way his hands move when he talks.
He catches you looking. Grins like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "See something you like?" he asks.
"Don't push it."
"That's not a no." His hand finds your knee under the table. Stays there through the rest of dinner. Through dessert—which he insists on ordering even though you're full. Through the coffee. His thumb traces lazy circles against your leg and you're very aware of every single point of contact. By the time you're back in the Porsche, it's past eleven and the streets of Monaco are quieter. He drives slower this time, his hand back on your thigh like it belongs there.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Shocking."
"You did too. Don't lie." You don't answer, and instead you look out the window instead at the city lights blurring past. He pulls up to your building too soon. Puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"So," he says.
"So."
"Can I come up?"
You look at him. He's watching you with that same intensity, that same certainty, like he already knows what your answer is going to be. "That's very presumptuous," you say.
"I prefer forward." His hand squeezes your thigh. "And you haven't said no yet."
"I haven't said yes either."
"But you're thinking about it." He leans closer, and you can smell his cologne again, that same expensive scent that's been driving you crazy all night. "Aren't you?"
You should say no. You should thank him for dinner, get out of the car, go upstairs alone. "Just for a drink," you hear yourself say.
His smile is dangerous. "Just for a drink."
He turns off the engine and the encompassing sudden silence is loud. You hear your own breathing, hear the way his shifts slightly as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
"Come on then," he says finally.
You get out before he can come around to open your door. He manages it anyway, meets you on the pavement, and his hand finds the small of your back as you walk toward the entrance. The lobby is empty, just silence and the night security guard who nods at you as you pass. The elevator is at the far end, and your heels click against the floor with each step. Lando's hand stays on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
You press the button. Wait, and the elevator arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open. You step inside. He follows anf the doors close and suddenly the space feels much smaller. You're very aware of how close he's standing, how you can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Which floor?" he asks.
"Seven."
He presses the button. The elevator starts moving.
You watch the numbers climb. One. Two. Three.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
You look at him. He's already watching you, leaning against the elevator wall with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable. "About whether this is a terrible idea," you say.
"It definetly is." He doesn't sound concerned. "But you're still bringing me up."
Four. Five. Six.
The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open. You step out into the hallway. He follows, close enough that you can feel him behind you as you walk to your door. Your hands are shaking slightly as you dig for your keys in your clutch.
"Need help?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. Right behind you.
"I've got it." You find the keys. Unlock the door. It swings open into your flat—dark except for the light you left on in the kitchen. You step inside and he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.
He doesn't move further in. Just stands there in your entryway, hands still in his pockets, watching you. "Nice place," he says.
"You haven't even looked at it."
"I'm looking at you."
Your face heats. You turn away, set your clutch down on the console table by the door. Slip off your heels. The relief is immediate but also makes you shorter, more aware of how much taller he is. "I'll get us something to drink," you say.
"Sure."
You walk toward the kitchen. Hear him follow. When you glance back, he's looking around now—at the open floor plan, the windows overlooking the other buildings, your cream-colored Cloud couch and the art on the walls.
"Wine?" you ask, opening the fridge.
"Whatever you're having."
You pull out a bottle of white. Realize your hands are still shaking when you try to open it.
"Here." He's suddenly right behind you, taking the bottle from your hands. "Let me." He opens it easily. Pours two glasses then hands you one.
"Cheers," he says. You take a sip and the wine is cold and crisp and does nothing to settle your nerves. Lando leans against your counter, glass in hand, still watching you with that same look.
"You're staring," you say.
"I know."
"It's rude."
"I know that too." He takes a sip of wine. "But you look good so good right now, I can't help myself." He sets his glass down. "Come here."
It's not a question. Not quite a command either. Just—an invitation. A test and you should tell him to leave. Should remind him this is a terrible idea. Should do literally anything except walk toward him. You walk toward him and he doesn't move. Just watches you close the distance, watches you stop right in front of him. Close enough to touch but not touching.
"Hi," he says quietly.
"Hi."
His hand comes up. Slowly. Gives you time to move away if you want to. Cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says. "If that's not okay, you should probably say something."
You don't say anything and he leans in. His mouth finds yours and it's—fuck. It's nothing like you expected. Softer at first, almost careful, his lips moving against yours like he's learning you. His hand stays on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, and his other hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer. Not demanding. Just guiding.
You kiss him back and feel him smile against your mouth.
"There she is," he murmurs, and then the careful is gone.
He kisses you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his hand tightening on your waist. You make a sound—something embarrassing and needy—and he swallows it, uses it as permission to crowd you back against the counter. The marble is cold against your lower back but he's warm, solid, pressed against you from chest to hips.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it. The other hand moves lower, gripping your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there through your dress. You can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing against your stomach, and when you shift slightly he groans into your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips already swollen, and there's something feral in the way he's looking at you now. "Bedroom. Where's your bedroom?"
You point vaguely toward the hallway. Can't quite form words.
"Show me." You take his hand. Lead him down the hall, past the bathroom, to your bedroom door. It's dark inside but you don't turn on the light. Don't need to. The city lights through the windows give enough illumination to see the bed, to see him closing the door behind you with one hand while the other pulls you back against him.
He kisses you again. Hungrier this time, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your ass through the silk. He walks you backward toward the bed, doesn't break the kiss even when your legs hit the mattress.
"This dress," he says against your mouth. "Been thinking about taking it off you all night."
"Then take it off."
His hands find the zipper. Slides it down slowly, deliberately, knuckles dragging against your spine. The dress loosens, falls open, and he peels it off your shoulders. It pools at your feet and you step out of it, standing there in just your underwear—black lace, matching set, the expensive kind you told yourself you definitely didn't wear for him.
He steps back. Looks at you.
"Jesus Christ," he says quietly.
You reach for his shirt. Start unbuttoning it, fingers fumbling slightly because he's watching you so intently and it's making your hands shake. He lets you get three buttons undone before his patience runs out and he pulls it over his head, sends it somewhere across the room. And—fuck. You knew he'd be fit, he's an athlete, but seeing it is different. Tanned skin, defined muscles, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into his trousers. You put your hands on his chest, feel his heart racing under your palms, feel the way his breathing has gone uneven.
"Your turn," you say, fingers going to his belt.
He doesn't help. Just stands there watching you unbuckle it, unzip his trousers, push them down his hips. He steps out of them and then it's just his boxer briefs—black, tight, doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. You look up at him. He's grinning now, that same cocky grin from the dressing room.
"See something you like?"
"Shut up."
"Make me." You kiss him again and he makes this sound—low and pleased—before his hands are on you, one sliding up your back to unclasp your bra while the other grips your ass, pulling you flush against him. The bra falls away and then his mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, trailing lower.
"Bed," he says against your skin. "Get on the bed."
You do. Climb onto the mattress, lie back against the pillows, and watch him watch you. He hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, pushes them down, and—
Oh. He's—fuck, he's big. Thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, and when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, you forget how to breathe.
"Still want to tell me to shut up?" he asks, climbing onto the bed, caging you in with his arms.
You can't speak. Can only stare at him—at the way his muscles shift as he moves, at the cocky tilt to his smile, at the heat in his eyes. His hand slides up your thigh. Slowly. Taking his time. Fingers tracing patterns against your skin until he reaches the edge of your underwear.
"These," he says, snapping the lace against your hip, "need to come off."
He doesn't wait for permission. Just hooks his fingers into the lace and drags it down your legs, tosses it somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, and the way he's looking at you—hungry and focused and completely shameless—makes heat flood through your entire body.
"Fuck," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Look at you."
His fingers trace up your inner thigh, feather-light, getting closer and closer to where you need him. But he doesn't touch you yet. Just keeps tracing these maddening patterns against your skin while you try very hard not to squirm.
"Lando—"
"Yeah?" He's grinning now. Knows exactly what he's doing. "Something you need?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" His fingers move higher, so close now you can feel the heat of his hand. "You might need to be more specific."
You grab his wrist. Guide his hand where you want it. His palm cups you and you both make a sound—yours is relief, his is something darker. "Fuck, you're already wet," he says, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds, finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Is this what you've been thinking about? All through dinner?"
You can't answer. Can only arch into his touch as he works you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, learning exactly what makes you gasp.
"Answer me," he says, leaning down to kiss your neck. Teeth scraping against your pulse point. "Have you been thinking about this?"
"Yes." It comes out breathless. "Yes, fuck—"
"Good." He slides one finger inside you and you both groan. "Because I've been thinking about it since the fucking dressing room."
