summary: you two grew up at racetracks. you learned to read lap times and weather patterns before you learned how to let go. lando learned to trust your voice before he trusted his own instincts.
you’ve always moved in sync, through karting, through heartbreak, through the noise of formula one. choosing each other in every way except the one that requires saying it out loud.
word count: 1.2K
author’s note: part 2 is here!! if you haven’t ready part one i’ve linked it above! :)
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Lando’s POV
People think I’ve always known what I wanted.
They look at the career, the trajectory, the neat narrative of talent meeting opportunity, and they assume certainty came with it. That I woke up one day knowing I’d end up here. That everything else fell into place naturally around that. But they’re wrong. Racing was never the only constant in my life.
She was.
I don’t remember a version of myself that didn’t include her somewhere in the frame, standing just out of the way but always close enough for me to know she was there, holding something important, watching me like she already knew how the story would go even when I didn’t. When I try to picture my childhood, she’s there before I even try. A presence so familiar it feels pointless to question it.
Our parents used to joke that we were attached at the hip. Same weekends. Same tracks. Same long drives and bad snacks and early mornings that blurred together until time stopped mattering. I learned early that if I turned around, she’d be there. That if something went wrong, she’d know before I said a word. She understood me in a way that felt effortless. I didn’t have to explain when I was frustrated or scared or furious with myself. She just… adjusted. Stepped closer when I needed grounding. Stepped back when I needed space. I trusted her instincts more than my own.
I think that’s when I started leaning on her.
Not in a dramatic way. Just small things. Looking for her before races. Asking her hold my helmet. Talking strategy before I heard from my team. Letting her be the last calm thing I saw before everything went loud. When people asked who she was, I called her my best friend without thinking. Which was true, she is my best friend. And It never felt like a lie.
As the stakes got higher, the pressure heavier, she became more essential, not less. While everyone else saw lap times and results, she saw me. The version that stayed awake too late replaying mistakes. The one who couldn’t let go of a bad race even after the champagne dried on the podium. She was the only person who could tell me I’d screwed up in the best way possible and not make it worse.
So when people started asking if we were together, I laughed. Not because the idea was ridiculous, but because it felt unnecessary. Why label something that already worked? Why risk changing the one relationship that had survived everything else? I told myself I was protecting it. I wanted to protect her from that noise.
Formula One changed everything and nothing at the same time. The world got bigger, louder, sharper. Expectations multiplied. So did the attention. Suddenly, there were so many people who wanted access to me, to my time, my image, my future. And I dated because it was expected. Because everyone else did. Because being alone felt like another failure I didn’t want to examine too closely. Some of them were kind. Some of them were fun. None of them stayed.
They all eventually asked the same question.
What about her?
At first, I brushed it off. She was family. History. The person who knew me before any of this mattered. But the longer it went on, the more defensive I became, not because the question was unfair, but because I didn’t like how much it unsettled me. I hated that they noticed her importance so easily. I hated even more that I couldn’t explain it without sounding like I was giving something up.
From then on breakups came and went. Headlines speculated. Fans moved on. Through all of it, she stayed exactly where she always had, right beside me, steady as gravity. When I spiraled, she pulled me back. When I won, she smiled like the victory belonged to both of us, which it did. She had been with me throughout this whole journey, and was still around during the biggest point of my career. It was only fair we shared the victory together.
I told myself that was normal.
It wasn’t until I started losing her, just slightly, just enough that everything shifted.
She started dating someone seriously. Someone who didn’t hide their discomfort with our closeness. Someone who asked questions that felt like ultimatums. I noticed the changes immediately: fewer late-night talks, more careful distance, a hesitation that hadn’t existed before. I told myself to be supportive, put on a happy face for her because she would do the same for me. But every time she wasn’t there when I instinctively looked for her, something sharp twisted in my chest. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t settle. I found myself replaying conversations, searching for things I’d missed. That’s when I realized how much I depended on her presence.
The thought scared me.
Because dependence felt like weakness. Like something I hadn’t earned. And wanting her, wanting her the way I suddenly suspected I did, felt selfish. Dangerous. Like crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. So I did what I always do when something feels too big. I avoided it. I buried myself in racing. In schedules and routines and distractions that kept me from sitting still long enough to think. I convinced myself the ache would fade, that this was just fear masquerading as something else.
Then came a bad race.
Everything went wrong in ways I couldn’t fix. Strategy. Timing. My own mistakes looping endlessly in my head. I escaped the chaos and found a quiet corner outside the motorhome, shaking like I’d left part of myself out on track.
She found me anyway.
She always does.
When she sat beside me, the relief was immediate and overwhelming. I didn’t even realize how tightly I was holding myself together until she was there to lean on. When I pressed my forehead into her shoulder, the world finally stopped spinning.
And for one terrifying moment, I knew. Knew that I didn’t just trust her. I needed her. Not as a constant. Not as history. Not as the safe thing I refused to question. I needed her like something essential. Like something I couldn’t afford to lose.
The realization hit me harder than any crash ever had. Because love, real love, wasn’t supposed to feel this quiet. This inevitable. This terrifying. It wasn’t supposed to be the thing that had been with me all along, unnoticed because it never demanded anything.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did she.
We sat there, suspended in the space between what had always been and what was becoming, pretending that silence was safer than truth. Pretending we weren’t standing at the edge of something irreversible.
But that night, alone with my thoughts, I admitted what I’d been avoiding for years. Every heartbreak I’d walked into had been because I was comparing them to her. Every relationship failed because none of them felt like home.
And the worst part, the part I couldn’t escape, was knowing that if I didn’t choose her soon, I might lose her anyway. Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly. The way people drift apart when they pretend too long that what they have is enough.
And suddenly, for the first time in my life, the scariest thing wasn’t losing a race. It was losing the person who had been standing beside me before I even knew how to drive.
summary: you two grew up at racetracks. you learned to read lap times and weather patterns before you learned how to let go. lando learned to trust your voice before he trusted his own instincts.
you’ve always moved in sync, through karting, through heartbreak, through the noise of formula one. choosing each other in every way except the one that requires saying it out loud.
word count: 1.1K
author’s note: hi there! if you’re reading this- one thank you so much! and two- this will be multiple parts!!! so stay tuned!
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Reader’s POV
I don’t remember the first time I met Lando.
That’s what I tell people when they ask. It’s easier than explaining that some people don’t enter your life so much as they exist in it, the way background noise does when you’re too young to realize silence is an option.
My earliest memories are stitched together by engines and sunburn and the smell of rubber. I remember my dad’s hand warm on my shoulder, my mom holding a coffee she never finished, and a boy my age sitting on a stack of tires with his helmet too big for his head, needing to be velcroed into his cart seat and a scowl like the world had personally wronged him.
I remember thinking he looked lonely.
Our parents became friends first. That part was inevitable. Racing weekends have a way of forcing proximity, shared tents, borrowed tools, long days that blur together. By the time I was old enough to understand what friendship meant, I already knew Lando’s favorite snacks, the way he hated when his gloves felt even slightly damp, the exact look on his face when a race went badly.
I learned early how to read him.
Back then, helping Lando meant simple things. Holding his helmet. Timing his laps on a cracked stopwatch. Sitting beside him while he sulked, letting the silence stretch until he was ready to talk. I was never told it was my job, but it became mine anyway.
Natural. Necessary.
He used to say I was good luck.
I didn’t correct him.
By the time karting turned into something serious, something with expectations and contracts and pressure that felt too big for our age, I was already woven into the routine. If he forgot to eat, I reminded him. If he spiraled after a bad session, I grounded him. If he won, I celebrated with him, never ahead of him, never louder than him.
Just there. Always there.
We grew up at racetracks, which meant we grew up fast. While other kids learned about dances and crushes, we learned about tire degradation and racecraft and how quickly joy could flip into disappointment. We learned how to say goodbye on Sunday nights and pick up exactly where we left off the next Friday. We did have certain points of normalcy at times. Lando was best friends with my brother and I was best friends with his sisters. All circled in each other’s worlds. But Lando and I? Inseparable above the rest. And somewhere along the way, people started assuming. They’d smile at us and ask how long we’d been together. Comment on how well we worked as a pair. Joke that I’d be in his life forever. I laughed it off every time.
Because the truth was, I’d never questioned what we were. Friendship felt permanent. Unshakable. Love, in the way movies framed it, felt fragile. Temporary. I wasn’t willing to risk the one thing in my life that had never left.
Formula racing came like a storm. Faster cars. Bigger crowds. Less room for mistakes. He changed, of course, anyone would, but the core of him stayed the same. Still driven. Still hard on himself. Still looking for me in the pit lane before every session like a reflex he didn’t even realize he had. I followed alongside him because it made sense. Because where else would I go? Racing was something we both loved, I just wasn’t in the driver’s seat. He would call me his “guy in the chair”.
I carved out a role that didn’t need a title. Logistics. Strategy. Emotional support. You name it, I was that for him. The person who knew when to push and when to pull him back. I learned how to exist on the edges of a world that loved him loudly and consumed him greedily.
When Lando made it to Formula One, the noise became deafening.
Suddenly, there were cameras everywhere. People who wanted pieces of him. Girlfriends who loved the idea of him, the image, the prestige, the fairy tale. They smiled at me politely at first. Then warily. Then not at all. I told myself not to care. But every time one of them looked at me like I was something inconvenient, something that wouldn’t go away, a small, ugly ache settled in my chest. Not jealousy, I insisted. Just protectiveness. History. Loyalty. Still, it hurt in a way I didn’t have a word for.
