someone in monaco is driving around your dream car — a porsche 911 gt3 rs. you are determined to find out who the driver is.
note: inspired by max fewtrell being obsessed with lando's porsche. set vaguely during the 2026 season. this is my first attempt at smut so go easy on me 🙏 inde as the fc bc i havent been able to stop thinking abt her after watching obsession LOL. please check the warnings on this one and i hope you guys enjoy :3
word count: 3.4k warnings : smut (18+ mdni), oral (m receiving), semi public sex (parking garage and a public road), car sex, messy reader, cheating (kind of—lines are a little blurry. reader isn't afraid to be a homewrecker, you've been warned.) magui (if you're a fan of her maybe skip this one), swearing
fc: inde navarrette
･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
view story replies:
user: GIRL LMAOOOO
user: oh you’re gonna be insufferable about this fucking car aren’t you
↳yourusername: YESSIR
user: please you’re so embarrassing 😭😭
↳yourusername: leave me alone unless ur gonna tell me who drives that damn car
↳user: MOVE ON
↳yourusername: DIE
↳user: omg my fav actress told me to die
↳user: #cancelled
↳yourusername: STOP IT
view story replies:
user: what are you even doing in monaco?? filming something?
↳yourusername: staying with my cousin and her bf for the summer 🫶
user: there ain’t shit to do in monaco go somewhere else
↳yourusername: lowkey ur right bro this place sucks
kikagomes: Pierre wants to go to this car meetup thing tonight if you want to come with us.
↳yourusername: SAY LESSS
user: you’re so pretty please don’t move to monaco for tax evasion
↳yourusername: lmaooo i’m crying
↳yourusername: just visiting <3
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yourusername: some guy said my nissan skyline gtr was ugly? my baby? he’s lucky i don’t have a gun.
view all comments:
user: this caption is taking me out lmfao do you not have a pr team?
⤷yourusername: they can’t control me
user: omg yn you’re so pretty- KIKA GOMES???
user: hold on you know kika??
⤷yourusername: we are related
user: im crying how do you know kika but you dont know who drives the porsche youre obsessed with
⤷yourusername: wdym?? are u saying kika knows who drives it??
⤷user: why don’t you ask her or pierre LOLLL
kikagomes: ❤️🏎️
—
lando answers your call only seconds after it starts to ring. you’re met with the man who you’ve only seen through the windshield of his porsche. he’s smiling, though he looks a little bit confused.
“so uh-” lando speaks first, leaning closer to the camera to get a better look at you. “you are real.”
“very real,” you smile. “disappointed?”
“Nah, pleasantly surprised maybe.”
you blush at his words, tucking a fallen piece of hair behind your ear. the two of you stare at each other for a few moments, taking the other in. your initial interest in lando was due to his car, but you’re happy the man is so attractive. it’s definitely a bonus. you stay on facetime with lando for a bit, getting to know one another. he’s not subtle with his flirting, but you like it.
“soooo, i passed your test?” you question him.
“maybe” he smirks at you, “think i’ll have to take you out to make sure.”
“give me a place and time and i’ll be there.”
“deal.”
—
view story replies:
lando: Damn🔥
↳lando: Pretty girl
↳lando: Cant wait 2 see you tonight
↳yourusername: you want me so bad lol
↳lando: True.
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yourusername: i won btw
view all comments:
user: liked by LANDO???
user: what’s going on…
user: don’t be shy, tell us who the man is 🎤
user: Something isn’t adding up 🤔
—
lando gets out of the car as you approach, walking around to the passenger side and opening the door. he greets you with a kiss on the cheek, placing a hand on the small of your back as you slip into the sleek lamborgini urus. he closes the door behind you and makes his way back around to the driver’s side door. lando starts the car and begins driving, placing his hand on your thigh while he focuses on the road. you can’t help but stare at him, his side profile draws you in. the slope of his nose and sharp jaw distracting you from the music playing quietly on the radio.
he catches on to your staring, his lips twitching into a smirk. lando squeezes your thigh, turning to look at you as the car pulls to a stop at a red light.
“you should take a picture, baby. it’ll last longer.”
“it’s a nice view, sue me.” you laugh, finally looking away from him. “keep your eyes on the road, mister.”
“yes ma’am.” he slides his hand higher up your leg, giving it another squeeze and turns his eyes back to the street, revving the engine and speeding off.
the drive is over quickly, monaco isn’t very big after all. lando pulls into the underground parking lot. you marvel at all the cars you see, keeping your eyes peeled for the dark green paint job you couldn’t stop thinking about.
he stops the car and drives into a spot between a stunning deep blue lamborghini miura and the mclaren spider he’d driven the other night. you should have known a f1 driver would have a beautiful car collection, you look around in awe.
lando hops out of the urus, coming to open the door for you again.
“c’mon pretty girl, i’ll show you around.” he grabs your hand, gently pulling you out of the car.
lando guides you through the garage, showcasing his expansive collection of cars. you’re unsurprised to see a number of mclarens, but the rosso corsa ferrari f40 has your jaw dropping. you never thought you’d see this car in person, though it does appear on many of your pinterest boards.
your attention is drawn away from the ferrari as the two of you approach the end of the garage and you see the car that put you in this situation. the dark green carbon fibre almost sparkles in the bright fluorescent lights of the parking garage. you slide your hand across the side of the porsche, the white and black interior calling to you. you’ve never wanted to drive a car so badly, you’re basically frothing at the mouth over it.
lando laughs, coming up behind you and gripping your waist with both hands. “seems like you’re more interested in this car than you are me.” he rests his chin on your shoulder, pouting as he joins you in admiring the car. “is this your favorite?”
“yep.” you smile, leaning back into his hold. “what’s a girl gotta do to take her for a joy ride?”
you turn your head toward him, bringing your face closer to his, and giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
“sorry love, we’re not there yet.” he apologizes, letting go of your waist and turning you around so you’re face to face. “i showed you my cars, now how about my reward?”
he pushes you up against the porsche, holding your jaw with one hand and your waist with the other. gripping your jaw, he pulls your face closer, staring at your mouth. you smile and lean in, pressing your hands against his chest. lando kisses you hard and full of want, tilting your head up for a better angle.
you grip his shirt in your hands, biting his lip as you pull away from the kiss. you push him away from you, switching your positions so that he’s the one leaning against the dark green exterior.
you kiss him again and he slides a hand into your hair and breaks away from your mouth, gently guiding you onto your knees. you kneel in front of lando, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you rest your hands at the waistband of his jeans.
“let me fulfill my end of our deal.” you say, popping the button on his pants and slowly unzipping them. “what was it you said before? it’s all about give and take?”
lando lets out a breathless laugh, using his hands to keep your hair pulled away from your face. “i’ll take whatever you want to give me, baby.”
you slide his jeans down onto the ground, sliding your hands up his thighs. you mouth at his cock through his calvin klein boxers. he’s hard, throbbing beneath the fabric, a wet spot already forming.
“fuck.” lando sighs, his hands in your hair gripping tighter. “don’t tease.”
“so demanding.” you smirk, looking up at him. you slip your fingers into the elastic of his boxers, tugging them down his legs. “let me take my time.”
his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. he’s bigger than you expected and you lick your lips, eager to taste him. you stroke him a few times before taking him into your mouth, teasing his tip with your tongue. lando groans from above you, swearing and his hips jerking.
“shit.”
you pull back, taking a breath, and licking a stripe up his cock. you gather your saliva in your mouth, spitting on the head to make your strokes smoother. you bob your head, taking him deeper into your mouth. your nose brushes the soft hairs at the base of his cock and you take a deep breath, taking in his scent, his taste. you pull off of him again, using your hand to stroke his shaft. you look up at lando and see that his eyes are closed, his mouth open.
“you like that?” you ask, leaning forward to circle his sensitive head with your tongue. you smirk when he lets out a whine at your teasing.
“yes, fuck. it’s so good.” lando moans, finally looking at you again. “don’t stop.”
he removes one of his hands from your hair, reaching down to guide his cock into your mouth again. with his other hand, he pushes your head down, forcing you to take him deeper. you moan around his cock, your eyes tearing up.
“is this okay?”
you hum around him in agreement, covering his hand with your own, directing him to keep going.
“you’re so good.” the sounds lando lets out are music to your ears, moaning and whining. he’s more vocal than anyone you’ve been with before. you’re glad the two of you are in a private parking garage, because the man refuses to keep quiet. not that you’re complaining.
you let lando set the pace, guiding your head up and down his cock. you can tell he’s getting close when he holds you against his pelvis, feeling him tense up.
“you gonna be a good girl and swallow for me?”
you nod as best as you can with his cock in your mouth and his hands holding your head in place. he groans and his hips jerk when he releases into your mouth. you take everything he gives you, swallowing around him. you pull off of him, breathless and he finally releases your hair. you look up at the man, his cheeks flushed and eyes hazy.
“holy shit.” lando breathes out, looking down at you. “i think i just lost some braincells.”
you giggle, wiping your lips as you stand up. your knees ache from the harsh pavement but you relish in the pain.
“did you have any in the first place?”
“funny.” he rolls his eyes, bending down to pull his boxes and pants back on. “c’mon, let’s go inside. i’m not done with you yet.”
—
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yourusername: this is how you deal with a shit race
view all comments:
lando: I won this time
⤷yourusername: if u call pocketing half the balls while i wasn’t looking “winning” then yeah you did
user: damn lando takes a year to even acknowledge magui and here he is only a few months into being with yn interacting with her publicly lmao
user: they’re so cute together i’ll kms if they ever break up
user: lando let her drive ur damn porsche
⤷yourusername: what they said
user: he’s had the shittiest time bro throw the whole season away atp 😭😭
view story replies:
user: i just know ur mad af sitting in that passenger seat
↳yourusername: you got me
user: do you think he picks you up in the porsche specifically to irritate you?
↳yourusername: yes
—
lando drives you through the winding roads above monaco, the windows are down and music plays low on the radio. the view of the coast is breathtaking from up here, the yachts in the riviera are only white specks dotting the vast blue of the sea. lando hums along to the music, his hand in its favorite place on your thigh. your eyes are drawn away from the view as you notice lando bringing the car to a stop, pulling to the side of the road. you turn to look at him, confused.
“is something wrong?”
he ignores you, getting out of the car and coming around to open your door.
“c’mon baby, it’s your turn.” he helps you out of the car, placing his hands on your waist once you’re standing in front of him.
“really?” you squint at him in suspicion. “this isn’t a prank?”
he laughs at you, squeezing your hips. “no baby, it’s for real. you’ve earned it.”
you beam at him, reaching up and grabbing his face. “i love you.” it might be a little soon to say those words but you know they’re true.
“more than the car?” he asks, pouting at you.
“i wouldn’t go that far.” you can tell he’s about to argue with your words, so you kiss him instead. he smiles against your lips, pulling you closer. his hands on your waist slip under your top, sliding up your back and sides. you pull away from the kiss quickly, too eager to get behind the wheel of the porsche. he lets you go, taking your seat on the passenger side.
“you have no clue how long i’ve been wanting to do this.” you say, giddy with excitement.
“no way, really?” his voice is full of sarcasm. “i had no idea.”
“shut up.” you reply, revving the engine and speeding down the road. lando wasn’t ready for you to go from 0 to 100 and the man slams back against the seat.
“jesus, woman. slow down.” he grips the seatbelt, bracing himself. “i’m regretting this.”
you just laugh maniacally in response and whip the car around a hairpin. you cheer, feeling exhilarated as the wind blows your hair all over the place. “i love this fucking car!”
lando lets you drive his car for a while and you’re grateful for it. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of this feeling. this porsche has ruined you for all other cars, nothing else will compare. you hope lando knows now that he’s let you drive it once, you have no plans to stop.
he directs you to pull over to a quiet, private spot of road. you listen to him, stopping the car and cutting the engine. you rest your head against the seat behind you, a bright grin on your face. your cheeks hurt from it and you giggle to yourself. you turn your head to see lando smiling at you, taking in your happiness.
“thank you, lando.” you reach out, grabbing his hand. “seriously.”
“you’re welcome, baby.” he squeezes your hand and pulls it up to his mouth, placing a kiss there. “did you have fun?”
“sooo much fun,” you reply, letting go of his hand and moving to take the seat belt off. lando does the same, but you stop him before he can open the car door to switch seats. you maneuver yourself over the middle console and take a seat in his lap. you straddle him and he rests his hands on your ass giving one cheek a little slap.
“what are you doing, hmm?” he leans back, looking up at you.
you reach a hand up into his hair, brushing it through his curls and he leans into your touch. “i think i better show you how much i appreciate this.”
“yeah?” he whispers, his cheeks beginning to flush.
“yeah.” you respond, pressing yourself closer and grinding against him. he’s already hard in his sweats, groaning as you rub on him.
lando moves one of his hands between you, slipping up your skirt and inside your panties. the fabric is damp from your wetness and he groans when he feels how slick you are.
“is this all from me, baby?” he rubs his fingers between your folds, rubbing tight circles on your clit.
“y-yeah” you moan when one of his fingers slips inside you. “you and the car.” you giggle, leaning down to kiss him.
he pulls back from you, a bewildered look on his face. “driving my car has you this wet?”
“i told you i fucking love this car.”
“you’re insane, woman.”
“you like it.” you remove his hand from your panties, sitting back and managing to take them fully off without too much difficulty. lando watches you shove your hands in his waistband and lifts his hips to make pulling down his sweatpants easier. he’s not wearing underwear, how unsurprising.
freed from his pants, his hard cock stands at attention, red and leaking. you spit into your hand and give it a few good strokes. he moans and pushes your hand aside, gripping himself and rubbing his cock between your folds, paying special attention to your clit. you whine at his teasing, annoyed.
“get on with it, lan,” you moan. “need you inside me.”
“yeah, you need my cock?” he continues the teasing, “should i give you what you want?”
“p-please” you pout at him. “want you to fill me up.”
“okay, baby. since you’ve been so good for me.” he lifts you up finally slipping his cock inside you. you moan at the stretch of him, no longer feeling empty. he gives you time to adjust to his size, pressing his face into your neck and breathing deeply. “ready?”
you nod your head and lift up onto your knees before going back down. he grips your hips and guides your movement. his fingers dig into your sides, sure to leave bruises. lando leans back, looking down at where the two of you meet, watching you take his cock.
he groans as you grind down onto him, lifting his hips to match your rhythm. you whimper when he moves a hand back to your clit, rubbing with his thumb. you clench around him and he swears. the car is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and his grunts. the stimulation to your clit has you seeing stars and you can feel him twitch inside you.
“lan-lando, will you come inside me?” you manage to ask between moans, “p-please, baby”
“fuck” lando groans at your question holding your hips and grinding up against you. “you want me to fill up this pretty pussy?”