He adds a second finger, curls them just right, and you see stars. His thumb finds your clit and works it in rhythm with his fingers, and you're already embarrassingly close, already fisting the sheets because it's too much and not enough all at once.
"That's it," he murmurs against your throat. "Let me feel you."
You come hard, sudden and sharp, your back arching off the bed. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, prolonging it until you're shaking and trying to push his hand away because it's too sensitive. He pulls his fingers out slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact.
"Jesus Christ," you manage.
"We're not done." He's already reaching for his trousers, digging through the pockets. Pulls out his wallet, then a condom. "Not even close."
He tears it open with his teeth, rolls it on, and then he's positioning himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance and you both freeze for a second.
"You good?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. Like he actually cares about the answer.
"Yeah." You pull him down into a kiss. "I'm good."
He pushes in slowly. Just the tip at first, letting you adjust, and fuck—he's thick. Thicker than his fingers, stretching you in a way that's just on the right side of too much. "Breathe," he says against your mouth. "Just breathe."
You do. He pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you and you both have to take a moment because it's overwhelming. He feels enormous like this, filling you completely, and when he shifts slightly you make a sound that's almost pained.
"Okay?" His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Talk to me."
"Move." Your hands grip his shoulders. "Please move."
He does. Pulls out slowly, pushes back in, sets a rhythm that's measured and deliberate. His eyes don't leave yours, watching every reaction, every gasp, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks, doing it again.
"Yes—fuck—there—"
He grins. Picks up the pace, driving into you harder now, and the bed frame starts hitting the wall with each thrust. His hand slides down between your bodies, finds your clit again, and the combination of his cock and his fingers is going to kill you.
"Come on," he says, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
You're already close, can feel it building at the base of your spine. His rhythm never falters, just keeps hitting that spot inside you over and over while his fingers work your clit, and when you come this time it's harder than before, your whole body seizing up as you clench around him.
"Fuck—" He groans, hips stuttering, and then he's coming too, burying himself deep and grinding against you as he rides it out.
For a moment, neither of you move. Just breathe hard against each other, hearts racing, skin slicked with sweat. Then he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and collapses next to you on the bed.
"So," he says, still catching his breath. "That was—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to say. Just—don't."
He laughs. Rolls onto his side to look at you. "I was going to say that was worth the three-week wait."
Despite yourself, you smile. "It was pretty good."
"Pretty good?" He looks offended. "I just made you come twice."
"Twice isn't that impressive."
"Give me ten minutes." His hand slides up your thigh. "We'll go for three."
For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together last night. The restaurant. The car. Your apartment. Your bed. Lando.
You sit up. The sheets are tangled, your dress is still pooled on the floor by the door, and there's a dull ache between your legs that confirms last night definitely happened. But Lando's not here. His clothes are gone. His shoes. The only evidence he was ever here is the faint smell of his cologne on your pillows and a note on the nightstand.
You reach for it. Hotel de Paris stationery, which means he had it in his pocket.
You shower. The hot water does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in your stomach. When you get out, you pull up his contact—the number he texted you from with that blurry selfie—and type out a message.You hit send. The message sits there for a second, then: Not Delivered
You stare at it. Try again. Not Delivered
He blocked you. Or his number's disconnected. Or something. You wait a day. Try calling. It rings once, then straight to voicemail. The generic kind.
"The person you are trying to reach is not available." You hang up. Stare at your phone and think, what the fuck?
The weeks blur together in a haze of spreadsheets and vendor calls and forcing yourself not to think about Lando Norris.
You throw yourself into work, you finalize the floral arrangements for the ceremony—white roses and peonies, exactly as Pietra specified. Confirm the string quartet for cocktail hour and the DJ for the reception. Coordinate with the Villa d'Este staff about the timeline, the seating chart, the fucking napkin placement. You email Pietra approximately four hundred times about details that probably don't matter but keep you busy enough that you don't have time to feel pathetic.
You don't tell anyone what happened. Not your friends, not your assistant, definitely not Pietra. What would you even say? I slept with the best man and then he ghosted me? It sounds stupid even in your head. You see his name in the email threads. Max and Pietra's group messages about the bachelor party, about travel arrangements, about the rehearsal dinner. Lando responds to everything—quick, efficient, and never directly to you. Always just replies-all to the group.
You stop trying to text him after the first week. Stop checking his Instagram after the second. By week three, you've almost convinced yourself it was just a one-night thing that you both silently agreed to forget about.
Almost. Then Pietra sends the email.
Wonderful, this is going to be absolutely fucking wonderful.
You arrive at Villa d'Este on Sunday afternoon with your tablet, three different backup chargers, and a determination to be so fucking professional that Lando Norris will feel like an absolute idiot for whatever game he's playing.
The villa is stunning—which is not surprising given that Pietra wouldn't settle for quite literally anything less. Terracotta and cypress trees and Italian sunshine that makes everything look like a painting. The staff greets you at the entrance, and you're shown to your room: a corner suite with a view of Lake Como that would be romantic if you weren't here to work.
You unpack. Check your timeline. Confirm with the florist about tomorrow's delivery. Send Pietra a message letting her know you've arrived. She responds immediately with approximately forty heart emojis. The welcome dinner is at 8 PM on the terrace. You spend an hour deciding what to wear, which is stupid because this is a work event and you should just throw on something professional and call it done. Instead you try on four different dresses before settling on a linen midi dress in cream—elegant, appropriate, and coincidentally (totally not planned) makes you look incredible.
At 7:38 PM, you step onto the terrace. It's exactly as beautiful as you expected. String lights overhead, long tables set with flickering candles, the lake shimmering in the background. Pietra spots you immediately and practically runs over, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and champagne. "You're here! Oh my god, thank you for coming early, I know it's a lot but I just—I needed you here, you know?"
"Of course," you say, and you mean it. Pietra's one of the good ones. "Everything's going to be perfect."
"I know. Because you're here." She squeezes your hand, then gets pulled away by one of her bridesmaids. You grab a glass of wine from a passing server. Scan the terrace. Max is by the bar with his brother. The bridesmaids are clustered near the railing, taking photos. And then—
There.
Lando's at the far end of the terrace, leaning against the stone wall with a beer in his hand, laughing at something one of the groomsmen just said. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he's been on the beach. Even from here you can see the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders when he moves. Beautiful bastard.
He hasn't seen you yet. You turn away and head toward the opposite side of the terrace. You can do this. You can be in the same space as him for one week without it being a thing. You're a professional for fucksake.
"There she is!"
Max appears at your elbow, grinning. "The woman who's going to make sure my fiancée doesn't have a breakdown over napkin colors. We owe you our lives."
You laugh despite yourself. "Just doing my job."
"Well, you're doing it incredibly well." He gestures toward the bar. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. Well—everyone you haven't met yet."
Your stomach drops. "Max, I've already—"
But he's already steering you across the terrace, toward the group of groomsmen, toward the bar, toward him. "Lando, mate, have you met—" For half a second—just half—something flashes across his face. Something that looks almost like oh fuck. But then it's gone, smoothed over, replaced by that easy smile, and he's extending his hand like you're strangers.
"Don't think we've been properly introduced," he says. His voice is perfectly friendly. Perfectly casual. "Lando."
You stare at him. At his outstretched hand. At the complete absence of acknowledgment in his eyes. "I know who you are," you say.
"Right. Wedding planner." His smile doesn't waver. "Pietra talks about you constantly."
He's still holding out his hand. Waiting. You shake it. His grip is firm, professional, and he lets go immediately—no lingering, no recognition, nothing. Max is already talking. Something about the bachelor party itinerary, about the boat they rented, about someone's girlfriend who couldn't make it. You're not listening. You're looking at Lando, at the way he's nodding along to Max's story like this is completely normal, like he didn't fuck you three months ago and then disappear.
"—right?" Max finishes.
You have no idea what he just said. "Absolutely."
"Perfect! I'll let you two sort out the logistics." Max claps Lando on the shoulder and wanders off toward Pietra, leaving you standing there with a man who's currently pretending he doesn't know what you look like naked.
The silence stretches. Lando takes a sip of his beer. You grip your wine glass hard enough that you're mildly concerned it might shatter. "So," he says finally. "Bachelor party logistics, huh?."
You stare at him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"What?" He has the audacity to look confused. Concerned, even. "Did Max not fill you in on the timing? I can send you the—"
"Stop."