My own relationships didn’t fare much better. I dated people who complained about my schedule, my priorities, the way my phone always lit up with his name. People who asked when I’d finally choose something for myself. But what they never realized is that choosing Lando and this career meant also choosing myself. My heart.
But then, heartbreak started coming in cycles. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t explode but eroded. His relationships ended in headlines and speculation. Mine ended in tense conversations and the familiar accusation that I was emotionally unavailable. Maybe I was. Or maybe my heart had been spoken for long before I realized it was mine to give.
The first time I noticed the shift was after a bad race.
Lando had a brutal weekend, strategy gone wrong, a mistake he wouldn’t forgive himself for. I found him sitting alone on the steps outside the motorhome, helmet discarded beside him, hands shaking like he was holding something fragile instead of empty air. Seeing him that way, it was almost like I was being pulled to him by an outside force, so I sat next to him without asking. We didn’t speak for a while. We never needed to. When he finally leaned into me, forehead pressing against my shoulder, something inside me cracked open. Not loudly. Not all at once.
Just enough for the truth to slip through. I didn’t just want to comfort him. I wanted to be the reason he felt safe. The realization terrified me.
Because once you see something like that, you can’t unsee it. Every glance lingered longer. Every touch felt heavier. Every laugh softened into something warmer, something dangerous.
We didn’t talk about it. I was afraid what I was thinking was only in my head and one-sided. What if he didn’t feel the same way?
Instead, we kept orbiting each other, pretending gravity wasn’t pulling us closer. Pretending the heartbreak we kept running into wasn’t a warning. Pretending that the way it hurt most when the other one pulled away was normal.
I told myself it would pass. That it was just history playing tricks on me. That friendship could feel this deep without tipping into something else.
But late at night, alone in hotel rooms that never felt like home, or in my hollow apartment not too far from his, I replayed the same thought over and over again: What if the love I was so afraid of losing was the one I’d been standing inside of all along? And what if, one day, pretending it wasn’t there hurt more than the truth ever could? I couldn’t lose him.
summary: lando says he's coming home for christmas, but, truthfully, he's only coming home for you.
contains: christmas fluff, childhood friends to lovers, lando and reader were next door neighbors as kids, reconnecting with your childhood love, late night confessions, angst with a happy ending, reader is INSANE about christmas, use of y/n (sparingly), reader's mum is named, lando is so disgustingly in love omg
word count: 10.7k!
playlist: packing it up — gracie abrams; dorothea — taylor swift; strawberry wine — noah kahan; home — edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros; and others
a/n: AND THIS IS MY GIFT FOR THE F1 WRITERS DISCORD SECRET SANTA MY DEAR MY LOVE MY ONE AND ONLY............... @starry-132173!!!!!!!!!!!
When Lando parks his car just outside the garage of his parents' house, the first thing he notices is the way the house beside theirs is filled with all types of Christmas decorations.
Not to say his own house isn't neatly decorated — there's a nice wreath on the door, and, even though it's still daytime, he can see his parents have hung lights around for the holidays. But God, it doesn't even compare.
The yard next to theirs has snowman decorations, garlands on top of every window, a full Christmas tree, a couple of giant wooden candy canes (hand painted — he remembers, he helped), bells on the door and around the mailbox, big red velvet bows everywhere, lights on every possible place — the roof, around the windows, strung around the Christmas tree.
It's so over the top it almost looks ridiculous. It should probably make him laugh, but it actually makes his heartbeat pick up.
Because the neighbor's yard didn't look like this last year.
Which means that maybe, just maybe, you are home.
"Lando!" His mum comes to greet him at the door when he comes in, and he breathes deeply into her tight hug. "How was your flight?"
Even though snow hasn't arrived to Somerset yet and the air outside is cold, Lando is grateful for the warmth he finds inside the house, body relaxing as he discards his shoes and his bare feet meet the heated floors. His sisters come downstairs to give him each a welcoming hug and let him know Oliver is stuck in traffic while his dad went to the supermarket, and quickly climb back up.
Coming home for the holidays after a hectic, beautiful season feels different than going to his place in Monaco ever does. He feels glad to spend time with his parents and with his siblings, and nothing quite feels like visiting his childhood home — the neighborhood where he ran around when he was a kid, the yard where he sunbathed as a teen, throwing pieces of grass at his siblings and, most importantly, at you.
He knew the neighbor's house like the palm of his hands. Even now, years later, he could still picture the perfect outline of that place in his mind, the narrow halls, the big kitchen, the cozy living room. There was once a time when it was almost his second home — the sleepovers every other night, the afternoons doing maths homework, playing pirates, and fighting over who could eat the most cookies.
"Is Y/N home?" He asks his mum before he can overthink it, following her into the kitchen. "Their yard is… Really something."
Cisca laughs as she takes her place behind the kitchen counter, back to the egg salad she was making before his arrival.
"I saw her last week," she says simply, "but I don't know if she's staying for Christmas. You know how she is now, Denise is always complaining to me about how that girl works too much," the woman smiles fondly when she talks about your mother, "why don't you call her and ask? Didn't the two of you talk after Abu Dhabi?"
Why doesn't he call you and ask. Didn't the two of you talk after Abu Dhabi.
Welp. Aren't those difficult questions to answer.
"Right," he swallows, hoping she doesn't notice the tension that seeps into his features, hoping she doesn't notice the way he entirely avoids her second question. "I might."
He won't.
He doesn't call, but he looks.
Lando offers to take out the trash every day. He offers to do grocery runs. He offers to do every single outside errand anyone in his home can even think of.
Whenever he leaves the heated floors and warm interior, he looks at the neighboring house — tries to catch a glimpse of you through the open windows, maybe touching up the decorations in the yard. He looks for a different car in your parents' garage, wonders if you've got one now, if you drove back to Somerset instead of taking the train from London.
Every chance to get outside and pass in front of your house feels like an opportunity. He fantasizes about what he'll say to you when he sees you, about how you'll react, whether or not you'll still smile at him. He makes up scenarios where you run into his arms and tell him you've missed him like crazy like he's missed you, where every issue and regret immediately dissipates and he can run his fingers through your hair like nothing happened.
He doesn't see you once.
His parents exchange glances across the dining table as they watch him look longingly at the door, feet tapping against the floor with restless energy. Flo teases him only once, asking if he's committed any crimes and if the police is coming to get him and that's why he looks so worried. Their other sister, Cisca, kicks Flo's leg underneath the table, sends her a warning glare. Meanwhile, Lando doesn't even notice the commotion, too busy weighing the possibility that you might just burst into his childhood home and say you can't stand not being in his life anymore.
And his phone is silent. After the championship win, the run of sponsorships and media and recording and posting something new every day, he's finally been given a break. No one from McLaren blowing up his phone, no new meetings or campaigns he needs to show up to, no obligations. Just a nice, relaxing holiday to spend with his loved ones and family. Instead, Lando acts like he's on a mission, like he's fighting for something even more complicated than the championship — he finds himself in competing mode even though there's no prize on the line, walking in front of your door and considering whether or not to knock as if he's having to pick between tyres in Abu Dhabi all over again.
By December 22nd, he is pretty certain you're not coming home for Christmas and the insane decorations on your lawn are probably just a tribute to you to make up for your absence, put up by your parents.
That morning, Lando goes out for a run.
He knows it's the holidays, he knows it's too fucking cold outside, he knows he should take a break. His nose and cheeks burn from the freezing wind, his body aches and his muscles lock up against the extreme temperatures. But he needs an outlet for all the anxious energy in his body — he's spent his last days looking everywhere for you, searching for you in every face and figure that walked his neighborhood, wondering if any moving of the curtains inside your house could be you.
So Lando runs, and runs, and runs. He leaves his house at 6am, runs around the streets and alleys he's known since he was a kid, tries to keep himself from looking for you in every possible crevice. He fails.
Almost two hours later, he comes back to his street, jaw tight from the cold and the disappointment, feeling so stupid for being this upset that he forces himself to not glance at your yard as he walks by it, pace finally slowing down.
"Lan?"
Lando trips and falls face first into the concrete.
"Oh, fuck!" He hears the footsteps and feels his face burn with embarrassment. He can sense it when you stop nearby, hesitant. "Are you okay?"
When Lando finally turns his head to look at you, it's like everything stops. For the first time, the planet seems to settle into its axis — as if it's been slightly lopsided ever since he first left, and now it just tilted back into place. It's relieving, in a way, like a weight he didn't know he was carrying has been lifted from his shoulders.
You look even more beautiful than the last time he saw you. Your eyes still have that bright sparkle in them, that kind glint that has haunted him for years, followed him in every dream. Your eyebrows are furrowed with concern, the small lines on your forehead deeper than before, but familiar all the same. He almost wants to reach his hand out, to rub the worry away from your face with his thumb the way he used to when you were younger.
"Hi," is his dumb answer, looking up at you from the freezing ground, "it's you."
A grin takes over your lips at his words, and Lando can feel his heart rate pick up at the brightness of it all. You roll your eyes before you offer your hand to help him up.
"You need to be more careful, Mr. F1 driver," you say teasingly, and your hand is so warm against his that he can feel heat spread through his entire body as he finally stands on his two feet again, "can't have you falling around like that. You good?"
"I—yeah," he laughs, and it comes out as a breath. He look down at his arm, at the torn fabric on his elbow. "Just scraped myself a little bit, I think."