“please, please, please.” you moan, clenching tighter around his cock. you’re so close and he’s right there with you.
the windows of the car are fogging over and you pant against lando’s mouth as you bounce on his cock. he grunts when you squeeze around him, continuing to rub your clit. “c’mon baby, come for me and then i’ll give you what you want.”
his words have you coming around his cock and he holds you down while you shake from your release. he lifts you up and down a few more times before he’s grunting and coming inside you. you moan as you feel his cum fill you up. you fall forward, leaning against him and catch your breath. you can feel him dripping out of you, his cock not enough to keep his cum inside.
lando runs his hands through your hair, petting your head. you lean back and flinch when you move, still sensitive with him inside you. you lift off of him and his seed drips out of you, his cock glistening from both of your releases. you lean into him, pressing your mouth against his and he kisses you back, rubbing his hands up and down your back.
“can i drive us home?” you ask when you end the kiss, giving him puppy dog eyes.
“sure baby, whatever you want.”
—
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yourusername: i hope he doesn’t think i’m giving the keys back to this car
view all comments:
user: he finally let you drive it? omg
user: now lando is the passenger princess 👸🏻
⤷yourusername: he looks so pretty in the passenger seat 🤭 right where he belongs!
maxfewtrell: Can we share custody of it?
⤷yourusername: as if
user: dreams really do come true
lando: Baby i know you love it but thats my car
⤷yourusername: did yall hear something?
⤷user: lando just buy her one and then all ur problems will be solved!
⤷yourusername: you got the right idea over here
⤷lando: I think that might be my only option atp
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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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!
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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
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 -> 5.2k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
Rain had never bothered you before you’d met Lando.
Before him, you'd seen rainy days as the perfect excuse to spend the day inside, buried underneath blankets with a good book and a cup of tea.
When you’d met Lando that had changed.
Not right away, of course. But one night shortly after you’d started working for Quadrant, you’d been unable to sleep and had wandered over to YouTube and ended up watching racing highlights.
It had started off innocently with you trying to get better aquainted with the lore of F1. You’d always been passively interested in motorsport growing up but being in Lando's circle had been your first major introduction to the world of Formula One.
That particular night, you’d happened upon a video titled ‘Every 2023 F1 Driver’s Worst Crash’. The title should have been your first warning sign, the first give away that the video wasn’t for you.
You’d watched it anyway.
Lando’s crash in 2021 during qualifying in Spa was featured and you’d watched in horrified stillness as he’d gone careening around in circles, spinning like a top, showering the track with bits of carbon fiber and rubber. The radio of Sebastian Vettle played, his rage at qualifying not being cancelled evident in his voice. Lando’s silence on the radio and Will’s pleas for some sort of acknowledgment had made you sick to your stomach.
That was the night that you started hating the rain.
As you and Lando had grown closer, you found yourself religiously checking the forecast as race weekends drew closer. Any sign of inclement weather sent your anxiety spiraling as the video of Lando’s crash played over and over in your head.
Thankfully, Lando was pretty good in the wet and hadn’t had a major crash due to a wet track since (Brazil 2024 and Russia 2021 notwithstanding, even though you hated reliving those races as well).
When you’d woken up in Spain on Friday morning and heard the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windows, your stomach had dropped before you’d even gotten out of bed.
The gray, low hanging clouds lasted all morning and were still blocking out the sun by the time you and Lando arrived at the track. It threatened rain right up until Lando was finished with his first engineering meeting of the morning but opened up the moment he’d started to look for you in your designated corner of hospitality.
The first practice session ended up being delayed for over an hour before the cars are finally able to venture out on a slick track full of standing water. You’d watched anxiously from the garage, standing near the back of the group of VIP guests that were there that weekend. Lunch had been next and then Lando had been needed in another strategy session ahead of the second practice session that afternoon.
Now, the second practice session was facing the same fate with the skies opening up again just as you were wrapping up your last meetings of the day.
Now, you were sat in a quiet corner of the third floor, staring out the window watching the rain slow to a drizzle as the anxiety churns in your stomach. Your laptop was closed on the couch next to you and were cradling a cup of lukewarm mint tea as if it held the solution to the anxiety thrumming through your veins.
“Hey.” A soft voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts.
Blinking, you pull your gaze away from the gray sky to look up at Lando.
He was standing a few steps away, hands wringing together as he looked at you with an uncertain expression. He already had his race suit on, the top half hanging at his waist. They must be hoping to start the second session on time judging by the fact that he looked like he was about to climb into the car.
Things were still a bit awkward between you two after that night in Monaco. The icy wall you’d put up after his comments post-stream about Magui hadn’t completely melted yet and a lingering tension hung in the air.
As the minutes ticked down towards FP2, the quiet friction from the fallout of what had happened in his apartment took a backseat to the looming anxiety you felt when you thought of him out on a soaking wet track. You were still his friend and you were still worried about his safety, even if you didn’t want to admit you were probably more worried than you deserved to be.
“You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re trying to solve all of the worlds problems in your head.” Lando says softly, taking a tentative step towards where you’re sitting.
“Just checking the weather. It looks like the worst of the rain is moving off to the east.” You lie, voice a little tighter than you intend.
Lando’s smile fades slightly, his gaze dropping to where your hands clutching your mug of tea like a tether that was keeping you grounded. He knew you better than that. He knew exactly what a rainy day at the race track did to your nerves.
Reaching down, Lando gently takes the cup of tea out of your hands before he sets it down on the table in front of you. He threads his fingers through your now empty fingers so he can pull you to your feet.
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart.” He says softly, stepping into your space, effectively shielding you from the handful of people milling about the suite. “The car feels stable. We’re just going to do a few laps on full wets to gauge the condition of the track and if it’s bad, I’ll come back in.”
You swallow down the lump of anxiety in your throat and look up at him, the icy armor cracking just enough to betray just how anxious you were for him. “Just…don’t push too hard, okay? It’s only Friday. Be safe. Please.”
Lando stares at you for a beat, his expression shifting into something that looked a lot like genuine affection. The awkwardness of the last few days seems to dissipate under the weight of the rain.
Without warning, he reaches up, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck as his thumb brushes a quick stroke behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut at the sudden warmth.
The casual affection that you two usually managed so easily was something that you’d been missing.
Lando leans down and presses his lips firmly to yours. It isn't some performative peck for any lingering cameras or fans to catch a glimpse of. This was a deep lingering thing that felt like a desperate attempt to reassure you that he would be okay. He kisses you like he needed to anchor himself to you before stepping into the chaos of the garage, like your presence was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Your heart takes a dangerous, painful leap as you melt into his touch, once again choosing to ignore that this was all an act as your hands slide up his chest to grip at the tight black fireproofs that stretch across his chest.
When he pulls back, Lando’s breath is a little uneven as he drops his forehead against yours for a brief, stolen moment.
“I promise I’ll come back to you, okay?” He says, taking a small step back. “I’ve got to go to the garage though. Do you want to walk out with me?”
You take a steadying breath, ignoring the way your stomach clenches with how real this all feels. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
The rain slows to a slow drizzle not long after you walked into the garage with Lando. There’s an edge of anxiety that ripples its way through the engineers and mechanics. As you find your way to the front of the visitors corner, you could feel it in your chest too.
You were close enough to where Lando was getting quickly debriefed by Will that you hear them discussing how much standing water was out on the track and how some of the runoff drains had been clogged up by debris after the first practice session.
Lando seemed confident though and when he grabs his helmet just as the car is getting fired up, his eyes find yours through the crowd. All of the icy awkwardness that had lingered between you two since Monaco has seemingly fizzled away in the matter of just a few minuets since he’d found you zoned out in hospitality.
He gives you a wink, that signature lopsided grin making an appearance on his face right before he turned towards the car, now humming loudly as it idled, waiting for him to hop into the cockpit.
You stand next to Julie, listening to the hum of the garage preparing for the second practice session of the weekend. Will is in front of his computer, running over last minute stint plans as the engineers booted up their various programs to track telemetry and tire wear.
“Are they worried about the track being too wet to run on?” You ask Julie, nervously turning your phone over in your hands.
Julie shakes her head, “I don’t think so. Will was saying it was dicey in a few spots when they were out there earlier during the first practice, but it hasn’t been raining too hard since then.”
You draw in a deep breath, willing your hands to stop shaking as you watch Lando pull out of the garage right behind Oscar.
Twenty minutes into the session though, the sky opens up.
The steady drizzle turns into a heavy downpour that obscures the onboard cameras and turns parts of the track into something closer to a river than a race track. You watch Alex Albon nearly lose the backend of his car coming out of a corner when he hits a particularly large puddle with no warning. You could hear the nervous chatter among the mechanics as the engineers discussed the merits of brining Lando and Oscar in ahead of the inevitable red flag that the FIA was bound to throw.
You were still standing next to Julie on Lando’s side of the garage, your hands gripping your phone so tightly your knuckles were turning white. Just call him in, don’t wait for the FIA, you thought to yourself as you watched Oscar nearly lose it coming out of a particularly tricky corner. Ferrari had already called Lewis and Charles back and Red Bull was openly asking for a red flag over the radio as they told Max and Isaac to be careful with all the standing water.
Your eyes are glued to the live broadcast that was being shown on the TVs in the garage just as the director switched to Lando’s onboard camera as he comes flying down the back straight.
Through the spray, you see it happen in slow motion. Lando hit the entry to the chicane with just a little too much speed for the conditions, his front left tire catching on a curb that had accumulated a lethal looking puddle of standing water. The car hydroplanes instantly and Lando tries his best to correct the oversteer, wrenching the wheel in the opposite way that the car is flying. The McLaren snaps sideways at such a high rate of speed, you barely choked down the scream that started in the back of your throat.
“Shit.” Beside you, Julie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she watched alongside you just as helpless as you were.
You watch in absolute horror as the car goes airborne for a fraction of a second, hurtling sideways across the grass and slamming violently into the TechPro barrier only to bounce right off again. The impact is deafening even over the noise of the garage and pit lane. It’s a sickening sound; a loud, explosive crunch of carbon fiber that tears the car’s rear wing completely off and shattered the side pods. When the car bounces off the barrier, it spins around three more times like a top before coming to a dead stop in a cloud of smoke and debris.
It was Spa all over again. Exactly like Spa.
The entire world seems to tilt as your knees go weak underneath you. You feel Julie’s hand reach out and grip your elbow when she sees you sway on your feet. In a split second, the professional armor you’d spent years building shatters as your mind works through the worst case scenario of what you’re watching take place in front of you.
Your hand claps across your mouth instantly but it barely dampens the scream that tears from your throat, “Lando!”
You come completely unglued, your phone tumbling to the concrete floor with a loud clatter as you bury your head in Julie’s shoulder. Her arm comes around your shoulder as she pulls you closer, trying to murmur calming words into your ear that go completely unheard.
The live feed shows the wreckage of the car, the front wheel dangling uselessly by its tether. Worst of all, there is no movement in the cockpit. No neon yellow helmet moving.
Nothing.
Your heart slams painfully against your ribs as you strain to hear any sound that the broadcast might pick up coming from the car.
“Lando, radio check. Lando, you okay mate?” Will’s voice is remarkably calm but it sounded like he was talking underwater. Everything around you was muted by the blood roaring in your ears.
“Is he moving? Julie, why isn’t he moving?” You gasp, your voice cracking with a raw sort of panic that you’ve never heard come from your mouth.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the monitor. You grabbed at Julie’s arm that was holding your elbow steady. “Julie, tell me he’s okay. Oh my God, why isn’t he answering?”
“Easy, YN. Give him a second.” Julie says, trying to remain calm as her own face tenses, trying to keep you from completely spiraling.
She could tell you were past the point of rationality.
The fake relationship, the PR optics, the awkwardness that had plagued you and Lando for the past two weeks, all of it ceased to exist. Your entire world narrowed down to the video feed of Lando’s destroyed car as you waited for a sign that he was at least conscious after such a horrific wreck.
After what seems like a lifetime, the radio finally crackles to life, Lando’s heavy breathing playing through the TV speakers, “Yeah…yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine. Sorry, guys. I fucked that one up.”
On the screen, Lando’s helmet finally moves.
You watch as he dislodges the wheel from its docking station so he can hoist himself out. He moves slowly, like it’s taking a lot of effort for him to pull himself up from the drivers seat. It’s strange, seeing him move so robotically when you’re used to seeing him hop in and out with such ease.
The entire garage lets out a collective sigh of relief as they watch the medical team descend upon Lando, doing their initial checks for any potential injury. He’s able to walk without a limp, which is a good sign considering how hard he went into the barriers just moments ago. You quickly scan his body, checking for any limb that he might be holding extra gingerly or favoring. He doesn’t seem to be overtly injured but you’re certain he’s hurt. There was no way he couldn’t be.
You step back away from where you’d been standing, your stomach roiling so violently you think you’re going to be sick. When your back hits the cool concrete wall of the back of the garage, you lean your entire weight against it. The only thing you’re able to focus on is moving air in and out of your lungs. Your heart was still hammering but your panic was starting to subside.
All at once, the sickening dread is replaced by a devastatingly cold sense of clarity.
You had to stop this.
Looking down at your hands, which were still shaking uncontrollably, and then out at the mechanics already snapping into action to get the car repaired when it got brought back into the garage, you just knew.
The truth of what you had to do settled in your bones, the cold dread of what you were going to have to do settling in your stomach like lead. You weren’t just in deep with Lando. You were completely, hopelessly, dangerously in love with him.
And it was going to absolutely destroy you.
As you watch Lando follow two men into the medical car so he could be taken to the med center to get cleared, you remind yourself of the reality of your situation: He didn’t love you back.
None of this was real for Lando. All it was was the ultimate way to get his ex-girlfriend to leave him alone so he could move on. He’d made that clear the night in Monaco when he’d been gleeful about how good the optics would look online.
You indulged in the lingering kisses, the flirtatious glances, and the messy, blurred lines—until loving someone you could never have finally broke you.
As you lean back against the wall, head resting against the firm concrete, you decide it’s time to end the charade. You knew you’d never survive the devastation of losing him if you didn’t end it now.
Your eyes flutter shut as you swallow the bitter, metallic taste of fear as the reality of what you had to do settles in your chest.
The public dates and social media flirting, the late-night ‘platonic’ cuddling and sharing his bed — all of it had to come to an end now because you were in too deep. If you didn’t put distance between yourself and Lando now, you’d never survive when he decided it was time to move on. And you knew that day would come eventually.
You had to protect yourself, even if it meant walking away from the only person that had truly ever made you feel alive and you had to do it that weekend.
f1_gossip_official posted!
f1_gossip_official 20 minutes into the second practice of the weekend in Spain, Lando Norris went flying into the wall after hitting a curb covered in standing water at the wrong angle. The car was destroyed and the red flag was thrown. There were several tense moments on track when Lando didn't respond to his engineer nor seem to be able to move. Eventually, he did find his voice and was able to get out of the car under his own power. A McLaren spokeswoman confirmed Lando was taken to the medical center and later released and will be ready to go for qualifying tomorrow.
user03 holy shit that was a terrifying hit, i was watching it at home and screamed so loud my mom thought i chopped off a finger.
user903 the FIA should've thrown the red flag WAY before that, the conditions were so fucking dangerous
>>>user322 just like his crash in 2021 in spa!
user002 ok but when they showed YN coming unglued in the garage, i felt so bad.
>>>user12 she was so upset!
user34 YN looked like she was about to faint when lando wouldn't respond! idk who that was next to her but she was mothering YN so hard in that moment.