He stops. The casual mask slips just slightly—something sharper underneath, something that looks almost like guilt but you're not sure because it's gone before you can name it. "You blocked my number," you say quietly. The terrace is loud enough that no one else will hear, but you keep your voice low anyway. "You left a note that said you'd call. And then you blocked my fucking number."
"I didn't—" He stops. Looks away. Jaw working. "It's complicated."
"Complicated." You laugh, and it comes out brittle. "Right. So complicated that you couldn't send a single text that said 'hey, this was a mistake' or 'I'm not interested' or literally anything besides complete silence for three months."
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" You step closer, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "Because from where I'm standing, you spent weeks pursuing me, convinced me to have dinner with you, fucked me, and then disappeared. So please, Lando, tell me what it was actually like."
His hand tightens around his beer bottle. "Can we not do this here?"
"Oh, now you want to talk?"
"I—" He glances around. The terrace is full of people, but no one's paying attention to you. "Yes. Just—not here."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stops. Runs his free hand through his hair, and there it is—the first crack in the facade. He looks actually frustrated, like an actual fucking human being. "Because Max and Pietra don't know. About us. About—" He gestures vaguely between you. "Any of it."
"There is no us," you say. "There was one night. That you pretended never happened."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then what do you call this?" You gesture at the space between you. "The handshake? The 'don't think we've been properly introduced'? What the fuck was that?"
"I was trying to—" He stops. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You could've been honest, Lando."
"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be honest right now."
"Three months late."
"I know." He steps closer and his voice drops, quiet enough that it's just for you. "I know, and I—look, can we please just talk about this somewhere that isn't the middle of Pietra's welcome dinner with forty people around us?"
You open your mouth to tell him no, to tell him there's nothing to talk about, to tell him he had three months to have this conversation and he chose silence instead. But before you can get a single word out, someone calls his name.
"Lando!"
You both turn. There's a woman walking toward you—tall, blonde, short hair, absolutely stunning in a lilac slip dress. She's smiling, bright and easy and completely unaware that she's just walked into the middle of something, and when she reaches Lando she rises up on her toes and kisses his cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Your stomach drops so fast you actually feel dizzy.
"There you are," she says, her hand landing on his arm. The touch is light, casual, but it stays there, definitely stays there. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Pietra wants to do a champagne toast before dinner and she's panicking because she can't find the speech she wrote."
Lando's face does something that looks like dread and resignation and guilt all at once. "Magui, I—"
And that's when it clicks. When your brain finally catches up to what you're seeing, to who this is, to what this means. Magui. Magui Corceiro. Portuguese model, Lando's ex-girlfriend, and—according to Pietra's meticulously organized bridal party spreadsheet that you've reviewed approximately three dozen times in the last two months—the maid of honor. She turns to you now, still smiling, still completely oblivious to the fact that you're currently having an out-of-body experience. "Hi! You must be the wedding planner. Pietra showed me all your photos of the ceremony setup—it's going to be absolutely gorgeous."
You can't speak. Your brain has completely short-circuited because Lando's ex-girlfriend is standing in front of you being lovely and friendly and probably a genuinely nice person, and she has no idea that you slept with him three months ago. That he left a note on your nightstand and then blocked your number. That he's standing here right now looking like he wants the terrace to open up and swallow him whole.
"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds strange, like it's coming from very far away. "Yes. The planner."
"I'm Magui." She extends her hand and you shake it on autopilot, and her grip is warm and her smile is genuine and you kind of want to die. "I'm so excited for this week. Pietra's been planning this wedding since I met her, I swear."
"Yeah," you say. Very articulate. "She has."
Magui's hand is still on Lando's arm. She's not holding on tight, not being possessive, but it's there—a casual point of contact that speaks to history, to familiarity, to the kind of comfort you only get with someone you've known for years. And suddenly, with a clarity that makes you feel physically sick, everything makes sense. The Hotel de Paris, where he took you to dinner. Where people saw you together, where phones came out, where he very deliberately chose somewhere public and high-profile instead of some quiet bistro where you could've had privacy. The ghosting that came after. The blocked number. The three months of complete silence. He took you there to make her jealous. He fucked you and then he went back to her. And you were stupid enough to think it meant something.
Wow, what a fucking joke.
You look at Lando and he's staring at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he can see the entire realization playing out on your face. There's something desperate in his expression now, something that looks almost like panic, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, like he's going to try to explain or defend himself or ask you to just wait, just give him a second to—
You don't wait. "Excuse me," you say, and your voice comes out perfectly level, perfectly professional. "I need to check on the seating arrangements."
You turn and walk away before either of them can respond. You don't run—running would draw attention, would make it obvious that something's wrong—but you walk fast enough that you're through the terrace doors and into the villa's cool interior within seconds. The hallway is blessedly empty. You make it around the corner, out of sight of the terrace, and then you stop. Just stop, press your back against the wall, close your eyes, and try very hard to remember how to breathe.
Fuck.
You avoid Lando Norris for the next four days. Monday is vendor deliveries and a conveniently timed florist crisis. Tuesday is spa day for the bridal party, which you skip because you're "confirming final counts with catering." Wednesday is the rehearsal dinner and you plant yourself next to Pietra the entire night, keep Max's brother between you and Lando during dinner, and do not make eye contact. Not once. Not when he gives his speech and everyone laughs. Not when you feel him watching you from across the table. Not when Magui's hand is on his thigh and you have to pretend you don't see it, don't care, aren't replaying that night in your apartment on a fucking loop.
It works. For four days, it works.
Then it's Thursday night—the night before the wedding—and you're alone in your room. You've showered, changed into an oversized t-shirt, pulled your hair into a messy knot. Your tablet is open on the bed next to you, tomorrow's timeline pulled up even though you've memorized every minute. Ceremony at 4:30. Cocktail hour at 5:45. Reception at 7:00. Everything is confirmed, everything is perfect, and you should be asleep because tomorrow is sixteen hours of nonstop work.
Instead you're staring at the timeline trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow you'll have to watch Lando stand at the altar in that Cifonelli suit. Watch him give a speech about love and commitment while Magui sits at the head table looking beautiful and oblivious.
There's a knock at your door. 11:47 PM. More likely than not, it's Pietra panicking about something last-minute, or hotel staff with towels you didn't ask for.
It's one of the groomsmen. Tom, maybe, or the one whose name you keep forgetting—one of Max's childhood friends who has been aggressively normal all week and therefore completely indistinguishable from the others. He's still in his dinner clothes with his tie loosened and he's holding his phone out to you.
"Sorry, do you have the groomsmen timeline for tomorrow? Mine cuts off after the ceremony and I can't find the—"
"Yeah," you say. "One second."
You go back to your tablet. Pull it up. AirDrop it to him. The whole thing takes forty seconds. "Brilliant, cheers," he says. "Sorry for bothering you."
"It's fine."
You close the door. Stand there.
The room is exactly as you left it. Tablet on the bed, timeline pulled up, lamp on the nightstand casting the same warm light it's been casting for the last two hours. Nothing has changed. Everything is fine and confirmed and in its place and you did not just spend the walk to the door composing your face into something that wasn't—
You were going to fix your hair. Your hand was actually moving toward your hair. You go back to bed. Turn off the lamp and stare at the ceiling for a while in the dark like a normal person who is completely fine and definitely not lying in a five-star suite on Lake Como having feelings about a man who couldn't be bothered to text.
You're asleep by one. Probably.
You're up at six. The florist calls at 6:04 because she's psychotic, and there are, apparently, too many peonies. You stand on your balcony in yesterday's t-shirt and handle it, because that's what you do, and also because handling it means you can't think about anything else, which is the closest thing to a coping mechanism you have right now.
By eight you've redistributed the surplus flowers, confirmed the string quartet's arrival, talked Pietra down from a weather spiral (partly cloudy is not rain, it has never been rain, clouds are not an emergency), and eaten something standing over the sink. By ten you're in your dress and moving through the villa with your tablet and your timeline and your entire personality held together by a thread.
It works. Right up until the ceremony. The groomsmen are already at the altar when you do your final sweep from the back of the terrace. You're checking sightlines. Checking the musicians. Checking that the flower girl hasn't eaten the petals out of her basket again.
You find him anyway. You weren't looking and you find him anyway, which is really just your life now. The suit fits exactly as well as you knew it would. You stood in that dressing room and checked every seam yourself. Midnight blue, peak lapels, the mother-of-pearl buttons Pietra specified in the email she sent at 11 PM on a Tuesday. His hair is neat for once. He's laughing at something Max just said, head tilted, and he looks, well, he looks beautiful.