You take a hold of his arm and turn it gently so you can look at the small gash, and Lando inhales sharply as he watches your furrowed eyebrows.
"Doesn't look too bad," you murmur, and then you're looking up at him again, "come on, I can help you clean up."
You're already pulling him towards your door before he can even react, and, for a second, Lando sees you at 14, dragging him everywhere you went, taking him by his upper arm as he followed you blindly.
He still hasn't been able to process the fact you're here, bringing him inside, touching him, saying something about washing his grazed elbow with soap, just acting like normal. It matches none of his made up scenarios — he imagined crying, screaming, hugging, anything. Lando can barely speak.
The inside of your house looks as ridiculous as the outside — lights and wreaths everywhere, little angels on top of the coffee table, golden stars and red velvet ribbons on every surface, mistletoe hanging over every other doorway.
"You've always been clumsy," you complain, but there's no bite to it. "Did I startle you back there? I should've noticed you were in the zone or whatever they say these days."
Lando decides to ignore the question, eyebrows furrowing as the absurdity of it all hits him. A few hours ago, he accepted you had probably stayed in London for the holidays again. Now, there you stand in front of him, cheeks flushed from the cold, cleaning the scrapes on his elbow in your parents' kitchen — the scrapes he got from tripping over himself because he heard your voice calling him Lan and lost any sort of balance.
And you're acting like this happens every day. Like it's normal to find him in the street, bring him inside your home, tease him for falling down. It's all so casual Lando can feel his heart crack — you, acting like nothing ever happened. You, beautiful you, wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater he's ever seen in his life (bright red and green, a reindeer beside a disproportionate Christmas tree) and smiling at him as if you're just some girl next door, just his nice neighbor, not—not everything.
"I thought you weren't coming home for Christmas this year," he manages to blurt out, ignoring the stinging feeling on his elbow as you clean it.
You glance at him from your spot by the kitchen counter, "I come home most years."
"Not last year."
You chuckle at his answer, finally taking a step back and letting go of his upper arm. Lando feels something inside him ache at the distance.
"Well, it's not my fault if the first time in years that you came home, I had to stay back in London." You tease, and he mirrors your laugh.
Lando opens his mouth to speak something that is probably stupid when your mum walks into the kitchen.
"Oh, Lando!" Denise squeals when she sees him, quickening her pace as she pulls him into a tight hug that he immediately corresponds. "Oh, it's been too long. How have you been, my boy?"
"I've been good, I've been good." He can't help the grin that takes over his face as she gushes over him, holding him in her arms like she used to do whenever he came over as a kid. "Racing has been crazy, but I've been good."
"I've heard!" And her smile grows ever bigger. "World champion, huh?"
Lando can feel himself flush with happiness at the reminder, nodding excitedly.
"Mum told you?"
"Cisca? Oh, she didn't have to!" Denise laughs with delight, and then she gestures dismissively towards you. "That one wouldn't shut up about it for days. She watched every single race this year, called me screaming in the middle of the night whenever you won."
A shiver runs down Lando's spine, body tensing up immediately as his eyes move to you. He watches as you try to laugh it off, looking away sheepishly as your hand comes up to tug at your left earring, a telltale sign of your embarrassment.
"I thought you didn't like watching races that much," he tries to play it off as friendly teasing, but the questioning tone in his voice is genuine. He can't even imagine what that would've been like — you watching every race, rooting for him, being excited for his championship. Well, he can't deny the fact it's just like you to cheer him on as you have always done, but he feels fuzzy at the thought that you might still want to do it after everything.
"Yeah, but, I—well, it's— well, you know," you tug again, face burning, clearly scrambling for words, "maybe I just wanted to hear about you somehow."
Lando feels your words hit like a bullet through his chest, the fuzziness dissipating as guilt takes its place.
"I—"
"Are you coming here with your family for Christmas dinner, Lando?" Your mum interrupts, perhaps sensing the horrible tension that seems to crawl in through the windows, through the tiny crack underneath the door.
"I— what?" He turns to stare at her with furrowed eyebrows, confusion painting every edge of his expression.
"We're preparing dinner," she clarifies, but Lando's eyes still travel to you by the kitchen counter, hand tugging at your ear in discomfort, his heart banging painfully against his rib cage. "Your parents said all of you are coming. That's why Y/N's repainting the candy canes and going all out with the decorations."
Minutes ago, Lando felt like the world had fallen back on its axis. Now, he feels it's spinning too fast in every wrong direction. He turns to you again, this time somewhat accusingly.
"You're repainting the candy canes?"
"The paint is chipping off," your hands come up in surrender, and everything is just wrong.
"Oh, Lando!" Your mum exclaims as if she's just had the best idea in the whole wide world, and he notices the way you immediately shoot her a warning glare. "You should come over tomorrow to help! Like the first time!"
"Mum, I think he probably doesn't want to—"
"I'd love to." The words are out of his mouth before he even processes the situation, jumping out of him as if they've been longing to find their way to you. Everything is happening too fast, too wrong, too sudden.
Lando expected the two of you to meet in some dramatic way. He thought you'd hug, talk, cry. He'd tell you how he looked for you in every crowd, every face, every room before and after winning the championship. He'd tell you how, even though that last race was the happiest day of his life, it felt hollow — hollow because his dream was to celebrate it with you, and you weren't even there. He'd tell you how he cried over the win, but also over you. Instead, seeing you again felt like being under gunfire — in a few minutes, everything was right, then everything was wrong, and now he's offering to paint wooden candy canes with you like he did back when you were 12.
You barely speak up while your mother tells him to come over the next morning, sending him home with a few sweets for his parents and a kiss on the cheek. You wave at him as he walks away, still tugging at your earring as he keeps turning his neck to catch another glimpse of you.
Lando expected a big, emotional reunion.
He doesn't know what to expect now.
When Lando wakes up the next morning, it's snowing.
It's a lovely morning. The snow is coming down softly, covering the grass and concrete in a blanket of white — the air feels crisp and fresh, snowflakes melting down against his nose as he takes the very short walk to the neighboring house, his boots making a thudding noise against the soft ice that built up throughout the night. Your decorations look even better covered in snow, each ribbon, snowman, and garland entirely at home in your icy yard.
His mum is way too excited by the fact he's spending the day at your house, painting candy canes. She smiled brightly when he mentioned it during dinner, right as the snow started to fall, and Lando didn't miss the looks that were exchanged between his siblings either. He tried to pretend it wasn't anything too grand — just helping the neighbor with her Christmas projects.
His lungs hurt every time he breathes, and he's not sure the freezing weather is to blame.
You open the door and, even though the entire world behind him is white and muted by the snow, the way you smile at him turns the edges of his vision colorful.
"Come in, come in, it's freezing," you usher him inside, shivering slightly at the cold wind that seeps in through the open door, hand resting between his shoulder blades as you guide him inside, electric currents running through his skin. "I'm sorry my mum put you up to this. I know it's probably not… Ideal."
"No, it's fine," he lets out a choked laugh, "I did say I'd love to. I know you always get really excited about the holidays, and I'm glad to help."
You're wearing another ugly sweater. You seemed to have dozens of them when the two of you were younger, each a little more ridiculous than the next, and he doesn't think he's ever seen this one, but it's oddly familiar in the way everything about you is, so he settles for chuckling at the enormous star that takes over the entire front of the wool piece, smiling softly at the sight as he shrugs off his winter jacket and you hang it next to the door.
"I noticed the paint chipping a couple of weeks ago, when I put them up," you explain as you lead him further into the house to what he knows is your dad's workshop, where your parents didn't let you play as kids. "Dad said I should just let it go and use the other stuff to decorate, but I—I like those candy canes," your last words come out quieter, and Lando feels his heart thump inside his chest.
The workshop is messy in that tidy, homely way. There's a bunch of Christmas lights all around the room, some only half lit up, the others blinking weakly. Knowing you, you had asked your father to fix the lights that weren't quite working anymore, likely already thinking of another weird place to hang them on.
"You've been here for a couple of weeks?" He asks quietly, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you move towards the candy canes, which have already been taken out of the yard and brought into the workshop.
"Kinda?" You have your back turned to him as you answer, pulling the wooden canes to the center of the room. "I came to town for a bit, then went back home for an emergency work meeting, then came back a few days ago. I've spent way too much time and money on the train."
Went back home. As in your London apartment. Lando doesn't feel upset, because he's also referred to his place in Monaco as "home" and it didn't mean anything. He has no right to feel upset.
His heart cracks right down the middle.
He clears his throat.
"I thought you'd never leave Somerset," he says it as if it's a throwaway line, as if it doesn't matter as much as it does, "you always loved it here too much."
You chuckle, squatting down to grab the red paint can on the floor.
"I've always been a hometown girl through and through," you agree, picking the can up and putting it down on a nearby table, where the white paint already lays. "I guess we all need to grow up one day or another, though."
Lando swallows dryly, feeling something like sand go down his tongue, sticking around his throat, falling uncomfortably to the bottom of his stomach.
"So," you continue calmly, barely noticing the way he glances away from you, "I was thinking we could do it more easily than last time. Just follow the paint that's already there, pull away the bits that have chipped off too much and show through the new paint."
"Wouldn't it be better to redo it entirely?" Lando asks, taking a step closer to the wooden candy canes, noticing how, indeed, some of the paint is chipping off. "There will definitely be some texture if we just paint on top of the old stuff."
