Starlight

[starlightskiesss]

Hey everyone. I've always wanted to write fanfics but never got around to it. Specifically right now I'd like to write for lando norris maybe I'll expand one day but for now I'm starting off with this. So if you'd like to send in any requests and stuff like that feel free.

[starlightskiesss]

Hello, are requests still open?

Hi, yes it is.

[starlightskiesss]

I think another bit of potential for the same au where it's them actually on a date this time. What if the scenario is that reader suddenly realizes how cute landos mannerisms are and keeps getting flustered? E.g. the date is at a café, lando is eating a cupcake, frosting ends up in the corner of his mouth and reader stares a bit too long when he tries to wipe it off.

Like just a really cliche, cute fluffy fic where lando seemimgly makes it his mission to fluster reader lol or you can choose to make him a bit oblivious and reader is suffering in silence too!

P.s it's okay if this is a separate au from the pr!reader

Lando Norris x PR Manager!Reader

flirty Lando | slow burn | fluff | age gap | flustered reader

author’s note: I wanted to do a part 2 just to see what reader is like when she's not being professional with Lando. hope you like this anon I tried my best 🫶

The café is quiet in that mid-morning way—soft chatter, cups clinking, sunlight spilling across the table like it’s been carefully placed there for atmosphere. You picked it for privacy. You tell yourself that’s the only reason your pulse is slightly annoying.

He arrives exactly six minutes after you.

Not late. Not early. Lando somehow manages to be both punctual and still make it feel like he’s showing up just for you.

The bell above the door rings.

You look up immediately this time.

He spots you, and there it is—that easy grin. Except it softens halfway through, like the moment he sees you, he forgets he was supposed to be anything else. He walks over, hands running through his curls, shoulders slightly raised like he’s trying not to look too eager.

“Hi,” he says.

You nod. “Hi.”

He sits opposite you, but instead of immediately leaning back like he usually does, he stays slightly forward. Like he’s closer than necessary on purpose but pretending he isn’t.

“You got here early,” he says.

“So did you,” you reply.

“I got here on time,” he corrects, smiling.

You almost roll your eyes. Almost.

A waitress comes over, and you order quickly—iced coffee.

He watches you order like he’s studying you.

“What?” you ask.

“You always order that?” he says.

"Yes, why?"

"Just keeping track of what you like" he says simply.

"Oh..." That was... sweet, no one else really cared about your favorite order, let alone mentally keeping track of things that you like.

He orders a cappuccino and—of course—a cupcake. Vanilla. And insists you have a donut which he ordered for you.

When the drinks arrive, he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin slightly tilted like he’s settling in. And then he starts talking.

Not about racing. Not about HR. About something stupid—something about a team meeting where someone tried to explain tyre strategy using a cooking analogy and got absolutely roasted for it.

You laugh once before you can stop yourself. His eyes flick up immediately.

“That was a laugh,” he says.

“It was not.”

“It was. I heard it.”

“You’re imagining things.”

He smiles like he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying but also doesn’t care.

And then he takes a bite of the cupcake.

Immediately—

Frosting. Right at the corner of his mouth. You see it instantly. And you make the fatal mistake of looking too long. He keeps talking, unaware. Something about the team meeting earlier and how awkward HR looked when he requested “formal disclosure procedures.”

You’re not listening anymore. Because he licks his thumb. Misses the spot. Still there. You exhale quietly through your nose. He notices. Of course he does.

“What?” he asks, mid-sentence.

“Nothing.”

Too fast.

His brows lift. “You always say ‘nothing’ like it’s a full sentence.”

“It is a full sentence.”

He leans back slightly. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

“Observing what?” he presses, amused.

You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you properly. Waiting. Patient in a way that makes it worse. And the frosting is still there.

“Lando,” you say, trying for neutral, “you have—”

“I know,” he interrupts.

You pause.

He tilts his head. “I’m enjoying this.”

“You’re enjoying what.”

“You looking at me like that.”

“I am not looking at you like anything.”

He hums, unconvinced. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward again and takes another bite.

This time, he doesn’t clean it. On purpose.

He just sits there, chewing slightly, eyes on you like he’s waiting.

You blink. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“You know what.”

He shrugs lightly. “I don’t.”

You exhale. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I?” he says, wiping his mouth… very deliberately everywhere except the corner again.

You catch it. He sees you catch it. A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“You wanna fix it for me?" he asks

Your throat tightens slightly. “I don’t.”

He leans in a fraction.

“You do,” he says softly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You reach for your coffee to buy yourself a second. Bad move. Your fingers brush the cup. You don’t even realize how distracted you are until he speaks again.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s enjoying how quickly you’re losing control of the conversation.

You glare at him over the rim of your cup.

He looks delighted.

“Stop smiling like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re winning something.”

“I am,” he says simply.

You pause.

“That’s not how conversations work.”

“It is when I like the person I’m talking to,” he replies.

That lands. Annoyingly. You look down at the table immediately, because looking at him feels dangerous.