>>>user345 the woman next to her was Julie Danforth! She's Lando's press officer and seems to be pretty close to YN as well.
user034 i hope YN is okay. she looked like she was going to be sick. :(
>>>user464 i just wanted to give her a hug. the way she nearly collapsed when Lando was finally able to get something out over the radio.
>>>user344 i mean, can you imagine? she didn't know if she just watched the man that she's clearly head over heels for get seriously injured! poor girl :(
The rain had finally slowed to a dismal drizzle by the time Lando was released from the medical center.
You’d taken Julie’s suggestion and gone back to the hospitality suite to wait after you’d been told that because you weren’t family, you wouldn’t be allowed to go to him while he got checked out by the track doctors.
It was an agonizing nearly two hour wait. The only thing that you’d been able to do was pace up and down the carpet just inside the glass double doors. You hand’t changed out of your damp clothes, you couldn’t focus on answering any emails either. You’d only barely been able to return Max and Cisca's texts, assuring them that they would be the first to know when Lando was cleared by the medical team.
Nothing else mattered. You just needed to see him, to prove to yourself that he was okay. That was the only way you’d be able to relax.
You’re standing next to Julie, only half listening to her as she chatters away, when the glass doors swing open and Lando walks in.
He looks entirely spent, his shoulders slumped as he walked slowly through the doors. He was still in his race suit, the top half peeled down around his waist. His curls flat and damp against his forehead and there was a dark, purplish bruise already blooming across his left cheekbone. You watch the way he walked, stiff and hesitant, as if he was still bracing for an impact that might knock the wind out of him again.
Lando’s gaze scans the room the moment he walks in, looking for you in the crowd that had gathered to make sure he was okay.
The moment your eyes lock on his, the last remaining thread of your control snaps.
You completely lose it.
The wall that you’d spent the last two hours building around your heart — the cold, logical plan that you’d decided on to distance yourself and protect your heart — completely disintegrates the second you make eye contact with Lando.
If this weekend was going to be the end of it, if you were going to force yourself back into the cold reality of professionalism by Sunday night, then you were going to take whatever you could get right now. You were going to indulge in the lie one last time, allowing yourself to pretend that, for the moment, Lando still belonged to you. You could hide behind the fact that none of this was real to allow your feelings for him to consume you for the next 48 hours.
You cover the distance between you in a handful of quick strides. Lando barely has time to register your movement before you’re throwing your arms around him.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, holding onto him so desperately, your muscles ache. Squeezing him so tightly it feels frantic, you grasp onto the fabric of his fireproofs as if Lando’s presence could physically anchor you to the ground beneath you.
Lando sucks in a breath as the impact from your body colliding with his sends him back half a step. His arms come up, wrapping securely around your middle, his large hands pressing flat against your back to pull you deep into his chest. Burying his face in your hair, he breathes you in with a heavy, ragged sound that sounds like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water.
Wet, hot tears soak through his fireproofs as silent sobs wrack your body, your shoulders shaking uncontrollable.
“Baby.” Lando whispers, his voice raw and raspy in your ear. One hand shifts, sliding up your spine to cup the back of your head, holding onto you just as desperately as you cling to him. “Hey, hey, hey, shhh. Baby, look at me. I’m alright, I swear. They cleared me, I’ve just got some bumps and bruises but that’s it. Not even a concussion.”
You don’t look up.
You can’t.
All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut as your tears continue to stream down your face. You let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart beneath your palms.
You allow yourself to pretend, even for just these few stolen moments in the middle of a rainy Friday, that the tight grip Lando has around you was because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you either.
“I was so scared watching you go into that barrier.” You choke, voice thin and high against his neck. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Lando Norris. Do you hear me?”
Lando’s fingers flex into your hair as he cradles you against his chest, swaying back and forth slightly.
“I won’t.” He murmurs, thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the nape of your neck. He presses a quiet, lingering kiss to your temple, hoping that the gesture will help ground you. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m fine, I promise, okay?”
All you can manage in response is a quick, shallow nod of your head.
The comfort of his embrace is so intoxicating. It’s a devastatingly strong drug that you knew was going to be hell detoxing from. As you hold him tighter, just breathing in his presence, you make a silent deal with yourself.
Sunday would bring heartbreak.
Sunday would be the end of the lie.
But for right now, in the quiet safety of Lando’s arms, you were going to let yourself love him for just a little while longer.
The tension in the hotel room Sunday evening is suffocating.
You had tried your best to keep yourself together the entire weekend and for the most part, you had managed it. Now that the race was over and the end of you and Lando was imminent, you felt like you were drowning.
Across the room, Lando was quietly packing up his suitcase while tossing worried looks in your direction every so often. You hadn’t said a word to him since you’d gotten back to the hotel and he could feel the anxiety rolling off of you in tsunami sized waves.
Lando blamed himself entirely.
He’d finished on the podium just a few hours earlier, the smell of champagne and sweat still lingering. It had been a hard-fought, brilliant drive that had salvaged a good haul of points after the absolute disaster of Friday’s crash. Under normal circumstances, you would have probably had music playing, a bottle of champagne open and plans for a celebratory dinner with the team before leaving for Monaco to relax before the next race.
Tonight though, there was only the quiet sound of zippers and the clink of your skincare being packed up. You were standing by your open suitcase on the opposite side of the room from Lando, methodically folding your clothes as you tried to breathe around the hole that had formed in your chest Friday afternoon. Ever since the crash, you’d been operating on autopilot, your professional mask pinned so tightly in place it was starting to feel permanent.
Lando was distractedly packing his own bag, his shoulders tight and face drawn. He’d already showered while you’d grabbed something to eat in the hotel lobby, the scent of his shower gel and cologne filling the small room.
He kept casting hesitant, worried glances across the bed at you, as if he was expecting you to collapse onto the bed sobbing or something equally as dramatic. Every time you moved to grab another shirt or reached for your laptop, his eyes would track you, watching the slight tremor in your hands that you hadn’t quite been able to shake since the moment his car had hit the barrier.
The guilt radiating off of him was almost palpable. It made anything he tried to eat taste like ash and anxiety. It was bitter and cloying in the most uncomfortable way.
He’d seen how completely unraveled you had been when he’d walked into hospitality on Friday. He felt entirely responsible for the tight set of your shoulders and the exhaustion digging at the hollows beneath your eyes. Neither of you had said anything, but there was no way Lando had missed the way you’d been tossing and turning in your shared bed since that night, your whimpers waking him up when you finally did manage to fall asleep when the dawn had streaked itself across the sky.
Lando tucks a set of trainers into his suitcase and instead of reaching for the clean team polo that he hadn’t needed that weekend, he stops.
For a long moment, he just stands there, staring down at his open bag, jaw ticking as he tried to figure out how to fix the suffocating tension in the room.
Finally, he lets out a heavy, defeated sigh as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
“Max just texted me.” He says softly, his voice sounding louder than he intended thanks to the silence that sat heavily between the two of you. “Verstappen.” He clarifies, watching your face carefully for a reaction. “His jet is leaving for Monaco in about an hour and a half. He wants to know if we’d be ready by then.”
You freeze, fingers tightening around the bundle of cords you’d been wrapping up to tuck in your tote bag. You don’t look up at him, your eyes staying trained on the ground in front of you.
“You should be able to make it to the airport by then.” You murmur, carefully placing the cords inside the pocket of the tote.
Lando’s brow creases, a flicker of confusion darting across his face. “What do you mean ‘you’? We’re flying back to Monaco together, aren’t we?”
You swallow down the massive lump of anxiety in your throat. You’d been dreading this moment since you’d seen Lando walk through the doors after his crash Friday afternoon.
For a few breaths, you can’t make the words you know you have to say come out. Your tongue feels like sandpaper and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
“I’m not going back to Monaco with you, Lando. I’ve booked myself a flight to London this evening.”
Lando frowns, utterly confused. “London?” He repeats, taking a tentative step towards you. “Why are you going back to London? I thought you were just going to work from your office at my flat until we had to leave for Austria on Wednesday?”
Your eyes flutter shut.
You had known this was going to be heartbreakingly difficult but standing in the room with Lando less than five feet away from you, seeing the look of panic and confusion on his face, was actually going to destroy you.
“That’s not my office, Lando. That’s your spare bedroom.”
"It could be your office.”
You shake your head as you finish zipping up your suitcase, pulling it onto the floor with a thud. Your tote bag goes on top of it and suddenly, you have no more excuses to stay. You know you need to make your escape quick or else you’ll never get away from Lando’s gravitational pull.
“It’s time to stop pretending, Lan. Our…relationship has served its purpose.” You back up towards the door, dragging your suitcase with you. “We haven’t heard from Magui recently and Emma said she posted a story with another guy last night, some tennis player.”
You couldn’t look at Lando in the eye. If you did, you knew your resolve would crumble.
“What are you saying?” He asks almost too quietly for you to even hear.
Tears sting painfully at the corner of your eyes. You tilt your head back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m saying it’s time we go back to our normal lives, the fake dating has run its course.”
Lando takes one step towards you but freezes when you immediately back away from him. His heart clenches so painfully at your desperate attempt to put distance between you, he almost forgets how to breathe.
“Are you invoking the ‘Escape Rule' right now?” he asks carefully.
“I’m invoking the ‘we’ve accomplished our goal and it’s time to go back to normal’ rule right now.” You say, your hand blindly finding the door handle behind you.
“I never agreed to that one.” Lando protests.
You shake your head, “That’s too bad. I’ll go to Silverstone with you, keep up appearances and everything but after that, I’ll just fade into the background. We can come up with an official line later.” You glance down at your phone in your hand. “I’ve got to go, my Uber is here. If anyone asks, I had some important brand meetings in London and will have to miss Austria.”
Lando huffs a dry, brittle laugh. “Always got that PR story at the ready, huh YN?”
You narrow your eyes, a sharp biting reply on the tip of your tongue. This was hard enough, losing Lando like this. You didn’t want to jepordize your job too by mouthing off to the boss now that you had to be professional again.
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 -> 7.2k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
its_yn posted!
394,398 likes
liked by mclarenf1, lando, emma_fairchild and others
its_yn happy monoco race week to all who celebrate!!!
user023 anyone wanna take bets on if magui shows up???
>>>user992 PLEASE could you imagine?!
>>>user332 its a humiliation kink atp if she does
lando hey who's that cute guy in the middle picture
>>>its_yn hmm idk just some random fan that snuck into the garage to cosplay an engineer.
>>>lando weird, thought it was your amazingly talented, wildly handsome boyfriend or sm
>>>its_yn 🤭
>>>emma_fairchild you guys are such losers
>>>its_yn xoxo bestie
user223 genuinely want her life FR
Monaco has always been one of your favorite weekends on the calendar. Sure, the race more often than not ended up being boring with the pole sitter eventually taking the checkered flag in P1 but to you, there was always so much more to a Monaco race weekend than who ended up on the podium. Last year, you’d watched from McLaren hospitality as Lando had crossed the line in P1, overjoyed at watching your friend live out a childhood dream. You’d stayed in the shadows that day though, content to watch from the sidelines.
This year was different.
You’d gotten to Monaco the Monday of race week, telling everyone that it was just easier to set up a temporary Quadrant HQ in Lando’s office rather than move everything from your London flat in the middle of an already stressful week.
You told anyone who had asked that it was simply a business decision, that it made sense for you to be there since Max, Ria, and the rest of the Quadrant crew would be coming and going that week. Answering and reacting to media inquiries from Monaco was just easier.
The truth of the matter was that Lando was still on edge after his encounter with Magui back in Canada and you knew it soothed his nerves having you close. He had asked you to come early late one night the week before and you hadn't even hesitated. Of course you would be there for him when he needed it. What were friends for, after all? Besides, it would look better in the media too. With you spending more time in Monaco, the relationship gained more credibility.
This race weekend you once again found yourself thrust right into the spotlight, a place you were quickly being forced to be comfortable in despite every cell in your body screaming for the quiet anonymity you’d grown used to.
You also weren't alone this weekend like you had been in Canada, as Lando's parents were attending their first race of the season. You’d met Adam and Cisca Norris several times before and they had always been so lovely towards you, towards all of Lando’s friends really. He’d told them about your ‘relationship’ earlier in the week, sticking to the rule of not telling anyone the truth.
When she’s pulled you into a hug Friday morning, Cisca had whispered something about how she’d ’always known there’d been a spark’ between you and her son.
Her words had knocked the wind out of your lungs.
On Sunday, you find yourself sandwiched between Lando’s parents in McLaren’s hospitality suite that sat high above pit lane watching Lando start on pole for the second year in a row. An anxious energy thrummed through the room, crowded with sponsors and family that flocked to the glitzy race every year. You were acutely aware of the cameras seeking you out too, something that still had the anxiety churning in your stomach.
Lando had had a terrible start to the year, crippled by reliability issues as the team struggled to find the sweet spot with the car. By Miami, he had felt more comfortable in the car and finally, it seemed like Lando was settling into maybe making a run at defending his championship. It was still early in the season and you knew how quickly things could change, but him managing to put the car on pole for this race was a good sign.
The tension in the room was heavy as the laps ticked down. The team had made all the right strategy calls and Lando was almost ten seconds up on Kimi, who was sitting back in P2 fighting off his own teammate for the second podium spot that afternoon.
“Alright, mate. Five laps to go. Ten second gap to Kimi behind, keep this up. Watch track limits though, we only have one strike but I don’t want any drama.” Over the radio, Will speaks to Lando calmly as you tried not to get ahead of yourself.
You knew how much this track meant to Lando, how much it would mean to him if he managed to win it in back to back years but you were also afraid to even think of the possibility of him winning.
Beside you, Cisca’s hand finds yours underneath the table as she grins over at you. “You look far too calm considering…” She says, voice edged with the same anxiety you felt clutched in your chest.
“I’m just really good at pretending.” You whisper conspiratorially, small grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I feel like I’m going to have a stroke.”
“He’s got this.” From your other side, Adam squeezes your shoulder but you refuse to say the words out loud.
After the DNF in Zandvoort last year, you refused to speak about any sort of positive results before the checkered flag was waved. You were too superstitious.
Someone in the suite turns the TV broadcast volume up so you can hear Alex Jacques call the final lap. He talks about how the team had struggled to get back to fighting form in the first few races of the season, how calm Lando had looked through it all, how much confidence he’d had this entire weekend and how good the car was running as Lando started his final lap.
It wasn’t until Lando comes out of that last corner that you feel the tears build, stinging painfully at the corners of your eyes. Behind you, you could hear Max, Ria, Keegan and Pietra murmuring about how he was actually going to do it. You still refuse to say anything, refuse to speak anything into existence until you actually see him cross the finish line. Your grip on Cisca’s hand tightens as he barrels down the last straight still in the lead, now with almost a fifteen second lead on Kimi.
“Lando pulls off what we thought might be impossible at the start of the season! From wrestling with reliability issues early on, McLaren has come storming back! The world champion wins the Monaco Grand Prix for the second year in a row!”