"Nah, it's okay. It holds too many memories or whatever. I want to do it like that."
"Right," the sand slips into his airways, falls heavier into his stomach. "Okay."
You were 12 when you painted these decorations for the first time. Even back then, Christmas was already your favorite holiday — you'd start getting excited weeks earlier, begging your mum to let you start decorating before Halloween had even passed by.
Lando didn't care much about it. He enjoyed that time of the year, but didn't lose sleep with excitement like you did. However, he did enjoy seeing you happy, so he was ready to join you in whatever holiday escapade you planned every year as long as it made you smile.
From when you were small children to your first years as young adults, Lando was always home for Christmas. Even after he dropped out of school to focus on racing, even after he moved away to Monaco, even when he could fly his entire family to visit him instead if he wanted to. He always came home.
Until he didn't.
You didn't fight him about it, not really. You never even yelled. He just stopped coming, and eventually you stopped texting to ask why, and, when he was finally ready to come home, you stayed back in London. Lando would think it was a cosmic joke, an unlucky coincidence, if he wasn't pretty sure it had been a deliberate move on your part.
So he paints quietly, the paintbrush that you gave him dipping carefully into the red paint as a weird silence takes over your dad's workshop. It wasn't like this the first time, no, that first time you made him listen to Mariah Carey the entire time and sang his ear off, soft hands stained red and white by your clumsy paint job. He complained about it for days, but his heart had drowned in warmth, and his cheeks blushed with happiness whenever he saw the ugly candy canes in your yard the following days.
You used to bring joy to every room he was in. Now you barely join the rooms he occupies at all.
"Did you—," you clear your throat slightly, and he wonders if you have sand swimming inside your mouth as well, "did you have fun? Back in Abu Dhabi? How was that?"
"I did, yeah," he clears his throat as well, "it was—it's an amazing feeling. To win like that. I was scared I might not at the end there."
Lando can hear the smile that creeps into your expression even though you're sitting behind the candy canes, hidden from him.
"I wasn't scared at all."
He can feel his face burn bright red, grin taking over before he can overthink it.
"Yeah?"
"Of course! Come on, it's you. I've watched enough races to be entirely confident you'd be fine."
His grin is so wide his cheeks hurt.
"You're biased."
"Happily so."
Lando chuckles at that, and his entire body fills with warmth when he hears you giggle back at him.
It's so normal. The two of you fall into easy conversation, repainting the wooden decorations as you ask him about his post win celebrations, and he asks about your job in London and about how your family has been. He tells you about all the sponsorship campaigns and photo shoots where he felt like a stranger. You tell him about how you decorated your apartment for Christmas and it didn't feel strange at all.
By the time your mum calls you over for lunch, you have paint all over your jeans, and Lando knows the names of most of your coworkers. It feels familiar, as does sitting across from you at the dining room table, exchanging glances and smirks whenever your dad says something out of pocket.
Lando feels like he's 16 again, hanging out in your house, discussing the latest episodes of your favorite TV shows, wondering whether or not the Doctor Who Christmas special will be good this year, talking about what your most listened song of the year was. It makes him warm inside, reminds him why he longed for you so dearly when he was younger — the ease of it all, the way the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces. He almost manages to ignore the weight in his chest. The grains of sand in his throat. The way the conversation stays superficial.
It's still snowing when you finally finish the first coat of paint and you let him know you're not sure the candy canes will dry in time for Christmas, but that you'll do the second coat tomorrow anyway. He watches the snowstorm from the workshop window, falling thick and heavy outside.
"I should probably go," he says then, standing up from his spot on the floor and putting his paintbrush down. "Before the weather gets worse."
You tug at your left earring, glancing at the window as you stand up with him.
"I—well," you chuckle nervously, and Lando looks at you, beautiful you, avoiding his eyes as your face grows warm, "I was thinking about baking some gingerbread cookies. If you want to stay a little longer."
The suggestion knocks the air straight out of Lando's lungs.
You sound like you did that night, stretching out the minutes with him, asking him to stay longer, and longer, and longer, knowing he can never say no to you. That night, when he kissed you in your bedroom floor and you both pretended it was just because there's no one better to have your first kiss with than your best friend. Your first kiss and the many that followed.
Lando should go home.
Alternatively, Lando should address the elephant in the room and apologize.
Lando does neither of these things.
"Only if you let me do the stirring."
You grin.
"You are awful at stirring."
"I'm not—why are you being mean to me?"
You snicker, and something loosens inside of Lando's heart.
"I'm not being mean, I'm just saying—you're over stirring."
"There's no such thing as over stirring when you're pure of heart."
"Shut up, Lan—give me the spoon."
It's his turn to laugh as you reach towards the spoon in his hand, narrowing your eyes when he pulls it away from you. You take a step forward, and he takes one back. You look at each other with amusement in your eyes, and then you strike — jumping at him, arm stretching to grab at the spoon while he tries to push you away, free hand coming up to push at your shoulder.
"Give it back!"
"Back? I had the spoon in the first place!"
Lando snickers when you stretch your arm even further, climbing into his tiptoes so you can't reach his hand. He revels in your giggles, heart warm and swollen, the smell of ginger and cinnamon dancing around the kitchen.
"You're ruining my batter," you complain, but there's a happy glint in your eye that slips between your words.
"I'm not ruining anything, you're just too bossy."
Your mouth falls open in disbelief, but a loud laugh escapes your lips. "I'm not bossy!"
"Yes, yes, you are," he shakes his head, smile so bright his face hurts. "The bossiest girl in town."
"Give me that," you finally take the spoon from him, pulling it forcefully as he laughs, your voice coming out muffled with fake annoyance, "I can't believe you don't even know how to stir. Do you cook, like, ever?"
Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms while he watches you poke at your batter with the spoon.
"Not really. I have a chef that prepares all my meals for me."
You look at him with a teasing smirk, "you're getting spoiled, Mr. McLaren."
"Maybe," he agrees with a wide smile, and you smile back before poking the batter again, eyebrows furrowing slightly as you pour the mix on the clean counter.
Lando's body moves before he can process it, and his hand finds the crease between your eyebrows, thumb rubbing a single circle on your skin before both of you still.
He immediately takes a step back and pulls his fingers away, swallowing the sand that builds up inside his mouth again, heart thumping painfully against his ribcage as he looks away nervously.
You're still stuck in place, hands holding the empty bowl, eyes wide with surprise.
Lando opens his mouth to apologize — to say that was weird, to say it was an accident, anything. However, your parents enter the kitchen before he can speak, your mum's eyes sparkling with delight as she looks at you.
"It's good to see you kids together again," your dad nods approvingly. "Been a long time since we had you around, Lan."
"Dad," you grumble with embarrassment, shaking your head.
"When are the cookies getting ready?" Your mother asks excitedly, leaning over the counter to take a look at your batter, furrowing her brow at it. "Oh, dear, that looks a bit over stirred."
Despite the awkwardness of it all, you explode in a giggle that sends an electric current down Lando's spine. His eyes meet yours, and he can't help but match your amusement as you cackle at each other, glancing from the batter to your mum's confused expression to each other again, unable to hold back your laughter.
A few minutes later, your parents help with cutting out the cookies, and Lando feels at home, squeezed between you and your dad by the kitchen counter, chuckling as you and your mum complain about the over stirred batter and about your dad's crooked stars.
When the gingerbread cookies are done and you have already shared a few, you find Lando a jar so he can take a good amount of cookies home to his family. He thanks you immensely, heart clenching painfully while he puts on his winter coat, his boots, his gloves.
The moment you open the door, the two of you stare out at the significant amount of snow piled up outside. Both of you pause.
"Do you have a shovel?" He asks after a beat, catching your mum's attention from the living room.
"Probably," your eyebrows furrow and Lando wants to rub it away again, "I can help you with the shoveling. There's enough snow to hide a body if we want to."
"No, Lando!" Your mum calls out from her spot by the fireplace while he snickers, not even looking up from her book. "Just sleep over. It's been snowing all day and it hasn't stopped."
"I mean, I live just next door—"
"You've slept over a thousand times," your dad adds, sitting beside your mum by the warm fire. "Why would you go out in the cold, in the middle of a snowstorm, with the snow reaching your thighs, when you can just stay here for the night? We can call Cisca to let her know. It's fine, Lando, truly."
"I don't want to intrude," he insists, uncertain, glancing at you and hating the way he can't read your carefully neutral expression. "And it's not reaching my thighs. With a shovel I can probably—"
"Lan, dear," your mum finally looks up, smiling softly at him. "You can stay if you want, okay? The snow will probably be better by morning, and then you can walk home without freezing your ass off. But if you'd rather go now, that's fine. It's your call."
There's a heavy pause as Lando falls silent. He turns his head to look at you, trying to gather whether or not you'd like him to stay. You don't say anything, so he raises his eyebrows, a silent do you want me here? that you seem to immediately understand.
You stay quiet for a second before offering him a small smile, voice coming out soft and tentative. "I can make hot chocolate if you want."
Lando feels like the fireplace has taken place inside his stomach, his entire body immediately growing warm, his cheeks turning red.
"Your special hot chocolate?" He asks just as softly, a cheeky smirk dancing on his lips, and your smile widens.
"With cinnamon, marshmallows, and a side of gingerbread cookies," you nod solemnly, "just how you like it. Unless you've changed your mind and want me to add gold leaves or something now?"