You look back down at your tablet. He looks up. You feel it without seeing it, that same thing you felt across the room at Cifonelli four months ago, and you keep your eyes on your screen and breathe.
The ceremony starts one minute late. You note it and say nothing. Pietra comes down the aisle and she looks so genuinely, stupidly happy that something in your chest does a thing you weren't prepared for. Ten meters of Italian lace and she's crying already and Max looks like a man who cannot believe his luck, and you're standing at the side of this terrace with your tablet and your earpiece and your professional remove, and it still gets you. It always gets you. It's the only part of this job that still surprises you every single time.
You watch from the periphery, same as always. That's where you live at weddings—just outside the frame, making sure everything inside it stays perfect. You check the musicians. Check the timing. Check that the rings are where they're supposed to be.
You don't mean to keep finding him in the crowd. It just keeps happening. He's watching Max the whole time. That's the thing—there's no performance to it, no awareness of how he looks. Just him, actually present, actually feeling something, and when Max's voice breaks slightly on his vows Lando looks down at his shoes for a second like he's trying to get it together.
You write 4:47—ceremony concluded in your notes.
When they kiss the whole terrace erupts and Lando is the loudest, clapping with his whole body, grinning like an idiot, and Max grabs him first before Pietra and they do that thing men do where they hug and immediately try to make it funny and Pietra throws her arms around both of them and the photographer is getting all of it and you are standing fifteen feet away writing transition to cocktail hour—on schedule.
Completely fine. Cocktail hour is yours. This is where you live—moving between vendors, checking the canapé timing, making sure the string quartet transitions correctly, solving the three small disasters that happen at every single cocktail hour without exception. You're good at this part. You're good at all of it actually, that's the whole problem, because being good at your job means you're always just present enough to notice things you'd rather not.
Like Lando, at the edge of the terrace, with a drink in his hand, not talking to anyone. You notice it the way you notice everything—peripherally, catalogued, filed away. He's been stopped twice for photos, laughed at something Max's brother said, done a full loop of the terrace. But right now he's standing at the stone railing looking out at the lake and he looks like someone who is also trying not to look at something.
You go check on the canapés. The reception starts at seven on the dot, which you will feel smug about for at least a week. The room is everything Pietra wanted and you knew it would be—candlelight and white flowers and the lake through the open doors, and when the bridal party is announced and everyone floods in you let yourself have exactly four seconds of satisfaction before you're back on your tablet checking the dinner service timeline.
You're at the coordinator's table near the kitchen entrance. Good sightline, close enough to intervene, far enough to be invisible. You've eaten half a bread roll. You have a glass of water and a glass of wine and you've touched neither of them in forty minutes. This is normal. This is what weddings look like from your side of them.
The speeches start at eight. Max's father goes first. Then Pietra's sister, who cries through the whole thing in a way that is genuinely charming and gets the room crying with her. Then the maid of honor—Magui, composed and warm and funny in exactly the right measure, and you watch her at the microphone and feel nothing except a vague and distant acknowledgment that she is, irritatingly, very likeable.
Then Lando stands up. The room shifts the way rooms do when someone walks into them with a specific kind of energy. He gets a cheer before he's even said a word, someone whoops from the back, and he grins and waits for it to die down with the patience of someone who has been in front of crowds his entire adult life.
"Right," he says. "So I've been told to keep this under ten minutes."
Someone shouts something. He laughs. "Which is generous, actually, because I had a whole thing prepared and then Max told me Pietra's sister was going first and I watched her speak at the rehearsal dinner and I've scrapped it completely because there's no following that."
More laughter. Pietra is already crying again. You are looking at your tablet. "I've known Max since we were kids," Lando says, and his voice shifts—still easy, still him, but quieter now. This was more real. "And I can tell you that for a long time he was the most annoying person I'd ever met, which is saying something because I work with some genuinely difficult people—"
Laughter.
"—but the thing about Max is that he has never once, in fifteen years, pretended to be someone he isn't. Not for anyone. And I always thought that was just—I thought that was just who he was. That it was easy for him."
He pauses. Looks at Max.
"And then I watched him meet Pietra."
The room has gone very quiet. "And I realized it wasn't that it was easy. It was that he was waiting. For someone who made it—not easy. Just—worth it." He picks up his glass. "I've never said this to your face because you'd be insufferable about it, but you're my best friend and I love you, mate. And Pietra." He turns to her. "Thank you for making him this annoying to be around. He smiles all the time now, it's disgusting, we all hate it."
Pietra laughs through her tears.
"To Max and Pietra." The room rises and you raise your water glass and you do not look at him and your throat is doing something completely unreasonable that you are going to ignore. By nine-thirty the dancing is in full swing and your job has mostly become logistics maintenance—checking the cake is ready, confirming the late night snacks are on schedule, fielding a minor situation involving someone's elderly aunt and the wrong seat assignment. Small things. Manageable things.
Which means you have too much space in your head. You slip out through the side door onto the smaller terrace, the one that wraps around the north side of the villa. It's quieter here, just the music drifting out from the reception and the lake below and the night air which is warm and still and completely wasted on you. You lean against the railing and look at the water and let yourself have five minutes of not performing.
You hear the door behind you. You know before you turn around and turn around anyway. Better to get it over with. He's loosened his tie at some point, top button undone, and he's holding two glasses of wine which is either presumptuous or optimistic or both. He holds one out to you.
You take it. You're too tired not to. He comes to stand next to you at the railing, not close enough to be a thing, just—there. Looking at the lake. You look at the lake too. The music from inside is muffled out here, something slow, and the water is doing that thing it does at night where it looks completely still even though it isn't.
"Good speech," you say, because you're a professional and it was.
"Thanks."
Silence. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just weighted. "The flowers looked incredible," he says.
"They did."
"Pietra cried when she saw the ceremony setup. Like, before anyone arrived. Just walked in and started crying."
"I know. I was there."
"Right." He turns his glass in his hand. "You're always there."
You're not sure what to do with that so you don't do anything with it. The lake does its thing. The music does its thing. You finish half your wine and let the silence sit because you're too tired to perform and apparently so is he.
"Magui and I have been on and off for four years," he says finally. Not looking at you. Looking at the water. "On when it was easy, off when it wasn't, back on because it's familiar and familiar felt like enough when you're never in the same place for more than two weeks." He pauses. "It wasn't enough. It hadn't been for a long time. We both knew it."
You don't say anything.
"The night I took you to dinner," he says. "We were off."
There it is. "And after," he says. "When I left yours. We were still off." He pauses. "And then I got back and she called and we were," he stops. "We were on again. By the time I thought to reach you it had been two weeks and I didn't know how to." He exhales. "There's no good version of this."
"No," you say. "There isn't."
"I should have told you. Before dinner, before any of it, I should have told you it was complicated and let you decide if you wanted to be anywhere near it." He turns his glass in his hand. "I didn't because I didn't want you to say no."
The music inside swells for a moment then settles. Someone laughs, loud and bright, and then it's quiet again out here.
"So right now," you say. Carefully. "You and her."
He doesn't answer immediately, which is its own answer. "It's complicated," he finally says.
"You said that already. At the welcome dinner."
"I know." He looks at you then. Really looks at you, and you wish he wouldn't because it's much easier to be angry at someone when they're not looking at you like that. "I'm sorry. For the record. Not because I need you to forgive me or because we're stuck at the same wedding. Just—you didn't deserve any of it. The dinner, the note, the silence. None of it was fair to you."
You look at him for a long moment. He means it. That's the worst part. He's standing here in the suit you watched being fitted four months ago and he means every word of it and it doesn't change a single thing.
"No," you say. "It wasn't. You should sort it out," you say. "Whatever it is. Just—sort it out."
You mean it as exactly what it is. Not an opening, not a door left ajar. Just the truth—that four years of on and off is no way to live and you can see it on him and whatever else he is he doesn't deserve that either.
You pick up your tablet. Turn toward the door.
"Hey."
You stop. He's stepped closer. Not by much—just enough that you're aware of it, the same way you've been aware of him all night, all week, across every room you've had the misfortune of sharing. His tie is loose and his eyes are doing the thing they do and he has absolutely no business looking like that.
"What," you say.
"Nothing." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "Just — you look really good tonight."
"Lando."
"I'm just saying."
"You're just saying," you repeat.
"The dress is—" he gestures vaguely, "— it's a good dress." You look at him. At the half smile and the careful eyes and the very deliberate closing of distance that he's doing so slowly you're almost supposed to not notice.