The checkered flag falls and the tears start. You know how much this race means to him, how badly he wanted to prove himself a worthy World Champion. The suite erupts around you, cheers from Lando’s family and friends drowning out the commentating that was still continuing on the screens above your heads. Beside you, Adam lets out a cry of paternal pride while Cisca collapses into her seat, her hands pressed to her face in a mixture of relief and pure joy.
But you? You don’t move. You can’t. The aloof, unbothered mask that you’d been wearing all weekend shatters into a million pieces the moment you hear Will tell him he’d just won Monaco for the second time in a row. The sheer weight of the last few weeks - the fake dating, the feelings that you were desperately trying to ignore, the pressure of keeping Lando’s world steady - all of it comes rushing to the surface as you listened to him over the radio.
“We did it!" Lando crows over the radio. "God, this feels good. Good job team, all those long nights in the factory paid off. Thank you to everyone for making this possible, I couldn’t do it without you all. This one is extra special, two years in a row!” You could tell from the rasp in Lando’s voice he was desperately holding back tears after accomplishing something that he had been nervous he wouldn’t be able to do that year.
“Oh, listen to him.” Cisca whispers, her voice thick with emotion as she reaches over to take your hand back in hers. “He did it, YN. Our boy did it.”
Our boy.
Your boy.
Your heart seizes painfully. He might appear to be yours in public but you knew that Lando could never truly belong to you. Not really, not in any permanent way that meant anything. This arrangement between you and him was never going to last and eventually, this was all going to end. It hurt, realizing this might be the only time you’d be able to celebrate with him like this so desperate moment, you make a choice. You choose to let yourself sink into the charade, even if it could never be your reality.
That would have to be enough.
You’d go back to pretending the feelings weren’t there tomorrow. As long as you didn't say anything out loud, the charade could remain your reality.
You try to nod, to say something coherent in response to his mother’s comment but the only thing that you could manage was a choked sob, catching it barely in the back of your throat as you desperately swipe at your tear stained face. Staring up up at the screen, you watch as Lando got out of the car, pausing for a moment beside it as he collects himself. When he takes off his balaclava, you could see the red around his eyes, giving away the fact that he's already been crying.
At that exact moment, while you stare up at Lando with an awe struck look on your face, the TV director switches the feed to the camera that had been stationed in the McLaren suite once a win had looked imminent.
All of a sudden, you’re looking up at your own tear stained face with Adam’s arm around your shoulders. A graphic bar pops up beneath your image: YN YLN - Lando Norris’ Partner. Your stomach lurches. You should have expected it, McLaren PR had confirmed the relationship to the media earlier that week but it still caught you off guard, the charade you’d been living for over a month suddenly feeling too real.
Blinking furiously, you swipe at your eyes and laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous you look on the screen. Before you have a chance to do anything else, the feed switches back to Lando chatting with Kimi and Oscar, who had overtaken George at the last minute to snatch the last podium step away from the Mercedes driver.
Lando was beaming, sweaty curls matted to his face, the indent of his radio wires pressed into his face as he looked around Parc Ferme as if he was searching for someone.
“Let’s go congratulate our boy, YN.” Adam says, his eyes twinkling with a knowing smile that made your stomach flip.
You start to shake your head, to say it isn’t your place to be down in Parc Ferme with the rest of the team. You didn’t belong there, you wouldn’t dare assume that you did.
Adam reaches for your hand, tugging you toward the doors. “He asked me this morning to make sure you were down there with the family if he won. Said he didn’t want to celebrate without you.”
You manage a nod, not trusting your voice quite yet with how many different emotions were coursing through your body at the moment. Instead, you just follow Adam and Cisca down the stairs towards Parc Ferme where Lando was doing his post-race media interview with Jenson Button.
Walking from the suite down towards where Lando is parked is a blur of papaya and deafening cheers from the crowds. The sticky heat of the Monaco afternoon presses in on you but all you could feel was the frantic thrumming of your heart against your ribs as you followed Adam and Cisca through the crowd. They’d done this last year. They knew the drill, knew the best way to get to where Lando was to see him before the podium ceremony.
The crowd that was standing against the barriers seemed to part when they realized the people trying to weave their way towards Lando were his parents.
“Oi! Let them through!” A mechanic shouted, grinning when he makes eye contact with you.
Suddenly, you find yourself pressed up against the metal barrier with Lando’s parents just beside you. Lando was finishing his interview with Jenson, his chest heaving with the exertion of the race. His hair was still sweat mussed and he was clutching at a bottle of water like a lifeline. He looked exhausted, his face streaked with sweat and grime but the second Jenson moved on to talk to Kimi, he began to scan the crowd. He wasn’t looking for Zak or Andrea or even his own parents.
He was looking for you.
The moment his eyes find yours, the way his expression changes is so visceral it makes the breath catch in the back of your throat. The professional, triumphant World Champion persona was forgotten in an instant, leaving behind a boy who looked like he’d just found home.
Lando doesn't wait. Doesn't wait for Jenson to finish with Kimi and Oscar. He doesn't even clear anything with Julie. He just makes a decision and starts walking in your direction.
In a few long strides, Lando is in front of you, helmet forgotten on ground behind him. Camera shutters flicker to life around you, totally ignoring anything else other than the way Lando is staring down at you with a singular, daunting sense of determination.
Before you can even get a word of congratulations out of your mouth, his hands are on you. One hand get tangles in your hair at the nape of your neck, the other around your waist hauling you as close as he can get you with the metal barrier between you. The cold metal bites into your skin but you don’t even notice it. Lando smelled like sweat, gasoline and adrenaline and you couldn’t get enough.
Then he kisses you.
It isnt the quick, strategic brush of lips you’d grown used to managing while you and Lando were in public. You could handle those brief flashes of affection by telling yourself he was just acting, that the way he touched you was all just for show.
No, this was a full on collision, messy and so dangerously close to being real that you’re certain you’ll never recover from it. It was deep, possessive and so raw that the ground beneath your feet tilts, your knees nearly buckling.
He kisses you with the hunger of a man who’d been starving for weeks, his mouth moving against yours with such a frantic honesty, the breath is stolen right from your lungs. It shatters every rule, breaks every boundary, and would make you a liar when you inevitably tried to convince yourself that it was nothing more than an act.
For the first time all day, you don't think about the cameras or the crowd. You don't think about Magui or the rules that you keep tucked away in that spare notebook. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his race suit, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of air left between you. Letting out a broken, jagged sob into the kiss, you couldn’t help the grin that flashes across your face, the taste of his sweat and your tears blurring together.
When Lando finally pulls back, it’s only an inch or so and he doesn’t fully let go. He presses his forehead against yours, his shoulders heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
“Hi.” He breathes, smile so bright and wide that your chest aches.
“Hi.” You laugh, shaking your head at how bold he’s being with his affection.
“You were the only person I wanted to see after that checkered flag waved, baby" He whispers, his voice cracking, rough with an intimacy you’d never heard from him before.
“I’m so proud of you.” You choke out, your hands framing his face, thumbs swiping at the grime on his cheeks.
For one dangerous moment with the crowd losing their minds around you, the charade ceases to exist. It feels like this, right here in Lando's arms , was the only thing in the entire world that was real. The lines hadn’t just blurred in a matter of seconds, they’d been burned away by the heat Lando's expression as he looked at you.
He leans in again, pressing a soft, lingering kiss on your temple before turning back to face the world, his fingers intertwined with yours between the barriers so tightly it felt like he’d never let go.
When the interviews are done, Julie is waiting on the sidelines, exasperated expression on her face as if to say ‘are you two done?’. Beside her, Jon and Zak are looking at each other with smug, all knowing grins as they shake their head.
Lando turns back to you, taking a step towards where his team is waiting for him. Reluctantly, he lets go of your hand once he’s too far to keep you in his grasp.
“I’ve got media duties." He says, backing away even as gaze stays trained on you. "I really hope you brought a gown with you in that giant suitcase you have in my closet at home because I’m not going to the Prince’s Ball tonight without you.”
f1_gossip_official posted!
f1_gossip_official and lando norris WINS monaco for the second year in a row! F1tv also seemingly confirmed his relationship with @/its_yn, who was in attendance all weekend, by identifying her as ‘Lando Norris’ Partner’ during the race. YN watched the entire race sitting between Lando's parents, so it must be getting serious!! the two shared a passionate kiss in parc ferme after the race as well, as his family and team looked on, all with smiles on their faces.
user091 new fave f1 couple
>>>user049 for REAL
user921 idk how to explain it but this just seems so GENUINE, nothing compared to how he acted with his last gf
>>>user002 love that we're not even using her name anymore
>>>user322 @/user002 oh she's gonna HATE that
user445 literally the definition of 'where's the trophy, he just comes running over to me'
>>>user452 @/its_yn is legit living a taylor swift song AHH #jealous
User95 her getting all emotional and hugging his parents? She’s so proud of him 🥹😭
User41 AND THAT KISS? I thought they both were going to burst into flames. 🔥
The Prince’s Ball was supposed to be the crown jewel of the weekend. It was supposed to be the final exclamation point on what was already the most glitzy race of the entire Formula One calendar. Beneath the high ceilings and suffocating weight of sponsor duties and royal protocol though, it was turning out to be an exhausting exercise in patience and endurance. The music was a subdued hum that had your eyes feeling heavy before the first course had even been served, the speeches were long and droning, and the photo ops with the sponsors were endless.
To cope with the corporate small talk and stiff atmosphere, you and Lando had long since turned to the passing trays of champagne. One glass turned into five, after which you’d lost count of how many times Lando had handed you a glass just as you’d emptied the one already in your hands. By midnight, the formal rigidity of the event had dissolved into a warm and hazy blur that had you feeling like you were floating.
You're not exactly sure how, but after dinner you find yourself tucked into a dimly lit alcove near a set of doors that led to the outside terrace. You told yourself that you were simply keeping Lando out of sight from a group of finance bros that had been eyeing him all night.
The truth was that neither of you were paying attention to anyone else in the room anymore. Lando’s world had narrowed down to the way the ivory silk dress you wore shimmered beneath the ballroom lights and the way his chest clenched when you smiled up at him.
His hands curled into your waist, the cool silk bunching beneath his fingers as he tugged you deeper into the shadows. He wasn’t just holding onto you for a photo op anymore. He wasn’t pretending that he was getting handsy with his girlfriend for the sake of getting caught by the media. Lando was simply letting down his guard for the night and fully planned on blaming the alcohol on any poor choices he made.
“You’re supposed to be networking, Lando. All of these people are here for you.” You murmur, your cheeks flaming when you hear how breathy your voice has gone. The champagne has your head spinning, making you far bolder than you would have ever let yourself be otherwise.
“Don’t care.” Lando says, the tone of his voice thick and gravelly against your skin. His eyes were dark, intense and slightly glassy from the combination of exhaustion and champagne. He hadn’t dropped eye contact with you for several minutes.
Taking a step closer, his fingers trace a line up the silk of your dress from your hip to your torso, smirking when he notices the goosebumps littering your skin. He was testing your boundaries, seeing how far you’d let him go. It was in the way his gaze kept dropping to your lips, the way his touch lingered, completely disregarding all of the rules and boundaries he’d agreed to back in Miami. And so far, you were letting him push you as far as he wanted to go.
To anyone watching from across the ballroom, it looked like you two were just a couple completely and hopelessly obsessed with one another.
And that was the problem, wasn't it? You could feel yourself falling. Hard. The very thing you'd been afraid of was coming into focus at an alarming rate. It was so dangerous, what was happening in this dark little corner of the ballroom where you were completely alone because neither of you were performing for the cameras. It was just the two of you, forgetting that the outside world existed, forgetting that this was supposed to be fake.
Every time Lando leaned in that evening, his arm pulling you flush against his chest so he could whisper a joke about a sponsor’s ill fitting tuxedo, your heart took a dangerous leap that you knew there was no coming back from.
You had to actively force yourself not to wrap your arms around his neck the moment he had dragged you into that tiny little cozy alcove. It’s just the win, you told yourself desperately, your fingers clutching at your champagne flute a little tighter. It’s the adrenaline and the alcohol and exhaustion of the day that’s making him behave this way, don’t fall for it. Don’t believe the act.
Lando murmurs your name, his hand moving from your waist to gently cup the side of your neck as his thumb brushes over the swell of your cheekbone. The soft, golden light from the chandelier above you caught the unguarded vulnerability in his eyes. Gone was the smug, cocky playboy that constantly had you rolling your eyes with his antics. In his place was a man who seemed to be completely consumed by the person standing in front of him.
It was the alcohol, you told yourself wildly as your heart rate spiked. It had to be, there was no other reason for Lando to be looking at you like this right now. But for tonight, that was going to be enough.
“Come here.” He tugs you towards him, his warmth flooding through you. “It should be illegal for you to look this pretty.”
You roll your eyes, not used to the flattery coming from his mouth tonight.
“Quit that.” You scold but it comes out weak, utterly devoid of your usual authoritative tone you frequently used with him.
Lando just smirks before leaning even further into your space until your noses were practically touching. For one terrifyingly beautiful moment, you think he is going to break rule number once again and kiss you while no one was watching.
Much to your embarrassed dismay, he simply tucks his nose behind your ear, breathing you in while wrapping his arms around your waist in a desperate move that felt dangerously close to a confession.
“Let’s get out of here.” He murmurs against your skin, a shiver shooting down your spine when his lips ghost over the crook of your neck. “Please? I want to go home. With you.”
You swallow hard, your fingers moving on their own accord as they bury themselves in his curls at the back of his neck, holding onto him just sat tightly. You didn’t even care if he was being this way because he was seven glasses of champagne deep and wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
“Okay.” You whisper into his shoulder, letting yourself sink into his warmth. “Let’s go home.”
f1.WAG.fashion posted!
f1.WAG.fashion as is tradition, lando norris attended the Prince's Ball tonight after his win in Monaco with his new girlfriend, @/its_yn on his arm. this is the first time he's made an official appearance with her and she looked STUNNING.
user234 the way i desperately need her to drop her back and arm routine
user099 i was there tonight! my boyfriend works for one of the sponsors and got 2 last minute tickets. these two did not look at anyone else the entire night. they spent the entire night laughing and drinking with their hands ALL OVER each other
>>>user441 ugh love that for them
user002 that dress is to DIEEEEEE FORRRRRR
user911 currently writing a petition to name @/its_yn as most fashionable WAG
>>>user722 SECONDED
The heavy oak door of Lando’s apartment clicks shut, instantly plunging you both into an almost eerie silence that had your ears ringing.
It was well past two in the morning when you two tumbled through the door, both still half drunk off of champagne and the way you’d spent the entire night flirting with each other. Your feet were absolutely killing you inside the brand new designer heels Julie had pulled out of nowhere. Looking at Lando though, with his bow tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck, his jacket slung over one shoulder, the pain was entirely worth it if you got to see him like this.
“Shhh…” Lando whispers dramatically, turning around with a finger pressed to his lips. His eyes were bright, still slightly glassy, amd there was a devastating lopsided grin plastered on his face. “Max and Pietra are asleep in the guest room. If we wake them up now, we’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll probably make me give up half the shit t I’ve bought in Tarkov this year as punishment.”