He lets out a chuckle at that, hyper aware of the blush in his face. Even then, it feels like the rest of the room melts away as he stares at you, body buzzing with how he wants wants wants to stay the night, wants to stay as long as you'll let him, wants to stay with you in this Christmas bubble forever and never make the mistake of leaving ever again.
The way you smile at him is warm and bright enough to melt the snow outside.
"Then I guess I can sleep over, yes. No gold leaves needed."
You're sitting side by side by the fireplace as the Grinch plays on the TV, warmth still lingering on your tongues from the hot chocolate, the empty mugs left somewhere between all the Christmas decorations in your living room.
Your shoulders are brushing against each other, and Lando is wearing an old hoodie that stayed in your house from his teenage years. You've changed into your pajamas and they're holiday themed — red-nosed reindeer, golden bows.
And your shoulders are brushing against each other.
It's a little late when the movie ends, and your parents are already in bed. The two of you walk to your bedroom in between hushed whispers and small giggles, and, even though it's dark and the snowstorm is just reaching its end, the house feels sunny.
Lando supposes he should sleep in the guest room. Instead, you pull out the mattress that stays under the bed and help him arrange the sheets, readying his usual spot on the floor just next to you.
Your bedroom looks the same as always — the photographs along the wall, the full bookshelves, the ever growing snow globe collection. It's like time paused before you left town, and Lando is glad to feel like he still knows every inch of the place.
He lies down on the mattress and you lie down on your bed, both staring at the ceiling, lights still on. His body relaxes almost unconsciously in your presence, in your bedroom, in your home. He can hear your soft yawn.
"You know," you mention, "I really am extremely proud of you. For the championship win. It was incredible, Lan," he can hear the smile creep into your voice, "and, even if you hadn't won, it would've been such an amazing season on your part."
"Still, the fact I actually won makes it a little cooler," he argues, and you laugh, and his heart feels tight and full all at the same time.
"I guess it does, yeah," a chuckle accompanies your words, and then you grow a little quieter, "how was it?"
"How was what?"
"Dealing with it. With everything. Couldn't have been easy."
Lando sighs deeply.
"No, it wasn't," he pauses for a second, hearing you breathe a few feet away and letting it soothe him, "it was a lot. People were expecting a lot of me, and I felt like I wasn't allowed to—to do or say or feel anything. Any minor mistake or comment about being stressed out or frustrated was turned into a sign of weakness, of not having champion mentality or whatever that means. And even when I did everything they wanted me to, it still felt like I was doing it wrong somehow."
You hum slightly. "Yeah, I saw… Some of the articles. I think you dealt with it really well, though. I was really proud."
Lando doesn't answer. Even though he won and, God, it was the best thing that ever happened to him, the season was still the hardest one he has ever gone through — the pressure, the expectations, the gossip, the hate. He's happy he came out as a champion at the end, but he knows he did it with a foot on the grave, aware that a loss would maybe ruin his already fragile reputation, would further the point that he was weak, immature, unfit to win.
"I thought about calling you," your voice seems to echo inside your bedroom, and Lando's heart rate picks up. "A few times. After Zandvoort. After Mexico, when you became the championship leader. After Las Vegas. After Abu Dhabi. I just—yeah. So many times."
Lando doesn't move from his spot on the mattress, staring up the ceiling, feeling every bone in his body longing to reach out to you. You don't move either.
"Why didn't you?" The questions comes out quiet, tentative, scared.
It's your turn to pause. The silence is full with things unsaid, with the kisses you never talked about, the moments you tried to pretend had never happened.
"I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me," your answer is even quieter, stained with hurt, cracking slightly at the end. Not accusatory, no, just sad. Just aching.
Lando pulls himself up in a tenth of a second, and he finds himself kneeling against the mattress, elbows coming up to rest on the edge of your bed, eyes wet as he leans towards you, watches the way you move in response to him, sitting up as you look down at his face, surprised by his sudden movements.
"I'm so fucking sorry," his voice cracks too, and he spits the words out as if they're choking him, they are. "I'm so fucking sorry for everything. For not coming home anymore. For not answering your texts. For disappearing. Fuck, I'm so fucking sorry."
You soften at his rambled apologies, at the guilt slipping through his words, at the heavy tears that gather in his eyes.
"Oh, Lan." You shift closer to the edge of the bed he's leaning against. "It's okay."
"It's not." He shakes his head forcefully, and the first tear streams down his cheek. "It's not okay. I just—I just stopped calling. Like it meant nothing. Like it was nothing. And you—you were my best friend in the whole wide world and I just left. It's not okay."
"It's okay," you repeat, and your hand comes up to his jaw holding him in your palms with a carefulness he doesn't deserve, isn't even sure he wants.
"It's not okay. It's not." His own hand comes up to touch your wrist, unsure if he wants to push it away or keep it there forever, and everything is just spilling out of him. "I was just—I was so scared. I was so scared that we couldn't make it work. I was so scared I wouldn't be able to keep you in my life. And I was so—so worried about racing, and winning, and getting better, I was scared we didn't fit together anymore. So I just—I just pushed it away and tried to focus on everything else and on the car and—"
"Lan, it's fine." Your thumb draws circles on his cheek, and Lando's tears come down harder. "I know. I understand. It's okay."
"It's not okay, it's not fine," it comes out intertwined with a sob, "I didn't even give you an explanation. I didn't say anything. I never answered when you asked. I didn't know what to say. I was—I was a coward. I didn't think I could be a good friend and win, and I didn't know how to deal with that. Specially when I wanted so much more than to be friends and I—" he lets out another sob, "I didn't think I'd be able to do it properly while racing, so I thought maybe I shouldn't do it at all. I'm so—"
"Lando." Your other hand reaches his face, and you hold him in place, leaning down so you can look closer at him, ignoring the way his hot tears touch your fingers. He hadn't noticed you were crying too. "I know. Okay? I know. And I would never—" you swallow dryly, "I was never mad at you for it. God, Lando! F1 was your dream! It is your dream! And if letting go helped you achieved it—if that's what got you the win this year, I'm fine with that. I could never blame you for it. All this time, I was just—I was always cheering for you. Always. No matter what. I was hurt, maybe, but I understand." You swallow again, fingers brushing away the tears on his cheeks. "It's okay. I understand."
"It was not fair," his voice cracks again, and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. "I thought of you everywhere. I almost called a thousand times. Every win felt less important because I couldn't share it with you."
"Lan…"
"No, I mean it. Even if we weren't just—I missed my best friend. Every single day. And I couldn't be okay with that decision, but I didn't know how to go back on it either, even though I still love you. God, for two fucking years. Fuck, I don't think I'll ever be able to come back from that. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so, so fucking sorry."
"Is it forgiveness you need?" You ask quietly, and you hold his face so tenderly. "I forgive you, Lan. I'll never resent you for needing space, I'll never resent you for focusing on your dream. I was always rooting for you. I forgive you, and I'll forgive you each and every time as long as you come back to me. Come here."
You pull him up, and suddenly Lando is on your bed, and then he's laying in your arms, half on top of you, crying into your shoulder as you hug him tightly, as you pull him back together and he lets all the frustration, guilt, and longing fall down on your stupid red-nosed reindeer pajamas, your own tears falling into his hair.
"It's okay," you say into his ear, and Lando cries even harder, "I was never mad at you. I forgive you. You're still my best friend."
"I missed you so fucking much," he sobs into you, and you manage to hold him even tighter.
"I know, I missed you too. It's okay, sweetheart. We're okay."
For a second, Lando wishes the world would pause in this moment — the moment he finally found himself back in your arms, head laying against your shoulder as the two of you lay down on your bed, your hands on his back, between his curls, his around your waist, pulling you closer closer closer, wanting wanting wanting to stay here with you forever.
It takes you and Lando a few minutes to calm down, but the sobs are soon replaced by quiet sniffles, arms and hands holding tight to each other like it all could slip away in the blink of an eye. Maybe it could. Neither of you are willing to find out.
"I really did miss you," he repeats, voice muffled by your shoulder, and you chuckle.
"I know, sweetheart. I know. I missed you too, so much."
Lando breathes in deeply, taking in the smell of you — ginger and cinnamon, still, with a hint of peppermint, so stupidly reminiscent of Christmas that it makes him want to laugh. You place a kiss on his hair, and he pulls you against him even tighter.
A few beats pass by and, slowly but surely, Lando can feel the exhaustion reaching him, mixed with the utmost relief of having you in his arms. He feels finally tired from the days searching for you, from missing you in every crowd, from typing out your phone number and never actually calling.
"I don't understand how you could just—forgive me like that." He says into your pajamas, tired and sad and guilty and hurt.
"I had nothing to forgive you for because I was never mad at you for leaving," your words hit his curls, and he lets out a heavy breath. "It's your career, Lan. I know how much it means to you. I was never angry at you for focusing on it."
"Why didn't you come home for Christmas last year, then?"
A sigh escapes your lips, fingers drawing circles on his back.
"Because understanding and not being angry doesn't mean I wasn't hurt. Doesn't mean I wasn't afraid you still wouldn't want to see me if we both met in person."
"I did want to see you. I came home just for you," he swallows dryly. "I promise—I'll make it up to you. Somehow."
He can feel you smile against him, and Lando wants to drown in it.
"Just don't disappear on me again."
"I won't."
The room goes quiet again, and Lando focus on the sounds of your breathing, on the way your chest moves up and down, on your touch on his back and his shoulders, on you you you and how much he's longed for this, still longs for it.