"Don't," you say.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He takes another half step. You don't move back, which is either confidence or stubbornness, and at this point you genuinely can't tell the difference. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, the same one from the dressing room, from your kitchen, from the one night you've been trying to stop replaying for four months.
"Sort it out first," you say quietly.
He stops. Something moves across his face. The half smile fades into something more honest, and he looks at you for a long moment in the dark with the lake behind him and the music leaking through the doors and forty people thirty feet away who have no idea.
"Yeah," he says finally. Quietly. "Okay."
You hold his gaze for one more second and then you go back inside.
The cake goes out at nine fifty-two, eight minutes behind schedule, which you will think about for days. Pietra doesn't notice. Nobody notices. The room is candlelight and dancing and white flowers and everything she asked for, and you stand at the edge of it with your tablet and your earpiece and watch it all run exactly the way you built it to.
Max dips Pietra on the dance floor and she shrieks and the whole room cheers.
You write 2147—reception on track in your notes. You don't look for him. That's the thing—you don't look. And somewhere between the cake and the late night pizzette and the moment Pietra throws her bouquet directly at her maid of honor's face, you realize you've stopped bracing for it. Stopped waiting for him to appear in your peripheral vision. Stopped doing the thing where you feel him in a room before you see him.
Maybe that's something. Maybe that's enough for tonight. You're in the car to the airport by noon on Monday. Your inbox has forty-three unread emails, a voice note from Pietra that is mostly crying and the word perfect repeated several times, and nothing else.
You fly home. You make coffee. You open your laptop.
You don't check for anything specific.
He calls on a Wednesday. Three weeks after the wedding, 9 PM your time, and you answer on the second ring which you will think about later with some irritation.
He calls two weeks after that, and then two months later.
It's October when you finally have the balls to properly ask.
You don't mean to. You've been on the phone for forty minutes about nothing—his race in Japan, your nightmare client in Paris, an argument about whether peonies are actually better than roses which you're winning handily—and it just comes out.
"Are you and Magui still off?"
Silence. Two seconds, maybe three.
"Yeah," he says. "We're off."
"Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he's quiet again
Neither of you says anything for a moment. "The peonies thing," you say. "I'm right."
"You're not right."
"I'm always right."
"Okay, you're right about flowers and wrong about everything else."
"Name one thing."
"You told me Austin was always loud and last weekend it was completely fine actually!"
You're laughing before you can stop it and he sounds pleased about that, insufferably pleased, and you talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and when you hang up you sit with yeah, we're off for a long time in the dark.
He doesn't call for another two months.
You don't call him either. That's the thing you come back to, later—you could have. You have his number, he has yours, there's no rule that says it has to be him. But you wait, and he doesn't call, and you tell yourself it's fine because it is fine, it was always going to be fine, you knew what this was.
You get through November on spreadsheets and a particularly chaotic engagement party in Cannes. December on a destination wedding in Marrakech that nearly kills you professionally but produces the best photographs you've ever seen. January on sheer spite and very good coffee.
He calls in February. A Sunday, 11 AM, like no time has passed at all.
You answer on the third ring. Progress.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I'm in London."
"Okay."
"It's raining."
"It's always raining."
A pause. "I know I went quiet."
"You don't have to do this, Lando."
"I know I don't have to." His voice is even. "I just wanted to say it. I went quiet and I'm sorry."
You look out your window at Monaco in February, grey and still, the harbour flat and cold.
"Is everything okay," you ask.
"Yeah." A beat. "It's getting there."
You believe him. You always believe him, which is its own problem.
"I have a bride in Tuscany," you say. "She wants the entire wedding in shades of terracotta."
"Is that bad?"
"It's not bad it's just—it's a lot of terracotta, Lando."
He laughs and something in your chest unknots quietly and you talk for an hour about nothing and when you hang up you don't sit with it this time. You just go make coffee and open your laptop and get on with your day.
He calls the following Sunday. And the one after that.
By spring it's just—a thing. Your thing. He calls on Sundays when he can, Wednesdays when he can't wait until Sunday, random Tuesday nights from airports when his flight is delayed and he's bored and you're the person he wants to talk to apparently, which you have filed under not my problem and left there.
You know his schedule better than you mean to. You know Bahrain is always chaos and he hates the Monaco GP for reasons he won't fully explain and that he's been trying to learn to cook since January with limited success.
"The pasta was fine," he says, from his kitchen in Woking on a Wednesday in April.
"You said that last time and then you told me you ate cereal for dinner."
"The pasta was fine and then I had cereal for dessert. Two separate things."
"That's not what dessert means."
"That's exactly what dessert means."
"Lando."
"What, it was good cereal."
You're smiling at your kitchen table over a glass of wine and you are absolutely not thinking about what this is.
He doesn't call on Sunday.
Or the Sunday after that. You don't call him either. You tell yourself you're busy, which is true—there's a wedding in Vienna in November and a corporate event in Paris that's somehow become your problem and a bride who has changed her color palette four times in three weeks. You're busy.
You're always busy, so it's fine.
October becomes November. November becomes December and you're at your parents' house on Christmas Eve standing in the kitchen when your phone rings.
Your stomach does the thing before you've even looked at the screen.
"Merry Christmas," he says.
"It's not Christmas until tomorrow."
"Merry Christmas Eve then."
"That's not a thing."
"I'm making it a thing." A pause, warm and easy. "Are you with your family?"
"Yes."
"Good." Simply. Warmly. "Good."
You're standing in your childhood kitchen with two glasses of wine in you and Lando Norris is wishing you a Merry Christmas Eve from wherever he is and you are so far from fine it's almost funny.
"Merry Christmas Eve," you say.
He laughs. Soft and real. You talk until your mum calls you for dinner. You hang up and go and you don't think about it and you are not fine and that's just where you are now apparently.
He doesn't call in January.
Or February. Or March. Or April or May.
You stop expecting it around March, which feels like its own small achievement. You get through February on a wedding in Marrakech and sheer stubbornness. March on a nightmare engagement party in Geneva and very good chocolate. April on nothing in particular, just the ordinary machinery of your life clicking along without him in it, which is how it was before and how it will be after and that's fine.
You're fine.
It's June. A Thursday afternoon, sun coming through your kitchen window at that specific Instagramable angle, coffee going cold on the counter. You have fourteen unread emails and a call with a florist in an hour and approximately zero feelings about anything.
Your laptop pings.
You stop. Go back.
Read the CC line again like it's going to say something different the second time.
It doesn't.
You close the laptop.
Sit there.
The florist call is in thirty-eight minutes. The seating chart is still a disaster. Your coffee is cold and the sun is coming through the window and Monaco is doing its thing outside completely unbothered by the fact that you are sitting at your kitchen table doing the math again and this time it's adding up to something very fucking specific.
Six months of silence and this is what he was sorting.
You sit with that for a while. Let it go where it needs to go. The Christmas Eve call. The easy Wednesday. Sort it out first. Him saying yeah, okay on a terrace in July like it was a promise.
And maybe it was. Maybe this is just what okay looked like from where he was standing.
Your laptop pings and you open it without thinking.
From: Lando Norris To: You Subject: Re: Wedding Planning Inquiry
One line.
I can explain.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you close it. Open a new email. Type:
Hi Magui, lovely to hear from you—congratulations on your engagement!
fans can't help but to ship oscar with you, his best friend.
best friend!oscar piastri x f!reader ୨୧ warnings : language, fan culture, hate comments, shipping culture, oscar and lily are broken up in this ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
📅 april 26, 2026
op81updates oscar talks about y/n, his best friend, and how they met plus how he feels when she attends races.
OP : yeah, we met online actually – i messaged her first after my sister showed me her account. i thought she was really cool and reached out. we were both still in high school, and she's just a few years older than me. i like to think i got her into racing and she somewhat got me into art.
🎙️ : somewhat into art?
OP : yeah, she's really into art – went to school for it, so she's talked a lot about art history to me. van gogh was beat into me during our first year as friends *laugh*
🎙️ : so when did you guys meet in real life if you started out as online friends? how did you manage to keep in contact?
OP : we play online games together like wow and some newer ones in more recent years. after about two years of instagram dms, we switched to whatsapp. we also didn't meet in person until after 2020 due to covid cause i was also doing f3 and f2 and she was still in college. i think it was... maybe late 2021 when we got to meet up in london just by complete chance. she told me she was in london and i happened to be there as well.