“I am being quiet, Norris.” You shoot back, dropping your clutch on the side table where it lands with a soft thud. “You’re the one stomping around here like a bloody rhinoceros!”
Lando freezes, looking at you with a hilarious mix of disbelief and offence as his mouth drops open.
The only thing you can manage in response is a bubbly giggle that would've had you cringing if you had been sober.
The alcohol was making everything feel warm, soft, and beautifully low-stakes. Nothing could upset you at the moment and you were just content to drown in the way Lando kept looking at you like you were responsible for hanging the stars in the sky.
Leaning against the wall, you unbuckle the ankle straps of your heels, letting out a sigh of relief when your bare feet hit the cool hardwood flooring.
As you step out of them, you lose your balance for just a fraction of a second. Lando’s hand shoots out instantly, catching you at the waist, his palm hot against the bare skin exposed by the low cut back of your dress.
He doesn’t drop his hand right away like you’d expected. Instead, his gaze lingers, tracing the lines of the ivory fabric of your dress. “You look…" He swallows, his throat bobbing. “Ridiculously good tonight, by the way. Have I told you that already?”
A soft, breathy giggle escapes as you kick your shoes across the hallway, “Only five times before the Prince Albert's champagne toast.”
“Well, let’s make it six then.” He whispers, thumb doing a teasingly slow swipe across your hip before he reluctantly pulls away. “Come on, let’s get out of these clothes before you trip over something.”
“I am insulted you’re implying that I’m the clumsy one, Mister ‘I almost face plant whenever I get out of the back of minivan.”
Lando shoots you a glare over his shoulder, “That was one time, you brat!”
You simply smirk back at him, shrugging your shoulders while you follow him down the hallway.
Lando's bedroom feels like an entirely different universe when you shut the door behind you with a soft snick. The room is cool, the balcony doors cracked open just enough to let in the distant sounds of the waves crashing against the beach below.
You retreat to the en suite bathroom, quickly swapping the heavy gown for a pair of soft silk pajamas. When you walk back out, Lando is already in a pair of grey joggers and tshirt, his curls a wild, chaotic mess from where he’d aggressively run his hands through his hair on the drive home.
As he pulls back the duvet, he glances up at you to watch you approach the edge of the bed. The tension from the party earlier was still humming between you, the alcohol had made the boundaries feel incredibly fluid.
You slide underneath the covers, shivering slightly at the cool sheets against your skin. Lando climbs in beside you, propping himself up on his elbow, his eyes tracking you in the dim light.
“Hey, Lan?” You whisper into the quiet space between you while Lando ignores the itch to reach out and pull you close.
“Yeah?”
“I think we need to make an official amendment to rule number one.” You say, trying to inject a note of professional authority into your voice, even though you were looking up at him though your lashes.
Lando’s lips twitch into an amused, sleepy smile. “An amendment? At two in the morning? This must be very important if it can’t wait until tomorrow.”
You nod solemnly, but Lando sees the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“Okay then, lets here it.” He prompts.
“I propose we add a cuddling clause.” You manage, heart thumping a little faster at how brave you’re being. “Given the high-stress nature of both of our jobs, the jet lag and the…logistical realities of our current sleeping arrangements, I think it’s legally permissible for us to cuddle while we have to share a bed. Purely for comfort, of course. No strings attached, no hidden meanings, strictly physical.”
Lando’s smile softens into something warm that makes your chest ache. “A cuddling clause, huh?” He repeats softly. “Yeah, I can agree to that. It sounds highly professional, very well thought out.”
“Exactly. Because there are absolutely no feelings involved here,” You insist, looking him dead in the eye as you try to convince yourself as much as possible him. “It’s strictly transactional comfort between two busy people who could benefit from the endorphins that cuddling releases. Honestly, I bet Jon would encourage it as part of your recovery process.”
“I’m so glad I have you looking out for my recovery process.” Lando huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as reaches behind him to switch off the bedside lamp. “Ammendment approved. C’mere, baby.”
Plunged into darkness, with only silvery moonlight filtering in through the gauzy curtains on the other side of the room, Lando doesn’t hesitate. His arm slides around your waist, tugging you so you’re flush against him while the other hand slips underneath your neck. You tuck your face perfectly into the crook of his neck, the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne and warm skin wrapping around you like a shield.
Reaching beneath the sheets, he pulls your leg over his hips, smiling in the dark as you melt into him. His fingers slip underneath the silk top you have on, where he makes slow, soothing circles on your bare skin.
The skin on skin touch of Lando’s hand is searing, sending butterflies into a maddening dance in the pit of your stomach.
You let out a soft breath, nuzzling deeper against his chest. You know that the morning would thrust you both back into the busy world that you both lived in. You also knew that the “no feelings” clause was an absolute lie but you weren’t willing to voice it because that meant ending things according to your own “escape rule”.
For the next few hours though, being wrapped in Lando’s arms in the quiet Monaco night, the lie was enough to let you sleep peacefully.
The hangover from the race weekend had officially lifted from the rest of the principality but inside Lando’s apartment, the delicate bubble you two had built since his win remained completely intact. A week had passed since Lando had crossed the finish line first and life was beginning to settle back into somewhat of a normal routine.
Max and Pietra had packed their bags and returned to London shortly after the race ended the week prior, leaving the guest room entirely vacant. Your suitcase, however, was still stubbornly sitting in the corner of Lando’s closet. Neither of you had brought up the empty guest bed or had broached the subject of you moving your things out of his bathroom. The topic of your return to London had also gone completely unmentioned. It was a mutual, silent cowardice that you both refused to acknowledge.
If you didn’t talk about it, you didn’t have to explain why you were still sharing Lando’s bed every night.
With a break between races, there wasn’t much on the immediate schedule anyways. You’d spent the last week or so handling emails and Zoom meetings from a desk in Lando’s spare office that he’d cleaned off for you. Yesterday, you’d overhead him tell casually tell Oscar that you were ‘working from your office’ and the weight of him calling a room in his apartment yours had made your stomach do a violent, sickening flip. Next week, you’d both have to return to reality and fly back to London together so Lando could do some sim work at the MTC and you could make sure your plants weren’t dying an untimely death in your flat.
That was a long ways away though and tonight, you had just finished up some last second sponsor emails. You padded down the hallway heading towards Lando’s gaming room, looking for your iPad. From behind the door, Lando’s chaotic shouting was loud enough to vibrate the floorboards beneath your feet.
“Max! You absolute donkey! You left me completely unguarded and now I’ve got my arm shot off!” Lando yelled.
He’d disappeared into the guest room that doubled as his gaming room a few hours earlier, telling you he was going to hop on Max’s stream and play Tarkov for a little while. He usually just joined with his audio, preferring to stay off camera for the most part. It distracted chat when Lando appeared on Max’s stream so you figured you’d be safe if you snuck in without knocking.
Pushing open the door, you walk in, your hair tied up in a messy knot at the top of your head, bare feet shuffling across the hardwood floor. “Hey, Lan? Did I leave my iPad in here or —”
You stop dead in your tracks right behind his gaming chair, eyes going wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Right at eye level was a blindingly bright ring light. Your eyes slice over to his secondary monitor where you can see a crystal clear video preview of what chat was currently watching: Lando dead center in the frame and you standing directly behind him, fully visible to the entire audience in a pair of Lando’s oversized gray joggers and a very tiny, curve hugging tank top.
“Uh…Hey there, Boss Lady.” Max’s voice sounded form the speakers of Lando’s computer, eyes going wide with amusement as he watched your cheeks go crimson.
Lando freezes, his fingers slipping off his mouse in an almost comedic fashion. He hadn’t even thought to warn you that he’d lost a bet to Max earlier in the day and was being strong-armed into having his video on for tonight’s stream. He glances at the monitor before turning his head around slowly to look up at you.
Chat absolutely loses it when they realize what’s going on:
User1: IS THAT YN???
User2: Shouldn’t she be back in London??? What is she doing in Monaco still???
User3: IS SHE WEARING HIS SWEATPANTS???
User4: wait girl, please drop the arm routine!
User5: Oh we are being FED TONIGHT
User6: why is everyone shocked? That post-race makeout sesh after his win basically confirmed they're together.
User7: I always knew there was something going on between them and people called me insane!!
“Oh no.” You whisper, your brain malfunctioning as you instinctively take a step backwards in an attempt to dive out of the frame.
Lando’s reflexes are, unfortunately, faster.
Before you can escape, his hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. With a low, rumbling laugh, he doesn’t let you run. Instead, he tugs you just hard enough to knock you off balance sending you tumbling forward and straight into his lap.
“Hi sweetheart.” He grins smugly, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling you against his chest so you can't scramble away from him.
You were sitting sideways across his thighs, your hands resting on his shoulder for balance as you tried to maintain an ounce of dignity and decorum, something that you weren’t really achieving at the moment.
“Lando, you are streaming! With your video on!” You hiss under your breath, glaring at him as chat continues to lose their mind and Max watches on, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Everyone is watching! Let me up!”
“Let them watch.” He murmurs into the crook of your neck, the tone of his voice dropping into that quiet, low rasp that he usually reserved for the dark of his bedroom when he held you until your breathing evened out.
Propping his chin casually on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, he looks right at the camera and grins. “I think chat is enjoying the interruption, yeah? Besides, you look comfy. Why would you want to move when you’re so cozy?”
Chat comes unglued once again:
User92: they are so cute, I cannot handle it
User29: OH MY GOD
User12: The way those paws of his are gripping her. hand placement final boss.
User999: The way he was NEVER this affectionate with…her…
Uesr11: Lando looks so happy, oh my LAWD
User223: he is such a menace. I love it.
From his flat in London, Max lets out a deeply uncomfortable, weirded out groan. “What in the world is going on? This kind of domesticity is freaking me out. Lando, mate, you’ve never been like this, like ever. It’s grossing me out.”
Lando laughs, shaking his head as his arm tightens around your waist, his thumb doing slow, distracting circles against your hip — right in front of nearly 10,000 people.
You were going to kill him.
Lando, on the other hand, was completely unbothered due to the fact that for the first time all week, he didn’t have to hide how much he wanted you near him.
“She’s helping me with my…strategy.” Lando jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you with an intensely fierce expression that made your chest ache.
“Whatever. Can you play with Boss Lady in your lap or have we lost you for tonight?” Max snaps but there’s no heat behind it. If Lando was happy, if you were happy, then Max was only going to give you shit for a little while.
“I am a fantastic multitasker, just ask YN.” He wiggles his eyebrows, earning a groan from Max and an elbow in the ribs from you as you choke on a laugh.
“Lando Norris!” You cry, burying your head in his shoulder as Lando clicks around on the screen, starting up the next round of Tarkov.
For the next hour or so, you stay rooted in your spot, watching the screen in front of you as Lando and Max play several more rounds of the military game. Eventually, you realize how late it’s getting, your eyes growing heavy as you nuzzle into Lando’s neck.
“Tired?” Lando whispers during a lull in the action.
You nod but don’t make a move to get up, having accepted your fate a long time ago.
“Alright chat, that’s my cue. I’m signing off for the night. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Maxie!” Lando leans forward, clicking the X in the corner of his screen, ending his video and clicking off the ring light above your head.
The room falls quiet but neither of you make a move to get up. You’re much too comfortable having gotten into a spot in Lando’s lap that felt warm and safe. Lando glances down at you, victorious grin stretching across his face.
“Well,” He chuckles, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “That was unexpected but I don’t think it could have gone better.”
You roll your eyes, “You just spent the last hour cuddling your PR manager slash newly confirmed girlfriend on stream in front of several thousand people. Tell me how that’s not going to cause utter chaos on socials tomorrow.”
Lando shifts you in his lap so he can look at you better, his face eager. “No, that’s exactly what I’m saying! The clips of us flirting and you in my lap are going to be all over TikTok and Instagram before tomorrow morning. It’s going to look so good, everyone is going to be talking about how cute we are together, how real it looks between us.”
Your stomach roils unpleasantly as you untangle what hes trying to get at.
“Magui is going to lose her mind when she sees the clips. She was so sure we were just some flash in the pan fling but the stream was the perfect evidence to prove her wrong. There’s no way she can argue her way out of the way you were falling asleep in my lap at the end. The optics of it all is going to look brilliant.” He has the nerve to look smug as your blood runs cold. “I deserve a pat on the back for my quick thinking, really. We completely shut down her little narrative tonight.”
You stiffen in Lando’s lap, the warm rush of affection in your chest instantly evaporating.
There it was again. The painful reminder that none of this was real and Lando was just pretending to be head over heels for you. His affection was only for the benefit of the public and getting Magui off his back. The easy banter, the heavy looks, the way his thumb had traced your hip on camera. It wasn’t real.
None of it was real.
Tonight hadn’t been Lando finally realizing that he wanted something real with you. It was just an effective strategy that happened to, literally, fall right into his lap. He was just thrilled that he’d successfully weaponized your proximity to hurt his ex, which is what you’d both agreed to back in Miami.
You are an absolute idiot, your internal monologue chides, a sharp bitter ache flaring behind your ribs. You let yourself forget the script once again. He doesn’t want you. He just wants to be free of her.
“Right.” You say softly, your voice going cold as you scramble your way out of Lando’s lap. “The optics. I’m glad the optics are going to look good after tonight.”
Lando’s grin falters, his eyebrows drawing together in a flash of confusion at the sudden, icy shift in energy. He blinks up at you, “Wait. What’s wrong? Are you mad? What did I say?”
You shake your head, grabbing your iPad from the desk. “Nothing is wrong. It's fine. I’m fine. I do have to go check on flight details for our trip to the MTC next week, though.” Your tone is clipped, the professional armor you had allowed to be lowered too quickly locked solidly back into place as you walk towards the door without looking back. “I’ll move my stuff back into the guest room tonight. Good night, Lando.”
Lando sinks back into his chair, staring at the door that you’d shut behind you. Heaving a sigh, he shakes his head. He was confused by your sudden withdrawal, he’d thought you’d be excited about how good you two had looked tonight for the stream. Part of him was too cowardly to push for answers though. He couldn’t risk demanding to know why you were upset because doing so meant admitting how much your distance actually hurt.
The fact that you’d said you were going to sleep in the guest room tonight had his chest aching more fiercely than he was prepared for. He couldn’t let you know that the smug comments about Magui being angry was just a clumsy, desperate shield. It had been a pathetic attempt to hid the terrifying truth that he wasn’t pretending with you anymore. He had completely and hopelessly fallen for you and now he didn’t know how to fix the mess he’d caused.
lando_updates_daily posted!
lando_updates_daily twitch stream watchers were treated to a special treat tonight when lando decided to turn his video on while streaming with max. and not only that, halfway through the stream @/its_yn crashed the party and much to chat's delight, was forced to sit with lando while he continued gaming. YN even posted a story during the stream "complaining" about how she was trapped (we all think she was happily trapped). this was BY FAR the best stream we've had in ages, if not EVER
user394 the look on YNs face when she realized lando had his camera on was hilarious
>>>user90 lando looked so happy to see her! he knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled her into his lap
user42 the way she just straight up GAVE UP and accepted her fate in .05 seconds
>>>user049 and then started falling asleep in his arms. i was DYING
user23 i have NEVER been so happy to not have a life and have my twitch notifs on OMG
user0123 “I’m very good at multi-tasking. Just ask YN” Lando Norris, you horny little elf.