"Can I confess something to you? Since we're being honest?" It's you who breaks the silence this time, and he nods against your shoulder. "I only dated Jamie back in school because I was mad that you kissed Christine at that one party."
Lando pulls away just enough to stare at you in disbelief, eyes widening immediately as some of the tension drops away from him, replaced by the fuzzy familiarity of your bright, teasing smiles.
"I fucking knew it, oh my God, you knew how much I hated Jamie!"
You laugh loudly, tears still drying against your skin, and it's enough to send warmth spreading through his body.
"Look, I had to get back at you somehow," you say, and your face is filled with amusement.
"By getting into a four month relationship? That's just cruel."
You laugh again, and then your fingers reach his hair, running through his curls, and Lando melts, falling straight back into your chest.
"We were really good at pretending all the kissing and cuddling didn't mean anything, sneaking around and then acting like it didn't happen," you comment, and Lando sighs, feeling himself tremble at your touch.
He understands exactly what you mean. You had your first kisses with each other because you agreed it was right to have it with your best friend, and then it just kept happening. Every other night, he'd sleep over and find his lips on yours, his hands on your hair, and your body against his. Lando always thought the two of you would figure it out somehow — admit the bad habits were everything you (he?) always wanted, let it be more than hushed kisses in the dark. Instead, neither of you acknowledged it, and then Lando had to move away for racing and every other night became once every few months until he couldn't take it anymore.
And once every few months became missed calls and delivered texts.
"It did mean something. We were just bad at admitting it."
You hum, and a shiver goes down his spine.
"I was really in love with you."
He sighs again, relaxing further into your body.
"I was in love with you too."
And that's the entirely wrong tense for that feeling, but neither of you can say it just yet, not when your relationship still feels like an open wound, when laying against each other feels so fragile, so new, so familiar. Lando grips you tighter, and you hold each other until you fall asleep between soft whispers and giggles at memories and old anecdotes from your childhood and teenage years.
You make peppermint tea and you drink it together quietly the next morning, shoulders and knees purposefully brushing against each other as you sit by the fireplace again. The storm has come to an end and, even though there's still snow on your yard, Lando walks home before your parents wake up without any hindrance.
His house is also quiet when he arrives, but he doesn't miss the way his sisters and mum look at him knowingly when they wake up and come down to find him in the living room couch, whispering to each other and trying to poke him into telling them how his night was.
Lando doesn't say anything other than that it was fine and your hot chocolate is still the best he's ever had. The world has settled back into its axis and he can finally breathe easy again, an insurmountable weight taken off his chest, but he still feels like everything is up in the air, and he doesn't want to speak before he knows what you want from this, from your friendship, from him.
December 24th drags itself to no end, mocking him while he counts down the minutes to see you at dinner.
Flo lets him know they've already gotten you and your parents gifts, so he doesn't need to worry about it. Truth be told, Lando has been worrying about it for over a year, and he suddenly feels self-conscious of the gift he brought with him from Monaco, of the big box that has been sitting under his bed for the last few days.
Because Lando has been worrying about what to get you for Christmas for over a year, and now he thinks he might've gone overboard. He definitely went overboard.
That's why, when he finally arrives to your house a few hours later, wearing a fuzzy sweater and feeling his heart race when you greet him with a hug and a smile, he doesn't bring the box. It might be stupid, yes, but it's definitely too much, and he doesn't want to scare you away — not when things are finally settling back into place.
So he watches with a smile as you open the collection of Christmas-themed mugs his parents have bought you, and he thanks your family excitedly when they gift him McLaren socks and a hoodie.
Dinner is nice. Your parents have been friends for many years, and you talk with his sisters as if they're old friends — which they are, in a way, even though all your conversations have always happened when you were over at the Norris' house to spend time with him. Conversation flows easily and the food is amazing, and it would all be painstakingly normal if it weren't for the way you keep glancing at him when you think no one is noticing, the way your foot touches his under the table.
Lando shoots you a few smiles that don't go unseen by his brother, and he feels like there's a rope between you, both of you tugging tentatively, exchanging stolen looks and small smirks, foreign touches underneath the dinner table, tension so high it can snap at any second.
Both families sit around the fireplace after the meal is over, talking excitedly between each other, when you gesture with your head for him to follow you as you sneak out of the living room. He moves after you without a drop of hesitance.
You close the door when he joins you inside your bedroom, immediately pressing your back against it as you sheepishly look at him standing a few feet away.
"I got you another gift."
He blinks.
"What?"
"Look, I don't know if it's stupid, I didn't even know how things would go if we saw each other this year, but—," you ramble as you take a couple of steps towards your wardrobe, reaching into it to grab a package messily wrapped in brown paper. You stretch out your arm in his direction, offering it to him while you use your other hand to tug at your left earring in that nervous tell you've always had. "I got this for you."
Lando's heart rate picks up again, and he's suddenly regretting the fact he didn't bring the big box with your gift from his room, wondering if the gift you got him is a lot better than the one he got you, worrying whether or not you were expecting him to give you something else as well and were now disappointed.
Anxiety eats up at him as he rips the brown paper open, and then it immediately quiets when he looks down at his gift.
A Christmas-themed sweater, made from soft wool, a wonderful shade of orange — papaya, even. Knitted perfectly on the front, a Christmas tree and the words LANDO NORRIS F1 WORLD CHAMPION.
Lando blinks again, simply staring down at it as you watch him nervously.
"You… How did you get this done so quick?" He whispers, still unable to look away from the knitted words. "The championship ended less than a month ago."
"It wasn't quick," you confess, "I ordered it after you won Silverstone."
He inhales sharply.
"I was pretty far from even leading the championship after Silverstone."
He finally looks up at you, and the intensity in your eyes is so raw and sincere the air is knocked straight out of his lungs.
"I told you I was entirely confident you'd be fine."
Lando can't help it. He genuinely can't help it. Not when you're looking at him like that, not after he spent the night in your arms, not when he could feel the high-strung tension between you all dinner, waiting to snap. Not when he's wanted to do it for years. Not when, after all this time, after everything, you still believed in and cheered for him more than anyone else, more than himself.
It takes him much less than a second to reach you, hands coming up to hold your jaw, his nose touching yours, reveling in the way your breath hitches at his proximity, in the way your pupils widen and he can feel the warmth on your face between his fingers. He glances down at your lips and swallows dryly.
"Can I please kiss you again?"
You let out a breathless laugh and an enthusiastic nod, and then Lando's mouth is on yours for what feels like the first time in an eternity.
Your fingers grab at his back, at his shoulders, at his waist with an urgency that makes his heart sing, sighing into his lips as you pull him closer closer closer just like you did the night before, and Lando is exactly where he wants to be for the rest of his life.
If everything else felt like planet Earth falling back into its axis, kissing you again feels like the entire galaxy is imploding and then getting reborn into its better version, fireworks popping under his eyelids and body shaking with the force of an earthquake as he hums against your mouth and you take it as an opportunity to slip your tongue between his lips, letting out a small noise that makes Lando lit up like a thousand Christmas lights.
Your hands move from his back to tug at his curls and he whines into the kiss, arms coming around your waist so he can pull you even closer, wanting wanting wanting this to last forever, unable to express how much he's longed for your touch, for your closeness, for the feeling of you in his arms, for the taste of you on his lips.
He kisses you until his hair is a mess and your lips are swollen and he can't breathe anymore, and his mouth chases yours the second you pull away to draw a breath, unwilling to let any amount of distance grow between the two of you, smiling when you giggle at his desperation, fingers shaking with emotion and energy and love and you you you.
"I'm still in love with you," the words come out of him in a rush, arms tightening on your waist, eyes begging, forehead falling to rest against yours, "I've been in love with you all this time."
You giggle again and it hits him straight in the chest, grin forming on his face as he stares at you the way he's wanted to for years now, holds you the way he's wanted to hold you so bad that he found himself slipping away from your fingers.
"Lando Norris, Mr. World Champion." You grin right back at him, and Lando could drown in it. "I'm still in love with you too."
He immediately moves to kiss you again, but you just smile and shake your head, pulling away from his hold as you remind him both your parents are a few rooms away, probably wondering where the two of you went.
I don't care I don't care I don't care, he mutters between kisses, and you're quick to melt into him again. I just want you you you.
Lando doesn't know how long it takes for you to finally convince him to leave your bedroom. What he knows is that, when you do, every piece of clothing on his body feels too tight and there's no hiding the flush on your faces, the swelling of your lips, the way you both grin at each other like school children.
You come in from the hall and Lando is wearing the sweater you gifted him, walking side by side with you, and he can barely process the looks his family is giving him when Flo points out, a teasing smile on her face, "hey, mistletoe!"
The two of you look up to find said mistletoe hanging right above you on the doorframe, and Lando is grinning immediately, ignoring the amused warning glare you send his way as his arms come around your waist again, pulling you closer and placing another kiss on your lips, mouth pressing firmly against yours before he takes a step back.
His brother whistles loudly and his mother gasps in surprise. Your parents smile so wide he blushes again, and you shove at his shoulder before walking towards your spot on the couch, shaking your head in disbelief while he sits by your side, arm already coming up to rest on your back.
"Don't get him started," you roll your eyes, and Cisca chuckles.
"I'm assuming you two have sorted things out?" your mum asks with excitement while his sisters stare wide-eyed, and you roll your eyes again.
"All of you are too nosy," you answer before glancing at him, and he fears his grin is etched on his face forever.