🎙️ : y/n often comes to different races with you – do you like when she comes
OP : well, yeah, of course i like when she comes to races. it's always nice to have your best friend cheer you on and be there waiting for you. she also makes me go sightseeing with her the days leading up to the race to try and distract me a little bit. i appreciate it, and she knows it.
View all 2,209 comments
user the way oscar lights up every time he talks about yn 🤧 just admit you love her dude
user my oscyn heart every time they talk about each other 🥰🥺
user omg not yn making sure oscar has ✨knowledge✨ on van gogh 😂 that's so funny
user whoa oscar messaged yn first???? that's crazy i had no idea
user didn't his ex break up with him because he's too close to yn???
user nah that's just a rumor from a stupid blind item – we don't actually know the reason they broke up
user i mean... i wouldn't put it past yn secretly being the reason for his breakup
user but aren't yn and lily like good friends as well??? they still hangout and everything, why would lily breakup with oscar and then still hangout with "the reason"
user not to mention that lily and yn became friends BECAUSE of oscar introducing them
user not all these comments shipping them 😭 guys they're just friends pls don't make it weird
user friends don't light up the way he does when talking about his "best friend"
user not the quotes around best friend 😭
📅 april 30, 2026
♫ LINKIN PARK · What I've Done
imnotynnie weekly whimsy 🪲
View all 2,309 comments
oscarpiastri why do you have that photo 😭
imnotynnie bc its an accurate depiction of youuuuuuu
oscarpiastri i'm blocking you
imnotynnie 🖕🖕🖕
mclarenf1 love the last photo! liked by author
imnotynnie i'll send it to you admin 😉
hattiepiastri the way oscar jumpscared me on the last slide 😭 girl put a trigger warning
imnotynnie sorry girl i had too 😮💨 it jumpscared me too when i saw it in my photo album
oscarpiastri you two are so not funny 👎
imnotynnie ok boomer
user our almost alt whimsy baddie wag 🤧
user the way i NEED an alt baddie wag at the paddock is crazy
user that corset on the third slide EATSSSSSSS girl 😍 where did you get it???
imnotynnie i thrifted it about two years ago in spain! sorry there was no tag on it 🥲
user its okay!! thank you
user OMG SHE RESPONDED TO YOU
user new painting is SO good
user OSCARRRRRRRR not you doing him dirty on the last slide 🤣
user waiting for the day you have you own art exhibit 🤩
user such a literally baddie 🖤
📅 may 5, 2026
imnotynnie art is never a phase when it evolves 🦋
View all 509 comments
oscarpiastri photo creds would be nice 😒
imnotynnie 🫶🫶🫶
imnotynnie it ruins the aesthetic caption tho...
user OSCAR TOOK THOSE PHOTOS WHAT
user bro what the fuck you meannnnnnnnnnn
user oh i'm so obsessed 😫
user why are you pretty?????
user learning oscar took these photos does something to my brain
user oh come on!! you guys can't tell me that they aren't at least in love with each other
user why do you say this???
user they're in love bc oscar took those photos???
user when were these taken???
user i think they were taken during the spring break f1 just had in april 🤔
user i was thinking that or miami!
user i would have thought miami but yn forgets to post things when she's suppose to so i doubt it lol
user what is this for???? the people (me) must know!!
imnotynnie 🤫🤫
user WHAT ARE YOU COOKING UP
📅 may 11, 2026
♫ Sabrina Carpenter · Tears
imnotynnie miami whimsy 🌰
View all 1,783 comments
oscarpiastri art is arting
imnotynnie why are you like this??
lando miami post only a week later 😂
imnotynnie SHUT UP 😤 i forgot 😔
user LANDO???? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??
user are you going to the canadian gp????
imnotynnie oscarpiastri you want me at the race??
oscarpiastri yes
imnotynnie user there's your answer 😇
user NO WAY OSCAR RESPONDED TO THIS FOR HER
user my otp 😍
user literally so hot girl
user i just know oscar got her those flowers – i just can't prove it
user 100% you know he got her flowers, he does it all the time
user MY PARENTS 😫 oh how i love oscyn so much
📅 may 15, 2026
clip #1 – I JUST SEEN OSCAR AND YN IN MONACO
the clip starts off shaky before its zooming in on a table where you and oscar are sitting across from each other. oscar is eating while you are in the middle of talking about something. oscar nods as he listens to you talk before he's replying, you getting a drink of your wine as he does.
you say something else before he's huffing and rolling his eyes at whatever you just said. oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he watches you get a bite of your food while using your free hand to scroll through something on your phone.
you then pick up your phone and basically shove it in oscar's face who takes the phone to get a better look at what's on your phone. the clip suddenly cuts when he hands the phone back to you.
💬 comments :
👤 : wow... you spotted two people who live in monaco... IN monaco
👤 : not you taking a video of them while they are at a restaurant 😭
👤 : does yn live in monaco with oscar or just visiting??? i'm so confused cause this isn't the first time they've been spotted there together
👤 : oh she was giving him the TEA 🤏🤏 and he was eating it up – that's bestie behavior right there
👤 : can they just kiss once for the cameras... you know... for science
👤 : oh that eye roll 🥴🥴 that does things to me guys
📅 may 21, 2026
♫ TOMORROW X TOGETHER · The Killa (I Belong to You)
imnotynnie montreal whimsy 🐞
View all 2,728 comments
oscarpiastri glad you're here 🙂 liked by author
lilymhe can't wait to see you ❤️
imnotynnie can't wait eitherrr ❤️
user if she not wag then why wags comment?
user and follow 🤨
hattiepiastri so prettyyy 🖤 miss you!!
imnotynnie omg miss you too 😭 need to get together soon
hattiepiastri absolutely!! mom, eddie, and mae miss you too
imnotynnie nooooooo my girls 😭🫶
user MOTHERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
user new follower here 🙋♀️ is yn's job in art or something?? cause she's always painting and drawing i've noticed
user it is! she's does a lot of commission paintings, charity work, and even art classes in london for people interested in getting into art!!
user wow that's actually really cool – how she get into it?
user her mom is an art teacher! so it literally runs in her genes lol
user its always the boring white guys who pull the hottest girls 🥲
user oscar pls ask her out 🙏 i need to make her my fav wag
user dude they're best friends STOP
user would like to think oscyn went on a museum date 💕
user love when you post your art 😍 so talented
user i'm so confused is yn not a wag???
user no... her and oscar are just best friends and have been for years
📅 may 22, 2026
clip #2 – yn arriving for sprint quali with oscar 😍
the clip starts out recording oscar as he walks down the paddock before quickly moving past him to catch a quick glimpse of you walking not far behind him.
the camera catches oscar moving a little too fast and you taking a few quick steps in order to purposely bump into him from behind. he turns to look at you and you say something to him before he's laughing and falling into step with you.
the clip quickly catches you mouthing a rather sarcastic looking 'thank you' to him which earns a small smirk as you both continue to walk. it cuts when you both walk past the person recording.
💬 comments :
👤 : i love how she gets his attention when he's walking too fast for her 😂😂 it never fails to make me laugh
👤 : STOPPPP 😭 the way he slows down to walk with her
👤 : and you're gonna sit her and tell me that they aren't in love???
👤 : HIM SMIRKING AT HERRRRRRRRR
👤 : i'm fully convinced they are more than friends at this point
imnotynnie just updated their story !
f1atelier photos are just placeholders! yn doesn't have an actual faceclaim please imagine yourself or whoever you want in these pictures! thanks.
Lando Norris stands on business when it comes to raising awareness for the things he is passionate about and that deserve more recognition. He has always been very vocal about mental health, which I greatly appreciate, especially in a sport like F1. And now he collaborated with Sir Jackie Stewart's charity Racing Against Dementia on a special helmet for the Canadian GP. I'm not ashamed to say that I got a bit teary eyed watching him explain the importance of the charity and the work they do as well as the thoughts behind his helmet design. Seeing him raise awareness for something so important and donating all the profits from the mini helmet towards the charity means so so much.
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
pairing: oscar piastri x writer!reader
theme: fluff, angst
wc: 3.6K
a/n: surprise! i decided last minute to publish a prologue because of how well the teaser was received :( i can't believe it's getting so much love! i'm excited for you guys to see what's in store for these two! thank you so so much!
When a fabricated scandal threatens to dismantle a rising F1 career and a billion-dollar sponsorship, the only solution is a contract signed in ink and bone.