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!
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 -> 4.9k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
You and Lando make your debut in Monaco the following week. There’s a break in the F1 calendar and Lando has some time free from sponsor duties and factory days. He manages to convince you that it would be the perfect time to ‘hard launch’ your relationship by just turning up in Monaco on a random Thursday evening.
Lando picks you up from the airport in his Porsche Carrera GT knowing how much you adored the dark green sports car. You figured it might be a bribe, showing up with your favorite of his more than dozen cars.
You were right.
The sound of the GT’s engine purred like a mountain lion, vibrating through the leather seats as Lando navigated the winding roads from Nice towards his flat in the tiny principality that many of the F1 drivers called home. You’d been there a handful of times, mostly with Quadrant on business trips that Max needed you on. This was the first time you’d been to Monaco alone for a reason other than strictly professional.
“You’re unusually quiet.” Lando says, shifting gears effortlessly.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but you can tell he’s trying to gauge your mood. The tension in the car is stifling and you know it’s mostly coming from you. For some reason, you cannot shake the anxiety that’s been building in your chest since you left your apartment earlier that afternoon. The thought of the paparazzi focusing on your and Lando, on breaking the news about this ‘relationship’ and having to hear the internet’s opinion on you was making you queasy.
“I’m just mentally preparing for the influx of media inquiries I’m going to come back to on Monday." You reply, leaning your head back against the leather. “The second a photo of us getting out of this car together hits the internet, my inbox is going to look like a war zone.
Lando slides his gaze over to you momentarily, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s why we’re doing it this way. No PR statements. No warnings. Nothing. We just…show up. Like this is normal." He pauses. "We need to be subtle though. If we walk into Casino Square tonight all over each other, looking for the cameras before they realize we’re there, everyone will know it’s a setup.”
“Subtle?” You huff. “Lando, you picked me up in your very well known, very rare dark green Carerra GT. This car is basically a neon 'look at me!!' Sign for every car lover within a fifty mile radius.”
“That’s the point.” Lando says as if you’re missing the most obvious thing in the world. “The car grabs their attention and once everyone is looking, they notice us. We don’t do anything over the top, just pretend like this is totally normal for us, pretend that no one else exists. We give them just a glimpse.” His smile turns wicked then as he pushes his sunglasses up into his curls, giving you a wink. “My hand on the small of your back as I hand the keys to the valet. You laughing at something I say as I lean in just a bit too close. We want people to talk and this is how we’re going to give them something to talk about.”
You tilt your head, taking in what Lando has just said. “You’ve really thought this through.” You murmur.
“I’ve spent the last two years watching you manage my life and my brand.” Lando reasons, his hand briefly leaving the gear shift to give your knee a quick squeeze. “You’ve taught me a lot about controlling the narrative and how to get people to pay attention to what you want them to pay attention to. We just show up together and let everyone else make the assumptions we know they're going to make. It's all about optics.”
You can’t help the way your stomach churns at the thought of how fake your entire life is about to be for the foreseeable future. At least you got to pretend that your best friend had fallen head over heels for you for a while, even if the relationship already had an expiration date on it.
“What if someone asks?” You point out, wanting to know what sort of answer he’d have prepared. “What if we run into another driver or something?”
Lando slows the car as you hit the city limits, the engine settling into a low, throaty growl as he navigated the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. “We tell them the truth.” He shrugs. “Or the truth we want them to see at least. We’re just out for dinner. Let them fill in the blanks. The less we say, the more the rumors are going to swirl and the harder people are going to work to prove we’re together.”
He reaches over, his fingers sliding between yours, gripping them firmly. The warmth of his hand settles something in your chest and for the first time since landing in Nice you feel like you can take a breath again.
“Ready to be the most talked-about girl in the paddock?” He asks, thumb grazing your knuckles.
“I guess we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?” You reply dryly as Lando guides the car into his apartment’s garage.
Compared to the hum of the GT’s engine, the quiet of Lando’s flat was somewhat jarring. You’d spent the afternoon lounging on the couch while Lando streamed a little bit with Max, who still had no idea you were even in Monaco. Once the sun started to dip below the horizon, Lando had made an excuse that he needed to get ready for dinner and had signed off the stream.
By the time Lando is out of the shower and nearly ready, you’re were standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of his guest room staring at your reflection. Smoothing the fabric of the black lace dress that had cost Lando a pretty penny, you admired how good you looked. Usually, Lando saw you in leggings and crewnecks, Quadrant hoodies, or on especially fancy occasions, a sundress that fit the more casual vibe you usually favored.
This version of you though? The version that dressed in silk and lace was a side of you Lando had never seen. You were a little nervous about how he would react to seeing this more polished, sexier version of yourself that even you had forgotten existed.
A soft knock sounds at the door, pulling your gaze away from the mirror.
“Come in.” You call, securing the backing on your diamond drop earrings.
The door clicks open and Lando walks in, still fiddling with the collar of his crisp button-down. He stops dead in his tracks the moment he looks up and sees you. The banter that usually lived on the tip of his tongue evaporates into thin air as his hands drop to his side, his jaw quite literally dropping open. Silently, his gaze travels from your heels up to your face.
“What?” You ask, voice wobbling at the edges. You shift your weight under his gaze, the waves in your hair shimmering underneath the recessed lighting of the bedroom. “Is it too much? I knew it was too much, I’ll change into something…less.”
Lando finally blinks, shaking his head as if to clear whatever thoughts had caused his brain to malfunction.
“No!” He steps forward. “No, don’t you dare change.” His usual playful energy replaced with a stunned sort of awe that made your stomach feel funny. “I just…” He runs a hand through his curls as he scans your body for the second time in thirty seconds, cheeks heating. “I just forgot you had a ‘non-work’ setting.”
“I don’t.” You snort, looking down at your hands. “This is just very expensive camouflage. I feel like I'm about to pass out."
Lando reaches out, his hands hovering before he gently takes a hold of your elbows, pulling you closer to him. The warmth of his palms on your bare skin is grounding. “Hey.” He soothes, shaking his head. “Hey, look at me.”
You look up, eyes wide. Lando is caught off guard by the anxiety he sees on your features.
You’re usually the calm to his chaos, the one who always has the answer for whatever situation he gets himself into. The responsible one who never lets anyone see you sweat. But this? This side of you, the vulnerable girl who is anxious about being seen out in public with him? That was an entirely new side of you he hadn’t been expecting.
“You look incredible.” He says, voice low and husky.
A shiver bolts down your spine at the way he’s looking at you.
“I know you’re worried about being on display and everything,” He continues, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Just remember, you’re with me. I’ll be with you by your side every single second tonight. It’s just the two of us going to dinner. Forget the cameras, forget the ‘hard launch’, forget why we’re doing this. It’s just a Thursday night in Monaco with one of your best friends, okay?”
“A friend who just happens to be a world-famous racing driver in a city where everyone is an amateur paparazzo.” You counter, though you felt the tension in your shoulders start to melt beneath his gaze.
Lando steps even closer, so close that you could smell his cologne — something spicy and sharp that was certainly not something he wore every day. Reaching down, he slides his hand in yours, locking his fingers tight.
“Then we’ll give them one hell of a show.” He whispers, giving your hand a quick squeeze “But just for the record, even if there wasn’t a single camera in Monaco tonight I’d still be looking at you like this.” He gives you that trademark Lando Norris lopsided boyish grin he knows you're powerless against. “And I won’t be the only one staring at you when we leave this apartment.”
You search his face for any hint of sarcasm, any sign that he’s just telling you this so you’ll stop looking so terrified and help him get his ex-girlfriend off his back. Lando just holds your gaze, steady and certain, until you finally manage a small, somewhat uncertain smile.
“Okay, Norris.” You breathe, straightening your spine. “Let’s go make a scene.”
“That’s my girl.” Lando drops a quick peck on your forehead before tugging you towards the door.
its_yn posted!
32,012 likes
liked by emma_fairchild, lando, quadrant and others
its_yn: weekend adventures to the coast >>>
emma_fairchild where tf are you???
>>>its_yn not in london 😇
>>>emma_fairchild CLEARLY
max_fewtrell why does that balcony look familiar?
>>>lando relax, mate
>>>max_fewtrell if i know you (and i do) that in and of itself is a reason enough NOT to relax
user918 okay but that balcony? we've seen that in landologs before!
>>>user123 and the background of her selfie??? THAT'S LANDO'S APARTMENT
>>>user000 i mean, they're friends right? so it wouldn't be weird for them to hang out together
>>>user442 @/user000 WITHOUT max or any of the other quadrant group???
user113 calling it now, this is a soft launch. her and @/lando are together
>>>user012 what an UPGRADE for him tho
>>>user443 RIGHT?!
The rumble of the Carrera's engine cuts out abruptly, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.
Casino Square felt like a shark tank with how crowded it was and tonight you were about to step right into the middle of it.
Lando is out of the car in a heartbeat, not waiting for the valet to get to your door first. He moves with a stride that was all confidence and purpose, ignoring the way people stopped in the middle of what they’d been doing to watch the reigning Formula One champion. When he pulls the door open for you, you’re caught off guard by the wall of people behind him.
“Is that Lando?”
“Who’s he with?”
“It’s not Magui, that girl is brunette.”
The whispers reach your ears before Lando even fully opens the door. Your heels hit the pavement and for a split second, you felt like your knees are going to buckle right out from under you. The sheer volume of people looking at you, pulling out their phones, and just straight up gawking at you was enough to make anyone want to bolt back to safety of the Porsche.
And then Lando is there.
He doesn’t just offer you his hand to help you out of the low slung car, he reaches in and takes your palm firmly as he guides you up and out onto the sidewalk. The moment you’re standing up straight, his other hand is on the small of your back as he pulls you closer. For someone who is used to reacting with less than a moment’s notice, your brain malfunctions when Lando leans in close and brushes his lips against your temple in a gesture that feels entirely too intimate for someone who is supposed to be ‘faking it’.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart." He murmurs against your skin, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the crowd. “Keep your eyes on me. You’re doing so well.”
Your pulse spikes at the praise but you decidedly ignore the way heat curls low in your stomach.
The casual affection in his touch sends a ripple through the crowd. People weren’t just whispering behind their hands anymore, they were staring.
As you walk towards the entrance of the restaurant, Lando keeps his pace slow, deliberately forcing the world to take a long, hard look. He shifts his grip, sliding his arm around your waist in one smooth motion pulling you up against his side. It was bold and public and a complete departure from the way he usually shied away from public displays of affection with Magui.
And it was working.
“Your hands are shaking.” He notes, his thumb tracing a soothing circle on your hip, his touch feeling decidedly intimate even through the fabric of your dress.
“I’m going to kill you for this.” You hiss through a practiced, camera-ready smile. “Everyone is looking, Lando. Like, everyone.”
“Good.” He says, his smirk widening as he glances briefly at a group of people who are frantically recording your walk from the car to the restaurant on their phones. He turns back to you, expression softening into something that looked dangerously like genuine affection. “Let them look. I want everyone to know exactly who has my attention tonight.”
Your stomach does an embarrassing swoop.
By the time you reach the doors of the restaurant, the official launch of your ‘relationship’ with Lando is complete. You hadn’t needed to say a word, but the way Lando held onto you — the causal, lingering touch on your shoulder, the way his eyes never left yours, everything that had happened in that minute long walk towards the restaurant spoke volumes about where Lando’s affection was focused on now.
As the doors of the restaurant close behind you, muffling the chaos of the square, Lando lets out a long breath. He doesn’t move his hand from your hip though, keeping you closet to him even though the only people watching were the two women at the hostess stand.
“That went well.” He says, his gaze searching yours. “You okay?”
“I think I’m going to have a heart attack.” You admit, your heart rate finally starting to slow to a manageable pace.
The cameras outside made you nervous. You were used to being in the background, directing the narrative and thriving in the shadows. After tonight, you were going to be the focus of the gossip and it set your teeth on edge.
Without thinking, your hand finds Lando’s for the second time that night, unconsciously looking to him for that steady reassurance you’d come to expect from him. This time felt different though, like he was the rock in a raging tide pool that was keeping you from being swept out to sea.
“I’m pretty sure we just broke the internet though.” Lando reaches up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and gives you a wink before leading you deeper into the restaurant.
f1_gossip_official posted!
f1_gossip_official: NEW COUPLE ALERT??? We've recieved DOZENS of photos in the last few hours from people in monaco tonight. apparently, lando stepped out this evening with longtime friend @/its_yn who is also well known for running the PR for his lifestyle brand @/quadrant. According to people who saw them arrive together, they looked VERY cosy and close. Is this a sign that lando and his reported ex (who was seen in miami during the f1 race weekend not long ago!) are truly done??? Has lando moved on with someone who he's already very close to?
user9219 I SAW THEM! the way lando did not take his eyes off of her ONCE while they walked from the car to the restaurant. whew.
user123 kinda sus that the rumors of him and magui getting back togehter were not that long ago. he did NOT look happy that she was in miami.
>>>user001 i'd bet my first born that magui was the one to start those rumors.
user342 what a wonderful day for us landoyn truthers!
>>>user823 i've been saying this for YEARS. they adore each other and are not slick about it.
user342 YN DID post a selfie from what looked like lando's apartment in monaco and that photo of monaco off what looked like his balcony
>>>user009 oh they are 100% together together
The night is cool against your flushed skin, the breeze off of the Mediterranean causing a riot of goosebumps to pebble your skin the moment you follow Lando out of the restaurant later that evening. As the heavy glass doors swing open, the quiet hum of conversation and clinking cutlery was replaced by the immediate, rhythmic clicking of the waiting paparazzi.
“Valet’s bringing the Porsche around now.” Lando says, stepping closer to you. His hand stays firmly wrapped around yours as his eyes dart around, checking to make sure no one is about to run up on the two of you. His attention turns back to you after a moment and he frowns. “Are you cold?”
You shrug, suppressing a shiver when a gust of wind teases the ends of your hair. “Kind of.”
Lando immediately shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it around your shoulders without another word. He grins down at you, eyes sparking with affection that you swear seems genuine.
“There.” He says, pressing his lips into your temple before giving your hand a squeeze. “Can’t have you coming down with pneumonia, now can we?”
You shake your head and laugh but secretly, your chest aches at how well he’s taken care of you tonight. You knew Lando was a good person, you two have been close for several years but there was something in the way he was always touching you tonight, asking if you were okay, making sure that you weren’t too anxious or nervous. It felt like it was more than him just acting, more than him pretending to have a new flame in order to get his ex to back off.
It felt real.
And that scared you.
“I wish they’d hurry up.” Lando mutters, pulling you further into his side. “I don’t like you being out in the open like this.”
The crowd is thicker now than it had been two hours ago with tourists and photographers jockeying for the best angle of anyone famous they might happen to catch, which at the moment consisted of only you and Lando.