"Aren't you gonna tell me what it is?"
It's Christmas morning, and Lando is leading you up the stairs to his childhood bedroom with his hands over your eyes, making the short climb a thousand times more difficult than it needs to be.
"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, love."
You mumble something unintelligible back at him in fake annoyance, and his cheeks hurt from the amount of smiling he's done since the night before.
"Why didn't you bring it yesterday with the other gifts?" You complain, but there's no bite to it.
"I was afraid it was too over the top," he admits while you finally reach the top of the stairs and he starts to guide you to his door. "I still am, a little."
"I ordered a knitted world champion sweater for you before you were even leading the championship, hun. I think you're fine."
He chuckles at your answer, positioning you in front of his bed and telling you to keep your eyes closed as he moves towards the big box on top of his covers, opening the lid and making sure it all looks fine before he takes a few steps back to stand beside you, breathing in and out to push away his nerves.
"Okay, now you can look."
Lando watches apprehensively as your eyes find the box, noticing the way your breath catches as you walk closer to it, hands reaching out to touch the dozens of snow globes neatly arranged inside, all in close size, but with extremely different interiors.
"How—," your voice comes out in wonder, stare wide with surprise and something else he can't quite read yet, "how?" You repeat, blinking rapidly as a few tears seem to gather in your eyes.
"I know you collect them, and that you love finding different ones," he explains, anxiety swimming through his words. "I got one from every race location throughout this year and the last. Because I was—because I was always thinking of you, everywhere."
You don't answer, picking one of the globes up from the box and studying it carefully. La Sagrada Família stands tall as you shake the snow globe he found in Barcelona slightly, watching as the fake snow falls inside of it.
"Do you—do you like it?" He swallows dryly. "Is it too much?"
"Lando," your voice comes out unstable, and a tear falls down your face. "This is—," you shake the snow globe again and then exhale shakily before putting it back down into the box and then turning towards him, another tear joining the last. "This is lovely."
He lets out a relieved breath, but still looks at you with uncertainty. "Yeah?"
You chuckle in disbelief, shaking your head as you move to pull him into a hug, holding him tightly against you and sighing when he immediately hugs you back.
"Yeah. You—you know me so well," you chuckle again, hugging him tighter and pressing a kiss against his shoulder, "after all this time, you still know me so well."
"Of course I do," and he holds you tighter back, "I love you."
You pull away slightly just so you can look at his face, and your watery eyes shine like a Christmas star, and you're wearing another ugly sweater with trees and bows, and those wooden candy canes are back on your yard because the paint dried faster than you expected, and there's a few bells and reindeer decorations around his bedroom that he put up just to see you smile. It doesn't feel like everything is wrong anymore.
"I love you too," you whisper before your lips find his, and you taste like peppermint tea and cinnamon and ginger and every good thing he's ever known, and, in your arms, kissing you again and again like he longed to for days, weeks, months, years, Lando realizes he was never coming home for Christmas.
He was coming home to you.
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star, i was so fucking excited to get you for the secret santa, as you are my absolute best friend in that server. i really hope you enjoy this and that i made your prompt some justice even though i strayed so fucking far from it. love you, merry christmas <3
also big thanks to @novaknows for setting this up 🩷 what an amazing and fun event!!!
warnings: smut 18+, unprotected p in v, praise kink, possessiveness (slightly), sub!lando, softdom!reader
summary: lando won the championship surrounded by noise, praise, and flashing lights. but none of it touches him the way you do.
word count: 3.3k
author’s note: hi there! this is my first piece of writing ever posting and of course i had to for lando’s championship win, if you read this i just wanna say thank you so much and hope you enjoy!
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The hotel door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the hallway noise and leaving behind only the faint hum of the city still alive with celebration. The suite was dim, lit only by the soft strip of lights above the minibar, just enough to catch the tired but wicked grin on Lando’s face.
He leaned back against the door, still buzzing with champagne and victory. His voice came out low, rough from yelling over music and cheering crowds.
“You know,” he murmured, “I still don’t think it’s real. World Champion.”
He dragged a hand through his messy hair, laughing breathlessly. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up.”
You slipped off your heels, letting them land in a careless pile on the plush carpet.
“It’s real,” you said, stepping toward him. “And you were kind of unbearable about it all night.”
“Oh?” he asked, eyebrow lifting. “Unbearable?”
“Completely,” you teased, rolling your eyes and stopping just in front of him. “Everyone wanted a piece of you. Cameras, fans, sponsors… you were soaking it up.” You gave him a nudge on his shoulder and a small playful smile.
He didn’t deny it. He just let his gaze trail over you slowly, so slowly it made you shiver with anticipation, like he was replaying every moment that had led up to this night, this moment. Spending so much time apart that neither of you thought it would end.
Yet, here you both are. The waiting, the longing, it was all worth it to see Lando win his first ever Drivers’ World Championship.
You watched him blossom this season, not only as a driver but as a person. He was so level-headed and grounded throughout the season, despite all the set-backs. He truly conquered in this world, and now, you get to share it with him.
“But,” you added softly, tilting your head, “I figured you’d want to end the night with someone who actually knows you.”
His smile changed, less charming champion, more the man you saw grow this season. He pushed off the door and stepped closer, his fingers brushing your waist, barely there, like he was testing the boundary.
“I do,” he said, voice dropping. “I always do.”
Her breath hitched. His eyes flicked to your lips. He noticed, he always noticed.
“Careful,” you whispered, though you didn’t move away. “You’re still drunk on attention.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips hovered just above your skin, “but right now? I just want you. All of you.”
His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you into him as the months of tension finally snapped into something electric.
Outside, the city celebrated his championship.
Inside the hotel suite, the night was just getting started.
You felt his fingers press a little firmer into your lower back, guiding you closer until your chest brushed his. The contact sent a ripple through you, sharp and warm, like every unsaid feeling between you two suddenly had a pulse.
“You don’t get it,” Lando murmured, his eyes locked on yours. His thumb grazed your hip, slow enough to make your legs feel unsteady. “Tonight… all the noise, all the people, none of it felt real until I saw you standing there, waiting for me on the track.”
You swallowed. “You had everyone wrapped around your finger.”
“I didn’t care about any of them.” His voice cracked, just slightly, raw, unfiltered honesty slipping through the confident mask he'd worn all night. “I kept looking for you.”
You hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not tonight. The admission hit you harder than any flirtation ever had.
He slid a hand up your back, fingertips tracing your spine through the thin fabric of your dress. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, brushing his nose against your cheek, his lips grazing just enough to make your breath catch.
“Then show me,” you whispered back, surprising even yourself with how you meant it.
His restraint broke.
He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. Deep, hungry, like weeks of tension and tonight’s adrenaline had finally snapped and flooded straight into him. You melted into it, grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him closer, pulling him down into you, kissing him like you needed him to breathe.
He groaned softly against your mouth, the sound low and rough, sending heat straight through you.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven. “Tell me to slow down,” he rasped, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “Because if you don’t, I won’t.”
Your fingers slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. “I don’t want you to slow down. I’ve waited for this, for you. I need you now more than ever.”
He exhaled like he’d been waiting to hear that answer from your lips for months.
In one smooth motion, he backed you toward the bed, his hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips like he’d dreamed of this exact moment. The backs of your legs hit the mattress, and he paused, just long enough to search your face, like he wanted to remember this moment forever.
You and the champion.
“You’re so fucking beautiful” he whispered, voice shaking, from how badly he wanted you.
“You don’t know what you do to me baby” you rasped, with desperation for him and from the long night you had shared before.
Emotion flickered across his features—relief, desire, something deeper he was afraid to name. Then he kissed you again, even slower, even deeper, pouring every unspoken feeling into you as he lowered you onto the bed.
You lay back on the hotel bed, propped on your elbows, watching him with a slow, intentional smile that made his knees nearly buckle. Lando hovered in front of you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and hungry in a way you had never really seen before tonight.
You knew once he won the championship, the sex would be amazing, because Lando knew every part of your body and where to touch you. This was different, you never really imagined it to be this intense.
He reached out, fingers brushing your thigh like he thought you might disappear, something shifted in his demeanor. “Please,” he whispered, barely a sound, more breath than voice. “Just… let me have you. Let me touch you.” His jaw clenched, his composure cracking. “I’ve wanted you so badly it hurts.”
The confession made your pulse flutter. “You’re usually so confident and in control” you teased softly. “Where’s that world champion energy now?”
A broken, helpless sound caught in his throat, half laugh, half whimper. He took another step closer, hands sliding up your legs with reverent desperation. “I don’t want to be confident,” he murmured, voice shaking. “Not with you. I just-” His breath hitched as you dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “God, don’t do that unless you want me to fall apart right here.”
You tugged again, slower this time. He actually gasped. A small, involuntary sound escaped him, raw and needy. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was trying to hold himself together.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He obeyed instantly, pupils blown wide, lips parted, breath trembling. “There you are,” you said. “That’s the real you.”
His hands slid to your hips, gripping, almost trembling. “I need you,” he said, voice breaking completely now. “Please. Please.” The last word came out as a soft, desperate whimper that sent heat flooding through you.
You guided him closer with just a finger curled under his chin. “Tell me how much.”
“So much it’s pathetic,” he breathed, forehead pressing to your stomach as his shoulders shook with restraint. “I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe. I-” He looked up at you, ruined with want. “I’m begging you. Just say I can have you. Say it and I swear I’ll-” He cut himself off with another helpless sound, almost a moan.