── .✦
thef1insider
liked by user77, user87, user55, and 507K others.
thef1insider BREAKING NEWS: McLaren Golden Boy, Oscar Piastri, was seen getting too cozy with a fellow Formula Driver's fiancée? Stay tuned for more updates!
user12 nahhh not oscar 😭 he’s like the last person i expected
user23 WHOSE FIANCÉE THO??? don’t be shy drop names
user98 mclaren PR team working overtime as we speak
user28 not him smiling all innocent every race weekend just to do this??
user51 people switching up on him so fast omg
user72 the tea is HOT today 🍵
user77 imagine being the driver seeing this online 💀
user85 sponsors about to disappear in 3…2…1…
user99 i was gonna feel bad but then again, often it's the quiet ones
── .✦
The hum of the air conditioning in the boardroom felt like a low-frequency alarm, vibrating against the base of Oscar’s skull. He paced back and forth, a few more steps shy of setting the carpet on fire; the silence from the people sitting around it was deafening.
"It’s a lie! For the eleventh time tonight, none of it was true!" Oscar snapped, his voice cracking with a frantic edge. He stopped at the head of the table, looking at the row of stony-faced executives. "The angle is deceptive. I was checking her eyes. She had been crying, she was a mess, and I was trying to see if she was hurt." He’d been a good samaritan, finding a colleague's girlfriend drunk and vulnerable on a curb, but the camera lens had twisted his kindness into a betrayal.
His manager, Mark, didn’t even look up from his tablet. He simply swiped through a gallery of grainy, high-contrast images that had already set the internet on fire. In the photos, Oscar was leaned in close, his hand cupping the side of a woman’s face. To the camera, it looked like a tender, stolen moment. To Oscar, it was the moment he realized his colleague’s girlfriend was too intoxicated to stand and had a piece of grit scratched into her cornea.
"The why doesn't matter anymore, Oscar," Mark said, his voice flat and drained of empathy.
"The paparazzi are cruel, and the public is already hungry. Rumors don't need truth to catch fire; they only need oxygen, and right now, the world is breathing down your neck."
"Then let’s call her," Oscar countered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He leaned over the table, trying to force eye contact. "If she makes a statement, if she explains that I found her on the side of the road, that she was distressed and I was just being a friend, the whole thing dies."
"She won't speak," the PR lead, Jule, chimed in. She adjusted her glasses, looking at Oscar with pity that felt like an insult. "She’s terrified that if she admits how much she’d had to drink, it’ll ruin her boyfriend’s image. She’s protecting him, Oscar. She’s not going to save you."
"So I just... I just take the hit?" Oscar whispered, the unfairness of it beginning to settle in his gut like lead. "I was being kind—no! Decent human being!. I was doing the right thing."
"Doing the right thing is rarely PR-friendly, 90% of your sponsors are threatening to back out, if this even escalates to the board, you’d be done for Oscar. No other team would want you, Mclaren would find a way to dispose of you." Mark sighed, finally locking the tablet screen. "We’ve already talked of solutions. We need a counter-narrative that is so solid, so wholesome, that it makes these photos look like a ridiculous misunderstanding. We’ve reached out to the head of the Sterling Group."
Oscar blinked, confused. "The primary sponsor? Why?"
"They have a daughter," Jule explained, sliding a folder across the table toward him. "She’s a private person. She’s stayed out of the spotlight her whole life, she’s highly respected in her own circles, and her reputation is impeccable. We’ve brokered an agreement. You will enter into an arranged marriage with her."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Oscar reached out to steady himself against the back of a chair. "A marriage?" he repeated, the word sounding foreign and absurd. "You’re joking. This is a joke."
"It’s a strategic alliance," Mark corrected. "If a woman like her, someone who clearly isn't seeking fame or money, is willing to marry you, the public will assume the cheating scandal was a total fabrication. It gives you immediate, unquestionable domestic credibility. She becomes your shield." Oscar felt a chill crawl up his spine. He looked at the folder but didn't open it. He didn't want to see a face attached to this transaction. "Why marriage? Why can't we just... date? Can’t we just be seen at a few galas together? A couple of staged dinners?"
"No," Jule said firmly. "The public is cynical. They doubt a girlfriend. They'd quickly think a dating period is just a PR stunt to cover a scandal, but a marriage? That’s a commitment. People believe in a wife. We need the world to see that you aren't a home-wrecker, you’re a man looking to build a home of his own."
Oscar looked around the room, realizing with a jolt of horror that the decision had already been made. There was no debate. There was only a script, and he was being told where to stand. He was trapped by his own kindness. Oscar’s voice rose, echoing off the glass walls. "You’re talking about my life. My actual, legal life. You want me to lie to the fans and to myself? All because a lens was pointed the wrong way?"
"We want you to keep your career, Oscar," Jule said, her voice remaining impossibly cool. "The sponsors are already twitching. Two major brands have 'morality clauses' in their contracts that allow them to walk away the second a headline like this drops. If they leave, the team loses its funding. If the team loses funding, you’re not driving. You’re sitting on a sofa watching the races on TV."
"Then let them walk!" Oscar shouted, his hands slamming onto the mahogany table. "I’ll find another way. I’ll drive for someone else. I’ll start from the bottom if I have to, but I won’t be sold like a piece of livestock just to keep a logo on my suit." He looked around the room, desperate for a single nod of agreement, a single shred of humanity, but Mark was looking at his watch, and Jule was already drafting a press release on her laptop. The coldness of the corporate machine was absolute. "It’s a sham," Oscar continued, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "You’re asking me to participate in a fraud. What happens when I actually meet someone? What happens in two years when I want a real life? Do I have to check with the board of directors before I fall in love?"
"In two years, the scandal will be a footnote," Mark replied without looking up. "We’ll arrange a quiet, amicable divorce due to conflicting schedules. It’s a standard play, but right now, you are a fire, Oscar, and we are the ones trying to put you out before the whole building burns down."
"I won't do it." Oscar backed away from the table, shaking his head. "I'll go to the press myself. I'll tell the truth. If I look defensive, then I look defensive, but at least I'll have my dignity."
"Dignity doesn't win championships," a new voice cut through the tension. The heavy doors at the back of the room swung open, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Oscar’s father stepped into the light. He wasn't wearing a suit like the executives; he looked tired, his face lined with the years of sacrifice that had paved the road to Oscar’s success. "Dad," Oscar breathed, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Tell them. Tell them this is insane."
His father didn't look at the executives. He walked straight to Oscar and stopped just inches away. For a moment, there was a flash of the man who used to spend his weekends in freezing paddocks, working overtime shifts just to afford a set of tires. "Oscar," his father said, his voice low and gravelly. "That’s enough."
"Enough? They want me to get married, Dad! To a stranger!"
"I know what they want," his father snapped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "And I know what we’ve given up to get here.” Oscar flinched as if he’d been struck. "I remember. Everything I do is for—"
"Then act like it!" his father interrupted. "We worked too hard, Oscar. We bled for this, and you’re going to let a single night of being 'nice' throw it all away? You’re going to let a misunderstanding erase years of sacrifice?"
"It's not fair," Oscar whispered, his eyes stinging.
"Life at the top isn't about being fair, it’s about staying there," his father said, placing a heavy hand on Oscar’s shoulder. It wasn't a comforting gesture; it was an anchor. "You will do this. You will marry this girl, you will keep your head down, and you will drive that car. I didn't spend my life building a champion just to watch him fall because he was too proud to play the game."
The silence that followed was different than before. It wasn't corporate; it was heavy with the weight of debt, the kind of debt you can never truly repay to your parents. Oscar looked at his father, seeing the gray in his hair and the exhaustion in his eyes. The defiance he’d felt moments ago drained out of him, replaced by a hollow, numbing obedience. He realized then that he wasn't just a driver for the team; he was the return on his family’s investment. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out, leaving Oscar lightheaded. He looked at his father, the man who had spent every waking hour of Oscar's childhood turning wrenches, negotiating with local sponsors, and sacrificing his own health to ensure Oscar had a seat in a kart.
Being the eldest son, in fact, the only son, carried a weight that no contract or PR strategy could ever match. In their family, your name wasn't just yours; it was a legacy. If Oscar fell, he wasn't just falling alone. He was the one meant to carry the family out of the grit and into the light.
"I understand," Oscar said, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat.
"Oscar—" his father started, his voice softening for a brief second, perhaps seeing the light go out in his son’s eyes. "No, you’re right," Oscar interrupted, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I’m the only one who can do this. I won’t let everything you did for me be for nothing. I won't let the name be ruined." He felt his heart physically ache, a dull, snapping sensation in his chest as he forfeited the idea of a life lived for himself.