You could feel the heat of the flashbulbs against the skin. A few hours ago, this would have sent you into a spiral but there was something about the wine, the dinner, and the way Lando had spent the last two hours looking at you like you were the only person in Monaco that had shifted something in your chest.
“I can handle a few people taking pictures, Lan.” You chuckle, glancing up at him.
He was looking out over the square, his jaw tight in that focused way it got when he was trying to play it cool for the cameras. He was doing a great job but you could see the slight tension in his shoulders. He was still worried about how you were holding up, despite several reassurances during dinner that you were doing okay under the microscope.
Without waiting for him to initiate this time, you lean into him and stand up on your tiptoes. Lando is distracted, waiting for the valet to bring the car around so when you press a kiss right onto the edge of his jaw, his entire frame jolts. It was a tiny movement, one that the cameras and crowds probably missed, but you felt it. You felt the sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers instinctively tightened around yours after a moment of pure shock.
He looks down at you, eyes wide with surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected that from you judging by the way the blush was creeping up his neck, painting its way across his cheekbones. You were the one who usually rolled your eyes at his physical affection, the one who insisted on the ‘affection when only necessary’ rules.
“What was that for?” He asks, his voice a little rougher than he meant.
“Just trying to sell the narrative that we’re crazy about each other.” You tease softly, though you don’t look at the cameras. You keep your gaze on him, leaning in and resting your head against his shoulder. “Besides, rule number four goes both ways, doesn’t it?”
Lando can't look away.
The paparazzi were still trying to get his attention, shouting his name and asking for comment but he seems to have completely forgotten that they existed. The armor of ‘this is an act’ he’d been wearing all night cracking wide open as he realizes something terrifying. The way your hand fit in his wasn’t a PR stunt. The way you smelled like lilacs and sunshine wasn’t some strategy. And the way his stomach fluttered when you leaned into him had nothing to do with getting his ex out of his life.
He was in so much trouble.
“Yeah.” He breathes, his thumb stroking the back of your hand with a slow, distracting rhythm. “Both ways, of course.”
Before you have a chance to say another word, the Porsche stops at the curb, its dark green paint gleaming underneath the glittering Monte Carlo lights. Lando moves to open the door for you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand until the very last moment, his fingers lingering against yours as if he was afraid the spell of what tonight meant would break if he lost contact.
As you slide into the seat, Lando rounds the front of your car, stopping for one last glance at the crowd as he tips the valet. He doesn’t feel triumphant or smug as he might have expected, he feels like a man who just realized he’d accidentally won a prize he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to keep.
He climbs in the car and shuts the door, plunging the interior into sudden, charged silence. He doesn’t pull away from the curb right away, he just sits there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
lando posted!
698,012 likes
liked by its_yn, mclaren, oscar_piastri and others
lando: thursday night outtt
user00 @/its_yn in the likessssssss
max_fewtrell i'm confused
>>>its_yn don't hurt yourself thinking too hard, kiddo
>>>max_fewtrell ???????
user221 oh that is SO YN oh my god
>>>user71 100% matches exactly what she was wearing in the pap shots and her insta post
user533 waaaaaaaaaaar is ovaaaaaaaaar
>>>user992 and thank GOD for that. YN superiority
iMessages between Lando and Max Fewtrell:
Max:
Max:
Max: {link to article: Lando Norris Shows Off New Girlfriend???}
Max: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS???
Max: Here I am, doom scrolling on TikTok and I see two of my best friends basically hard-launching their relationship in the middle of Casino Square???
Max:
Lando: Calm down you psycho. I can practically hear you shouting from here
Max: I am shouting! I’m shouting in digital!
Max: Please tell me this isn’t some weird Quadrant marketing stunt that you and YN didn’t tell me about???
Lando: It’s not a stunt max, it’s real.
Max: …
Max: like, real REAL? Like. You and YN? The same YN who threatens to quit on us at least once a week? The same YN who rolls her eyes every time you try to flirt with her???
Lando: yeah. That YN.
Lando: it just…kind of happened? The beginning of the season was…a lot. She was there for all of it and things just kind of shifted? We didn’t want to make a big deal of it until we knew what it was.
Max: “it just happened?????”
Max: Lando, I just saw you guys TWO DAYS AGO! You were arguing over sweatshirt colors and blob placement and now I’m looking at photos of you looking at her like she’s the answer to all of your problems in life.
Lando: well, that’s dramatic.
Max: wait…is this why you were so weird about Magui in Miami? Because you two were already together?
Lando: let’s just say it made things…complicated.
Lando: look, it’s new. We’re just trying to figure it out without the whole world breathing down our necks.
Max: the entire world ISSSSSS breathing down your necks! You two went to the most photographed spot in Europe!
Max: I’m so confused. My brain hurts.
Lando: take a breath, mate.
Max: does she know you’re this head over heels for her? Because you look absolutely gone for her in these pictures.
Lando: I’m not some lovesick loser, you idiot. I’m being a good boyfriend. Isn’t that what you’re always lecturing me about?
Max: I’m going to need a week to process this. P is going to lose her mind.
Max: so…are you happy?
Lando: yeah. Yeah, I am.
Max: well I can finally say this: it’s about damn TIME.
Lando: What?
Max: oh be SO for real right now. You’ve been pining after her since the day Ria brought her to that Quadrant dinner in 2022
Lando: oh, fuck off. go to sleep.
Max: whatever you say, big guy
{message read at 2:03am}
iMessages between Emma Fairchild & YN
Emma: {Link: TikTok - "Lando Norris and mystery girl (it’s his manager!!) looking SO IN LOVE in Monaco}
Emma:
Emma: ARE YOU JOKING?!
Emma: I had to find out from a 19-year-old on TikTok that my best friend is dating her boss?
Emma: YN. GET IN HERE AND EXPLAIN YOURSELF. IMMEDIATELY.
YN: okay, technically he isn’t my BOSS, drama queen.
Emma: He signs your checks, doesn’t he???
YN: technicalities. And I was going to tell you. Everything has just been kind of innsane.
Emma: "Insane" is an understatement!
Emma: You’re in Monaco! In lace and silk while looking at Lando Norris like he’s the last drop of water in the desert!
Emma: Since when?! Last I heard, you said he was "annoyingly talented but mostly just an idiot.” I feel like I missed an entire season of the show. I’m actually kind of hurt, YN. I thought we were better friends than this!! I think I deserve a heads-up before you become the Paddock’s First Lady.
YN: OMFG I am not the ‘Paddocks First Lady’ shut tf up with that. It’s just been really complicated with Magui and everything. She’s been…persistent. To the point where it was becoming a massive PR nightmare and the poor boy was genuinely stressed out.
YN: We wanted to keep it completely quiet until she backed off and we were sure we were actually going to work.
Emma: Wait... "Until we were sure we were actually going to work." So it’s WORKING then?
Emma: Because girl, I’ve known you for almost seven years now and I’ve NEVER seen you touch a man’s hand the way you’re holding his in that video.
YN: It’s…different with him. You know how close we’ve always been. Moving from "Best Friend/PR Manager" to... whatever this is... it’s scary. I didn't want to tell anyone and then have it implode two days later.
Emma: WELL IT’S ABOUT TIME.
YN: WHAT?
Emma: oh please. I’ve always known you had a thing for him, even when you were pretending you only cared about how well Quadrant’s PR was doing.
Emma: Is he being good to you?
YN: He’s actually been amazing. Really supportive and a total gentleman.
Emma: I’m watching the video again. The way he’s looking at you while you’re waiting for the car? That man is GONE, YN. GONE. DUNZO. IN LOVE FOR REAL. FERAL FOR YOU.
Emma: Happy for you…hoe 😒
Emma: You owe me a five-hour brunch when you get back to London. I want every single detail. Including how you managed to tame your hair in that humidity.
YN: Deal. Love you, Em.
Emma: Love you too, Paddock Queen.
YN: I'm blocking you 🫶🏻
tag list (gonna try this out for this series! lmk if you want to be added!)
@lanpastry @jvngw0nlvr @harrysdimple05 @givcd
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. a wild magui appearance or two. lando being a chaos gremlin & a flirt. 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. i don't keep a tag list anymore so follow @the-msb-library & turn on notifs there so you don't miss anything! divider from @somebitchprobably-graphicdump <3
chapter word count -> 4.3k
series master list | main master list | lets yap
its_yn posted!
34,982 likes
liked by maxfewtrell, quadrant, lando, and others
its_yn: good morning miami!! early start today for the @/quadrant pop up. so excited for this, we've been working SO hard to bring you guys some amazing stuff and maybe a few surprises 😉 hope to see you there!!
user038 we're already heeeeeere! first in line!! (liked by author)
user002 i would DIE for @/its_yn's job. literal dream job. doing PR for quadrant AND lando? come ON
>>>user49 girl is BLESSED
lando is that coffee for meeeeee???
>>>its_yn you're the reason i need a coffee this big. get your own, norris.
>>>lando is that any way to speak to your boss?
>>>its_yn is that any way to speak to the woman who literally holds your brand's reputation in the palm of her hand?
>>>maxfewtrell @/lando, she's got you there big guy
>>>lando whatEVER
May in Florida felt like you were walking on the surface of the sun. It was hot and sticky, the humidity wreaking havoc on your hair and your attitude. The moment you had stepped out of the hotel that morning, it had puffed up like a scared tabby cat. By the time you reached the store where the Quadrant pop up shop was that weekend, you’d already needed to tame it into submission with a giant claw clip and a prayer.
“We should probably have a few of the interns hand out the water I had delivered yesterday to the people standing in line.” You say to Max Fewtrell as you walk into the store early that morning. “The last thing we need are social media posts about how fans fainted waiting to meet Lando Norris today.”
Max nods and gives you a cheeky salute. “On it, Boss Lady.”
You roll your eyes, heaving a sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you, Fewtrell? Stop calling me ‘Boss Lady’. I’m younger than you are.”
Max grins wickedly as he walks towards the front of the store where a few interns stand catting. “I’ll stop calling you Boss Lady when you stop bossing me around.”
“If I don’t boss you around, nothing would ever get done." You fire back. "You were the one who gave me the title of ‘PR Director’ two years ago, weren't you?”
“And I regret it every day.” Max grumbles, dodging the pen you throw at his head from across the room.
“We’d be lost without YN and you know it, Max." From behind you, Lando Norris comes sauntering through the back door flanked by his body guard Rich and Keegan Palmer.
You gesture at Lando while glaring at Max, “See! At least someone around here appreciates my type-A personality.”
Lando slings an arm around your shoulders and it takes every bit of will power you have not to shudder under his touch. “How’s my favorite girl doing this morning?” He asks, flashing you a flirty smile.
Aiming an elbow at his ribs, you quickly duck under his arm when he flinches. You swear you hear Lando mutter something about how you're a feral animal.
“I’d be doing a lot better if it wasn’t already 32* outside at 10 in the morning. I swear to God, it feels like the surface of the sun out there.”
Lando wanders over to a display of new hoodies that were a special pop up feature. “Well, it’s a good thing that this place has air con then, yeah?”
“Yeah, air con that is going to quit working the moment we get all of those people in here.” You snip, smoothing the front of your shirt as if Lando’s arm hadn’t just sent your pulse into a tailspin. “Now, quit touching the display. I spent three hours last night getting those to look right and your giant paws are going to ruin my aesthetic.”
Lando huffs a laugh but obeys, pulling his hand away from the display. “Sassy this morning, aren’t we pretty girl?”
“You’re a HR violation waiting to happen, you know that?” You glare at him over the edge of your iPad.
“I’m the personality hire, everyone knows that.” Lando says easily, thumbing through a rack of Quadrant branded joggers.
You heave a sigh, turning to Keegan. “Can you please keep the personality hire away from the limited edition drops until the doors open? He’s like a toddler in a sandbox, destruction follows him around like a moth to a flame.”
“Hey! I’m the face of this brand!” Lando protests, retreating towards the front window to check out the ever-growing line that snaked down the sidewalk.
“And I’m the one responsible for making sure your brand doesn’t end up as a Harvard Business School case study.” You call after him, turning your attention back to the iPad in your hands. “Max! Are all of the tablets synced? If the POS system crashes during the first hour, I’m jumping off the nearest bridge.”
Max shouts something back about dramatics and shark infested waters, but the retort is cut short when Lando unleashes a string of several choice expletives.
Looking up, you see Lando has gone still, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he stares at something outside. His entire body language shifts in a moment, the playful, flirty energy evaporating in a blink. You exchange a worried glance with Keegan and Max before taking a few steps to stand next to Lando.
“Lan? Hey, Lan? We open in five minutes, is everything okay? If you’re having a crisis about the hoodie colors, I will actually strangle-”
“YN.” He whispers, his voice tight. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you see how pale your friend has gone in the last thirty seconds. “Look at that black SUV across the street. Behind that blue truck. What do you see?”
You step closer to the window, squinting against the harsh Florida sun. At first, all you see are fans dressed in various shades of neon green and papaya. And then you spot her and your stomach drops into your shoes.
Hovering near the corner, wearing oversized sunglasses and looking entirely too pleased with herself, was Lando’s ex-girlfriend. She was talking to a photographer, one you instantly recognize as a freelancer who specialized in ‘candid’ celebrity sightings that got sold off to TMZ and Tattler. She wasn’t just there randomly, she was waiting, setting up a story that she was going to try to sell to the highest bidder.
“Is that…?” Max started, joining you both at the window.
"What is she doing here?” Lando breathes, his fingers tightening around the phone in his hand.
You all knew the answer to that, even if no one said it out loud.
Magui was having a particularly hard time accepting their breakup this time around. It drove you nuts, but her and Lando had been on and off over and over for several years now. Theirs had been the epitome of a toxic situationship that had been hard launched almost by accident when Lando won the Championship in December. It hadn’t lasted, just as you had predicted, and by the end of January, they were off again.
This time, Lando insisted it was for good.
And then Magui had shown up at that football match, somehow wrangling a ticket for the same suite from some unsuspecting brand representative that didn’t know the history she shared with the McLaren driver. She’d also conveniently managed an invite from Max’s girlfriend Pietra to Portugal a few weeks later, showing up in the exclusive resort where Lando owned a house. She’d dropped several not-so-subtle hints on social media that implied she was with Lando since, despite that not even being remotely close to the truth.
Lando turns to you then, the panic in his eyes evident. The ‘face of the brand’ was gone, his confidence of the last few moments drained from his face. You knew the moment they opened those doors, she’d be on him like a fly to honey and by lunch, the internet would be convinced that they were a couple again. This was the very last thing you needed today during the very public, very popular brand pop up that you’d been hyping up on socials for weeks now.
Your heart clenched fiercely at the look of panic that fluttered across your friend’s face. You knew that their relationship had been dysfunctional, bordering on toxic by the end. You knew that neither party was innocent in the breakup, that Lando shared a lot of the blame for that relationship not working out. You also knew Lando was a certified people pleaser and if Magui wiggled her way into the shop that morning, Lando wouldn’t do anything to embarrass her. He’d let the narrative take off and it would get embarrassing for everyone involved. Again.
And she knew it.
“She’s going to make a scene.” Lando says, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. “She’s going to come in here and I can’t — I can’t do this. Not today, YN.”