You looked down at him and saw his bulging cock in his pants, restrained by his tight trousers, as he tried to get any friction he can. You almost felt bad looking at him and how desperate he was for you, but you wanted to let this control last. You had the world champion in the palm of your hand. Needy and full of desire for you.
You smiled, slow and wicked, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth and seeing the little beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You’re already falling apart for me and I haven’t even touched you baby.”
He nodded, not even pretending otherwise. “I am,” he whispered. “I am. And I’ll do anything you want… if you just let me.” The way he said it, pleading, reverent, trembling, made your whole body thrum.
You leaned down, lips grazing his ear. “Then take what you want,” kissing him softly on the cheek. Soft enough to send a shiver down Lando’s spine, making his whole body feel electric.
He whimpered again. Quiet, broken, beautiful and gave in completely.
Lando looked up at you, hands sliding up your thighs like he was worshipping, not touching. His breath hit your skin in uneven waves, his self-control unraveling with every second you didn’t pull him closer.
“Please…” His voice cracked on the word, raw and desperate. His fingers gripping the edge of the bed like he needed the support. “Tell me you want me.”
You brushed your fingers through his hair again, slow and teasing. He shuddered so visibly it almost broke you.
“I want you so fucking badly, it hurts,” you said, tipping his chin up. “Look at what you do to yourself over me.”
He obeyed, lifting his gaze, and the sight made your breath catch. His cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest heaving. He looked ruined. He looked yours. All of his control was melting away by the second, now that he knows there’s no need to keep his guard up. The season was over and he can let the racing side of himself go for now.
“Please,” he rasped. His voice cracked. “Please… I need you. I’ve been good, I’m a champion, I deserve it. Please use me.”
You slid your hand into his dampening curls, brushing through his hair until he gasped. “Look at the champion now, so needy for me. You’ll take what I give you. Understand?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I understand.”
You tugged his head back gently, making him arch his throat up to you. His pulse thudded under your thumb where you held him, his lips parted, breath shaking. “Open.”
His mouth fell open at once, eyes glassy with need. You traced his lower lip with your thumb, smearing the sweat at the corner of his mouth. “Good boy,” you murmured, the praise making his thighs clench. “My championship winning boy.”
You stood in front of him and pulled down your dress so slowly, deliberately, letting him see your nipples perk at the cold air hitting them, down to the wet heat between your thighs. You knew not to wear underwear tonight, so you can tease him like this. His pupils blew wide. “You want this?” you asked, voice low and sure. Your fingers sliding down from your chest all the way down to your core, teasing Lando and showing him how wet you are.
“Yes,” he whispered, desperate now. “God, yes.”
“Be a good boy and show me.”
Lando leaned forward eagerly, lips parting wider. You sat back down on the bed and guided him in, the heat of his mouth working over you, slinging one of your legs over his shoulder, the slickness of his tongue tracing every inch. He groaned, the sound vibrating against you, and you tightened your hand in his curls, holding him exactly where you wanted him.
“That’s it,” you moaned, rolling your hips forward just enough to make him choke on a gasp of your scent. “Show me you’re mine.”
He moaned, muffled against you, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he fought to please you, to be perfect. You let him up only when you felt his body tremble with effort, your other hand sliding down to his chest, making him shudder at your touch.
“Look at me,” you ordered.
He did, eyes shining, lips wet and swollen.
“You’re mine right now,” you said, voice rough. “Mine to use. Mine to ruin.“
“God,” he choked out. “Please… please let me inside of you. I need it.”
Your smile turned sharp. “Not yet.”
You guided him up and onto the bed, placing your hand in his. He’s breathless with desire and watching you, his eyes brimming with small tears, unsure of what you’re planning on doing next.
“Lay down,” you murmured.
He nodded and obeyed, laying down on the bed behind him. His hands tightened on the sheets like he was fighting the urge to pull you onto him into his arms.
“I’ll stay right here,” he promised. “For as long as you want. Just please, let me touch you. Let me make you feel good. I’ve been dreaming about it, I’ve… God, I’ve ached for it.”
Your thumb brushed his lower lip. His breath hitched. He leaned into your touch like it was oxygen. You gently kissed him, feeling him tense underneath your touch, holding himself back from bringing you in further.
“I love you like this Lando. You’re truly mine, you’re such a good boy,” you brushed your thumb over his cheek. He looked like an absolute wreck, tears prickling his lashes and his cheeks flushed a soft pink.
You kissed him down from his cheek, to his jaw, leaving sloppier kisses the further you went down his body. Your tongue trailed down his chest until you reached the band of his boxers. He shuddered under your touch, knowing how close you were to what he wanted.
“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I need more, I want to feel your mouth on me. Just- don’t stop touching me.” His voice wavered and he looked up at you at the edge of the bed, full of pure, addictive devotion.
You slipped your hand into the front of his boxers, pulling them down, making his cock spring out from the restraint they were causing. Your fingers wrapping around him, hot and hard. His head dropped back, a strangled moan leaving his throat. You stroked him slow at first, then faster, your thumb circling the head, leaking precum. You sank to your knees so you were face to face with his cock, and looked up at him with anticipation.
“Make me come, please I- I’ve earned it,” Lando whispered followed by a broken moan.
You smiled up at him before wrapping your mouth around the head of his cock, slowly bobbing up and down, never breaking eye-contact with him. He looked at you, eyes glassy with need and desire. He’s never wanted you more than right at this moment. You felt him trembling underneath your touch and knew he was close, but you didn’t want this to end. Not yet.
You wanted to celebrate your champion right.
You took your mouth off his cock and climbed on top of him. Grabbing his wrists to pin on either side of him.
“Let me make you feel good, you deserve this,” you told Lando breathlessly. Kissing him gently, you reached for his shirt and started to unbutton, leaving him shirtless and feeling the heat radiating off of his body.
The moment you sank onto his cock, something primal flickered across Lando’s face, a mix of awe and hunger and the kind of need he’d never dared show anyone.
His hands slid up your sides, then down again, slow and purposeful, mapping every curve like he was memorizing her by touch alone.
You sat there for a moment, letting yourself relax around him, then started to slowly grind your hips on him. You let out a gasp and grabbed Lando’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his.
“Oh my god- you feel so- fuck,” you screamed out, as you picked up the pace. Hitting every single sweet spot inside of you. He made you feel so good, no one could ever make you feel this way.
He choked out a quiet, broken groan, his fingers digging into your waist.
“Please…” he whispered, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if he needed something to hold onto. “Fuck—if you keep doing that, I’m not going to be able to last.”
That sent you over the edge. You rocked your hips faster, sloppier knowing that both you and Lando were close to your climax. Lando shuddered violently, letting out another helpless sound, half moan, half gasp as he crushed you closer against him. Your fingers ran through his hair, pulling just enough to make him gasp, and then you felt yourself shudder, release tearing through you.
You both sat there for a moment, breathing in each other’s air. Neither of you wanting to break the silence or move away from each other.
The room was still, the kind of stillness that only came after everything else had burned itself out. The city lights spilled through the hotel windows in soft streaks, painting gold across tangled sheets and bare skin.
Lando laid on his back, one arm draped loosely around you, his breathing finally slowing. For the first time that night. maybe for the first time all weekend, there was no noise. No crowd. No music. No cameras. Just your weight against his chest.
You traced slow, absent patterns over his skin, listening to his heartbeat gradually steady beneath your ear. It was strong. Real. Human. Not the invincible thing everyone else thought it was.
He swallowed hard. “You know, I cried a lot today,” he let out a small laugh. “When they told me I had won over the radio,” he said, softer this time, voice rough in a way that had nothing to do with desire anymore. “When I was on the podium, even when I saw my parents.”
You lifted your head slightly, looking at him.
“But right now?” His breath shuddered. “I feel like if I move, I might truly fall apart. I haven’t felt like this today or ever.”
You slid your hand up to his jaw, thumb brushing gently where tension still lingered. “You don’t have to hold it together with me.”
That did it.
His chest hitched, sharp and sudden. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face into your hair like he could hide there. His grip tightened—not possessive, just needy.
“I worked my whole life for this,” he whispered. “Every sacrifice. Every missed holiday. Every time I told myself next year will be easier.” His voice cracked. “And now it’s over. All my work was worth it. I did it. And I don’t really know who I’m supposed to be tomorrow.”
You kissed his shoulder, slow and grounding. “You’re still you.”
He let out a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “Everyone keeps calling me a champion like it explains everything.” His forehead rested against yours. His eyes were watery now, unguarded.
“But lying here with you?” he said softly. “This is the first moment it actually feels real.”
You brushed away a tear he didn’t even realize had escaped.
“You can just be the man who finally let himself breathe,” you murmured.
His breath trembled again, but this time it eased instead of breaking. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple, gentle, reverent, nothing like the hunger from before.
“Promise me you’ll always be here, please,” he said quietly. Not a request. A truth.
You smiled, settling back and placing a small kiss against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Outside, the city still celebrated his victory.
Inside the hotel room, wrapped in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the championship finally landed, not as pressure, but as peace.
And for the first time since he’d crossed the finish line, he felt like he could finally breathe.
Back in cinemas this weekend, 1952's hit film The Devil's Hairpin starring Lando Norris who would go on to win the Academy Award for Best Actor in this role. Teen drag racer Rebel (Norris) is convinced that he can be the one to conquer a dangerous circuit.
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