He was a son first and a man second.
"Good," Mark said, already clicking his pen, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. "The legal team has the pre-nuptial and the nondisclosure agreements ready. We’ll have a car pick you up at 8:00 AM."
"Does she know?" Oscar asked, his voice hollow. "The daughter. Does she know she’s being bought to fix a mess she didn't make?"
"She knows the importance of the partnership," Jule replied smoothly. "She’s a professional, Oscar. Just like you." Oscar turned and walked out of the boardroom. The hallway was long and lined with photos of legendary drivers, men who looked like giants. He wondered if any of them had been forced to trade their souls for a trophy, or if he was the only one walking toward an altar he never asked for. As the elevator doors slid shut, Oscar leaned his forehead against the cool metal. He had spent his whole life trying to be the fastest on the track, but tonight, his life had moved faster than he could handle. He was twenty-five years old, and he had just agreed to a life sentence in a gold-plated cage.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the photo that started it all. He looked at his own hand on that girl’s face, a gesture of pure, simple kindness. It was the last thing he would ever do as a free man. With a trembling thumb, he hit the power button and watched the screen go black.
Tomorrow, he will meet his wife. Tomorrow, the lie will begin.
The silk wallpaper of her father’s study seemed to press inward, the gold-leaf frames of the family portraits suddenly feeling like the bars of a very expensive cage. She stared at him, her pulse drumming a frantic rhythm in her fingertips, waiting for the punchline that wasn't coming. “What did you just say?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace.
“Tomorrow, you will be wed to one of the drivers of the Formula 1 team we sponsor,” her father repeated. He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, his posture as immovable as the company he had spent forty years building. He said it with the same clinical detachment he used for quarterly earnings reports. “I’m sorry,” she said, a sharp, hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. “What makes you think I’d marry a man I’ve never even met? Are you losing your mind, Dad? This isn't the nineteenth century. You can’t just… trade me!”
“Sweetheart, this is not a negotiation. You will do as I say,” he said, his tone hardening. He picked up a tablet from his desk and slid it toward her. On the screen was a grainy photo of a young man, his hand cupped around a woman’s face in the dark. “The boy is being crucified. The paparazzi have deemed him a cheater when, by all internal accounts, he was simply being decent to a woman in distress. But the public doesn't care about decency. They want gossip, ruinous gossip.”
She glanced at the photo and immediately rolled her eyes, pushing the tablet back. “So he’s a tragic hero. Fine. Send him a card. Why does that involve my signature on a marriage certificate?”
“Because McLaren has begged for my intervention,” her father sighed, leaning heavily on the desk. “They need our continued sponsorship to stay competitive, and frankly, I was prepared to pull my funding entirely after this PR nightmare. They suggested this as a way to stabilize his image and secure our partnership. A marriage to a woman of your standing, private, respected, untouched by the tabloids, it changes the narrative instantly.” She stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the hardwood floor. She began to pace, her heels clicking like a countdown. “And you couldn’t just give them more money? You’re one of the wealthiest men in the country, and your solution to a branding issue is to marry off your daughter to a stranger? Why should I take the fall for him? If he’s in a mess, he should fix it. He's the man, no?”
Her father let out a long, weary huff, the sound of a man who was used to getting his way and was losing patience with the delay. “Darling, just do it. It’s a strategic necessity.” She stopped pacing, turning to face him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shatter the crystal decanter on the side table and tell him that her life wasn't a commodity to be bartered for a faster car or a tax write-off. The stubbornness she had inherited from him burned in her chest, a hot, defiant fire, but then, she saw the way he avoided her gaze. She saw the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for a pen, and then she thought of her younger sisters, still upstairs, shielded from the cold realities of the business world.
She was the eldest. She had always been the one to bridge the gap between her father’s iron-willed ambition and the softness her mother had left behind. Her mother would have hated this, but her mother would have also understood the weight of the family name. If she refused, the fallout would hit the company, their reputation, and eventually, the life her sisters enjoyed. If someone had to be sacrificed to keep the family steady, she knew it had to be her. Better her, who understood the stakes, than them.
“Fine,” she said, the word feeling like ash in her mouth. The defiance didn't leave her, but it coiled into a tight, cold knot of duty. “I’ll do it. I’ll save your sponsorship and I’ll save this stranger’s career.” She straightened her shoulders, her expression turning into a mask of regal indifference. “But don’t expect me to pretend I’m happy about it.”
Her father looked up, a mixture of relief and guilt flashing across his face before he suppressed it. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’ve always understood what’s required.”
“When do I meet this man?” she asked, her voice cold.
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied. “At the legal offices. Try to look… approachable.”
“I’ll look like a wife, Dad,” she said, turning toward the door. “That’s what you paid for, isn’t it?”
She walked out of the study without looking back, the silence of the house suddenly feeling like a heavy shroud. Tomorrow, she would give up her name and her future for a man she didn't know, all to protect a world she wasn't sure she even wanted to belong to anymore.
The morning arrived not with the gentle glow of a new beginning, but with a cold, clinical sharpness that felt like a punch to the gut. Weddings were meant to be enchanting, days of lace, laughter, and a soft, wondrous haze, but as she sat in her car outside the glass-and-steel monolith of the lawyers' office, it felt like the day of her incarceration. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned the color of the silk dress her father had chosen for her. It was the most wife-like thing she owned: modest, elegant, and utterly devoid of her personality.
After today, she would no longer carry the name she shared with her sisters, her father, and her late mother. She would be someone else entirely, a strategic match, a legal clause, a ghost of herself. Her hands trembled so violently she couldn't even manage to turn off the engine on the first try. Then, she saw him.
A man was pacing the pavement in front of the revolving glass doors. He wore a crisp white button-down, slightly loosened at the collar as if he were choking, and charcoal trousers that fit with tailored precision. He was debating with himself, taking two steps toward the door before retreating three. The eldest sister in her, the part of her that had spent years soothing scraped knees and broken hearts for her younger siblings, suddenly overrode her own fear. She turned off the car, stepped out, and smoothed her dress. She approached him with the poise she had practiced in front of mirrors since she was a child.
“You okay?” she asked softly. The man jumped, looking at her with wide, startled eyes. He offered a smile that was so forced it looked painful. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice thick with nerves. “It’s just… I know that when I walk through those doors, my life will change forever. And I’m not sure if I’m ready for the version of me that’s waiting on the other side.”
Without thinking, she reached out. Her fingers found his hand, sliding into his palm. It was an instinctive, maternal warmth. He stiffened, taken aback by the sudden contact. “Sorry!” she said, her cheeks flushing as she moved to pull away. “It’s just… when my little sisters are panicking, all I have to do is hold their hand. It helps them feel like they aren't alone in the dark.” She started to pull her hand back, but before she could, he tightened his grip. He didn't let go. He looked down at their intertwined fingers, a long, shaky breath escaping his lungs. “Don’t apologize,” he whispered. “I think… I think I really needed someone to hold my hand.”
With that silent pact, they walked toward the building together. They were two strangers clinging to one another as they entered the belly of the beast. They stepped into the elevator, the silence between them no longer heavy, but shared. As the numbers on the display ticked upward, the man seemed to find his center. He stood a little taller, his breathing leveling out. When the bell chimed for their floor, he finally let go of her hand, lingering for a second as if reluctant to lose the anchor. “We’re on the same floor,” he noted, surprised.
She offered him a small, genuine smile, the first one she had felt all morning. “Then that’s great. Familiar faces are a way to get yourself to calm down.” The elevator doors slid open to reveal a lobby filled with men in dark suits. Her father was there, looking triumphant, alongside Mark, who was checking his watch with practiced impatience.
“There you guys are,” Mark said, looking between them with a confused frown. “You’ve met already?” Neither of them answered. They were too busy staring at the elders in the room as the realization crashed down like a tidal wave.
“Oscar,” Mark said, gesturing toward her, “this is your wife. The woman who is going to save your career.”
“And my darling,” her father added, stepping forward to claim her arm as if she were a prize he was finally handing over, “this is Oscar. Your husband.”
The air left her lungs. She looked at the man whose hand she had just been holding, the man she had comforted, the stranger who had felt so human just moments ago. He was staring back at her, his face pale, his eyes searching hers for the same anchor he’d just lost.
The man she was supposed to handle was the same man who was just as terrified as she was. They weren't just business partners; they were two people being sold to save each other's worlds, and as the lawyers gestured toward the conference room where the papers waited, she realized the hand-holding was over.