You turn to Max, brow creased. “How did she even know Lando was going to be here? He was supposed to be a surprise for the first few guests that come in. We didn’t post about it anywhere and for good reason!”
Max pales and you have to quell the urge to strangle him.
“Did you tell Pietra?" You hiss, watching as Magui crosses the street.
Max doesn’t answer, just runs a hand through his hair.
“Oh my God, Max! Come ON!” You sigh, watching with renewed horror as the photographer follows her across the street, camera poised and ready to go.
Max winces, rubbing at the back of his neck. “P and her are…they’re friends, okay? She probably just mentioned the weeks plans off-handedly. I didn’t think she’d actually show up here! Shes supposed to be filming in Spain or something! That's what P told me last night!”
“You didn’t think?” You take a step forward, your PR training kicking into high gear. “Max, I have two hundred people in line outside and a brand to protect. Get out there and intercept her. Now.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Max asks, voice thin.
“Distract her! Be the charming best friend. Tell her Lando is too busy with fans and that he can’t talk right now. Tell her he’ll call her lat — “
“I am not calling her later.” Lando interjects and you resist the urge to hit him.
“I know that!” You cry, throwing your hands up in the air, “I just need her to leave and right now, I’m willing to tell a few lies to get my way, okay?” Lando just nods as you turn back to Max. “Go out there and fix this! Now!”
Max scrambles towards the door and out into the Miami heat. Through the glass, you all watch Max intercept her with a wide, forced grin as he tries to get Magui to stop her approach into the store. As Max handles the blonde, you turn to Keegan. “Let’s let a few people in early, can you handle that? Just like, 10 people or so?” Keegan nods and you watch as he goes towards the door.
Finally, you turn to Lando. He’s still staring blankly out the window, watching as Max negotiates with Magui on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry, YN.” He murmurs, crimson painting its way across his cheeks. “I don’t know why she can’t just accept that we didn’t work and move on.”
Your shoulders drop at the tone of his voice. He sounds so defeated, your chest aches.
“It’s okay, Lan. We’ll fix this.” You say, running a hand down his arm in an attempt to comfort him. “Come on, Keegan is letting those first few fans in. Let’s go up to the checkout stand. Maybe if we keep you away from the door, she'll get the hint." .
“Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that.” Lando allows you to guide him towards the front of the door. You toss a look at Rich, tipping your head towards the door, hoping that if you post the body guard at the front of the store will deter her even further. Rich nods, understanding the meaning behind your look before he goes to join Keegan at the door.
“It’s okay. We’ll handle this. You focus on the fans, that's all I need from you. Ash is here to get some content for your socials and I’ll get some content for Quadrant too, okay? Let’s focus on that.” You soothe in Lando’s ear as your hand rests steadily on Lando’s elbow, providing him with something to ground himself to.
Right before stepping up to the waiting fans, Lando turns to look at you, relief plastered plainly across his face. “Thanks, YN. Really. What would I do without you?”
You wave off the praise, “Knowing you? Probably cause in international incident involving sushi and a nest full of hornets.”
f1_gossip_official posted!
341,309 likes
f1_gossip_official: lando surprised shoppers early this morning when he showed up for the opening of quadrant's miami pop up ahead of the f1 race this weekend! he was all smiles until a certain portugese blonde was spotted hanging around outside. rumor has it that they broke up earlier in the year, but neither lando or magui have commented on it. they've showed up in the same place and magui has hinted quite a LOT over the last few months that they are together. people at the pop up say that she DIDN'T go into the store though...so what do we think??? together or broken up???
user283 this is the most exhausting game of 'are they or aren't they' i've ever played
user333 I WAS THERE. she didn't go in but max fewtrell came running out and was talking to her. she had a photographer following her??? and she left shortly after. it was all really weird.
>>>user009 omg i was there too! lando looked really upset when i got into the store and YN looked HEATED.
>>>user433 i don't doubt it. YN is super protective over lando and the brand, she was probably beside herself.
user45 if they're not together anymore, why on earth would M be there this weekend?! how strange
user944 they're just super private, you guys. lando is head over heels for magui and they just want their space. not a huge deal, they were at that football match together a few weeks ago, right? and she was at his place in costa terra?
>>>user313 yeah, okay magui.
user048 i wonder if she's going to be at the race sunday
>>>user111 i have a friend who works on the comms team for mclaren. she's causing ALL SORTS of problems and supposedly hasn't been issued a guest pass like YN and Max and the quadrant crew has!
>>>user048 omg JUICY
Lando’s hotel suite was a chaotic mess of random fan gifts, crumpled receipts, and discarded team gear. Outside, the Miami skyline sparkled bright and neon, but inside the only sound was the low hum of a tv show neither of you were watching and the scrape of a fork against a plate of lukewarm pasta. You were sitting cross-legged on the velvet sofa, your laptop perched on your knees as you scrolled through that day’s headlines on social media.
“The fans loved the Quadrant pop-up content.” You say, not looking up from the screen in front of you, though you could feel Lando watching you from the armchair across the coffee table. “But the pap shots of Max and her are already all over Twitter. The gossip pages are having a field day.”
Lando groans, head tipping back against the chair. He’d showered already but you could still see the exhaustion creeping across his features as he picked at the plate of pasta Jon had told him to order. “I saw. I had to turn my phone off. Every time I see her name, I feel like I can’t breathe. It feels like she’s trying to force me into coming back to her.”
“She’s certainly good at presenting a convincing narrative to get her way.” You mutter, finally closing your laptop.
You’d meant it as a joke, but seeing Lando this stressed felt heavy. “She knows that if she stays in the frame long enough, people are going to start believing what they’re seeing on socials and that you’ll have no choice but to play along. We need to beat her at her own game.”
Lando looks at you, his eyes tired. “How? I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried being cold. I’ve tried ignoring her and then being direct. Nothing works. She refuses to believe it’s over between us.”
You stretch your legs out in front of you, pointing your toes as you enjoy the burn in your muscles. You’d booked a hot yoga class for tomorrow morning to sweat out all of the stress today had laid at your feet.
“I don’t know.” You sigh, rubbing at your temples. “At this point, unless you suddenly announce you’re becoming a monk or getting married, I don’t think she’s going to stop until she gets what she wants.” You bark a laugh, cold and bitter as you shake your head. “Maybe we hire someone. How do you feel about fake dating some unknown Swedish model for a month? It works in the movies all the time, doesn’t it?”
Lando doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass.
“Not a model.” He says softly and you look up, caught off guard by his tone.
“Okay, an actress? Someone American maybe?” You joke, knowing that it would never actually work. “We could even put out a casting call! ‘Wanted: One fake girlfriend to deter a persistent ex. Must look good in papaya and be able to tolerate Formula One fans and online gossip.”
“It should be you.”
The air in the room stills, suddenly feeling thin. Your brain malfunctions, words becoming too difficult to produce, your heart skipping a beat before slamming against your ribs.
“Very funny.” You say, voice a little too high. "Did the Miami heat damage your two remaining brain cells? Lando, be so for real right now. The press would lose their collective minds faster than you can say Schumacher.”
“I’m not joking, YN.” Lando leans forward, his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a look that was entirely too serious. “Think about it. We already spend an absurd amount of time together. You started handling my personal PR when you took the director title at Quadrant. You’re always around, albeit in the background. It wouldn’t be totally out of the realm of possibility for us to actually fall for each other.”
You blink at him, not entirely processing what he was saying. Gripping at the edge of the sofa, your knuckles turn white. “Lando that’s…that’s actually insane. If people find out it’s fake, my entire reputation could be ruined. And if we do, it could get so messy —”
“It won’t get messy.” He interrupts, standing from his chair before coming to sit next to you on the couch.
You stiffen when you catch a hint of his cologne.
He reaches over, his hand hovering just inches from yours. “We’re friends, we have been for years. There have been rumors about us hooking up for as long as you’ve worked for Quadrant anyway.”
“There are rumors about you hooking up with anyone that has two X chromosomes and an Instagram account, Lando.” You roll your eyes.
Lando chuckles softly, shaking his head, “But the rumors about us have been going on for years now. Think about it, we confirm those rumors and she’ll finally get the hint that I’ve moved on. She already knows how close we are, it wouldn’t be too hard for everyone to believe we're actually dating.”
You look at his hand that covers yours, then up at him.
“Strictly for PR?” You manage to whisper, your shield finally starting to crumble.
Lando’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. “Whatever you need it to be.” He says. “Just say you’ll help me. I can’t do a repeat of what happened this morning.”
The silence that stretches after Lando’s plea for help feels so heavy, you could feel it settle in your chest.
You know you should say no. You should tell him that he needs to sleep this off and you’d both figure out a different strategy in the morning. You should tell him this was the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with and you'd be dumber than a box of rocks if you agreed.
Instead, you reach for your notebook.
“If we’re going to do this — and I am still ninety five percent sure this is actually the dumbest thing I've ever agreed to— we’re going to do it with structure.” You say, your voice regaining that professional edge you wore like a suit of armor. “We need ground rules. Hard boundaries. We aren’t just going to wing this and see what happens, that will guarantee failure, and I don’t do failure.”
Lando leans back, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Structure. Right, of course. Where would we be without your structure, YN? Go on then, pretty girl. What’s rule number one?”
Your pen scratches at the paper in your lap. “Rule number one: the romantic relationship happens in public only." Lando lifts a brow. “When we’re alone and behind closed doors, I am Quadrant’s PR Director, not your girlfriend.”
You practically choke on the word ‘girlfriend’.
“Fine.” Lando says, nodding. “What else? I know you’ve got a list for me a mile long.”
“Rule number two: We don’t tell anyone that this is fake.”
Lando shifts his weight and frowns, “Not even Max?”
You huff a laugh, “Especially not Max. He would tell P and P would go running straight to her and it would blow up in our faces in ten seconds. And if the truth gets out, we’re both in for a nightmare of press attention that we’ll have difficulty coming back from.”
Lando’s gaze drops to his lap as he considers. “Okay. Yeah, I get that. He couldn’t even keep today’s appearance a secret. He’d crack under the pressure.”
“Exactly.” You nod, scribbling down the second rule in your notebook.
“I have a few rules then.”
You raise a brow, “You do?"
Lando nods. “Rule number three: you have to attend more races this season. Not as Quadrant’s PR director but as my girlfriend.”
“Lando, I have a job!” You cry, shaking your head. “I can’t just spend all my time jet setting around the world following you around like a puppy!”
“You have a job that I know for a fact allows you to work from anywhere, so that’s not an excuse. You want people to think this is real? Then you have to play the part of supportive girlfriend, babe.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“Are we adding my rule to the list?” He challenges.
“Fine, but you’re footing the bill for all of my extra travel.” You scribble down the third rule reluctantly. “What else? I’m sure you have more ideas on how to torture me with this little charade.”
Lando smirks, “Rule number four: one public date a week at minimum. PDA and Instagram posts included.”
“Oh for the love…” You mutter but you’re already jotting down the fourth rule.
“You know she practically lives inside that phone of hers. If we don’t go out publicly, we won’t be photographed and she won’t see us. If we keep everything off socials, she won’t have any reason to believe I’ve moved on.”
You hated to admit it, but Lando was right. You knew how chronically online she was and how even a whiff of a new woman in Lando’s life caused a tizzy on Instagram and Twitter. If you wanted to sell this, you were going to have to play along.
“I have an amendment to that rule I’d like to propose before agreeing.” You say as seriously as you can manage.
“Go on.” He prompts.
“No over the top PDA. If we’re too in your face with it, people are going to see right through this. We are not two teenagers who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
“Speak for yourself.” Lando wiggles his eyebrows, ducking out of the way when you chuck a pillow at his head. “Okay, okay, you win! No over the top PDA.”
You pause, the tip of your pen stilling on the paper. “I win? You’re not going to argue with me on that one?”
Lando shakes his head, “Nope. If I overdo it on the PDA, you might fall head over heels in love with me and that would make things very messy.”
You snort, “You wish.”
“Maybe."
Your stomach flips but you choose to ignore it and move on.
"Rule number five: no embarrassing pet names are to be used in public.”
“Now wait a minute, let me stop you right there!” Lando protests, reaching for the pen in your hand. “If I don’t call you by some term of endearment, she’ll never buy it.”
“And why is that?” You yank the pen back out of Lando’s hand and continue writing out the fifth rule.
“Because she knows me and how much I love using pet names! Are you at least open to negotiations on this rule?”
Your eyes flick up to take Lando in. He’s relaxed for the first time all evening, his smile coming easy now, almost as if he’s enjoying himself while torturing you with what you suspect might be flirting. “What did you have in mind?”
Lando reaches for your notebook and pen again, jotting down a few words. “I propose the following be added to a ‘pet name white list' —”
“You’re insane, you know that right?”
“And yet here I am trying to compromise while you’re being the difficult one!” Lando has the audacity to look offended.
“Go on.” You were going to sprain your eyeballs by the time this was all over with how hard you were rolling them.
“The pet name white list should include the following: baby, babe, pretty girl —”
“You already call me that.” You interrupt, earning a swat on your hand from the pen in Lando’s hand.
“I know.” He nods crisply. “And I don’t want to have to stop, so on the list it goes.”
“Jesus Christ." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Okay, go on.”
Lando turns back to the notebook and continues to write. “Love, my love, sweetheart, bunny —”
“Bunny?” You choke on a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of what is going on right now.
“Yeah. You’re soft and cute like a baby bunny.”
“I hate you.”
"You really don't though." Lando taps the tip of your nose with his index finger, which you immediately try to bite at before he can move his hand to safety.
Unfortunately, you miss.
“Be careful or I’m adding ‘my little piranha’ to the list.” He warns smugly.
“You wouldn’t dare.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes.
“Watch me.”
All you can do is sigh.
“Is that it?” You ask after a beat, making a move to rescue your notebook from the psycho sitting next to you.
"I think so, but can we put in a clause that we can amend the list at a later date if something strikes my fancy?”
You shake your head, looking skyward. “Why did I agree to this? You know what? Fine. Pet name list renegotiation clause approved.”
Lando scoots a little closer to you on the couch and you fight the urge to move away from him. The way his cologne has your pulse thrumming was making you nervous.
“I think that’s a pretty extensive rule list. Is that it?”
You shake your head, “No, I have one more rule. The Escape Rule: If either of us catches real feelings for the other at any time, we immediately call this entire thing off. No questions asked, no hurt feelings. We go right back to being just friends and colleagues. We can’t let this ruin us, okay?” You turn to him then, eyes pleading for agreement on this.
Lando’s expression shifts, the light in his eyes dimming just a fraction. He looks like he’s going to argue, to say something about how that would never happen, that nothing could ruin what you two had but in the end, his shoulders just droop slightly. He didn’t want to seem needy and he certainly didn’t want to admit that the ‘real feelings’ part was the only reason he’d suggested this in the first place.
“Right. No feelings or we call it off.” He repeats, the words sounding a bit hollow. “Agreed.”
You snap the notebook shut with a sense of finality. “Right then, it looks like you have a deal, Mister Norris.”
Lando pastes what he hopes is a bright smile on his face, “Sounds like it.”