“So,” he says lightly, dragging the word out, “you’re not going to fix it?”

You look up. He taps the corner of his own mouth again. Your brain betrays you instantly. You reach forward before thinking. His hand lifts slightly—not stopping you this time, just hovering there like he’s waiting to see if you’ll actually do it. Your thumb brushes his skin,soft and warm. Too familiar for how new this is.

“There,” you say quietly.

You start to pull away.

He catches your wrist gently.

Not tight. Just enough to stop you from disappearing too fast. Your breath catches immediately. Lando places a soft kiss to the back of your hand. His thumb moves slightly against your wrist—barely there, but enough that your brain short-circuits for half a second.

“You’re very distracting,” you say, quieter than intended. His smile shift, less teasing now,more pleased.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

You regret everything immediately.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did a little bit.”

“I did not.”

He finally lets go—but only so he can lean back, still watching you like he’s memorising your reactions.

“You’re very easy to fluster,” he says.

You cross your arms. “You’re just... doing that on purpose”

“I haven’t even done anything.”

“It's not nice to lie”

He laughs under his breath, then takes another bite of the cupcake—slower this time, deliberately neat, like he’s trying not to give you another excuse. Except he still looks at you while he does it. Which is worse. Because now he’s not even trying to hide it. And you realize, with growing frustration— It’s not the frosting. It’s him.

The way he looks at you like he’s quietly entertained by every reaction you try to hide. The way he knows exactly when you’re about to look away and waits for it.

The way he keeps doing things just slightly too intentionally, just to see if you’ll react again.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you say finally.

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he admits easily. “I am.”

Then, softer—like it’s not a game anymore:

“Mostly because I like seeing you like this.”

You freeze.

“Like what.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully now.

“Human” he says.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes your chest go tight. Because you realize you’ve barely been thinking about control for the last ten minutes. Just him,just this.

You stare at him.

“That’s your explanation?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “You try very hard to act unaffected.”

“I am unaffected.”

He smiles softly. “You’re blushing says otherwise.”

There’s no teasing in it this time. Just certainty.

And that makes it worse.

You look down at the table again, trying to recover, but that’s when you feel it.

His foot nudges yours under the table.

Light. Barely there. You assume it’s accidental. Then it happens again. Slower this time. Intentional. You look up immediately. He’s sipping his cappuccino like he’s never done anything wrong in his life.

“Your foot’s in my space,” you say carefully.

“Oh.” He glances down briefly. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

He hums thoughtfully. Doesn’t move it.

Instead, his foot slides just slightly against yours. Your breath stutters.

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks mildly.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He smiles into his cup. You try to ignore it. You really do. But then his knee shifts too, brushing against yours under the table. It lingers this time. Not pressing. Just there. Close.

Like a quiet reminder.

“You’re very touchy today,” you mutter.

“Am I?” His voice is calm, almost innocent.

“Yes.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t like it?”

That question lands heavier than expected. You hesitate half a second too long. And he sees it. His expression softens slightly. His knee presses just a fraction closer.

“I didn’t say that,” you reply.

He sets his cup down carefully.

Then, slowly, he reaches across the table again. Not for your hand this time. His fingers brush your forearm. Light. Testing. You freeze. He pauses. Watching your reaction. When you don’t pull away, his fingers slide a little further—tracing from your wrist up toward your elbow. Not grabbing. Not gripping. Just brushing.

Your skin feels hypersensitive everywhere he touches.

“You tense up,” he murmurs softly.

“I do not.”

“You do.” His thumb moves in a slow, absentminded line along your arm. “Right there.”

He taps lightly near your wrist where your pulse jumps.

Your heart betrays you again. A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s because of me,” he says quietly.

You swallow. He leans in slightly, elbows back on the table, but his fingers don’t leave your arm. Instead, they move lower again. Back to your wrist.

Then—without breaking eye contact—he turns your hand over. His thumb traces across your palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“And you’re flustered,” he replies gently.

His thumb draws lazy patterns against your skin like he’s mapping your reactions.

He watches your breathing change. Watches your shoulders rise and fall quicker. Watches you try to hold it together.

“You keep reacting,” he says softly. “I'm barely doing anything."

He slides his hand from yours entirely. You almost sag in relief. Almost. Because then he shifts his chair closer. Your thighs brush.

His arm rests along the back of your chair.

Not touching you. You look at him sharply.

“You’re crowding me.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He leans just a little closer. Now you can feel his warmth.

“You could move,” he says quietly.

You don’t. His lips twitch.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your breath is shallow now. His fingers slide from the back of your chair to your shoulder. Then lower. Tracing down the length of your arm again. He watches every single micro-expression. Like he’s collecting them. Like he likes seeing how much power he has over you.

“You keep doing that,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?”

“This.”

He finally lets his fingers rest at your waist. The contact feels louder than it should.

“You haven’t told me to stop,” he says gently.

You look at him. And for a second, the teasing drops completely. There’s something softer there. Something curious. Almost cautious. You exhale slowly.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you admit before you can think.

His entire expression changes.Not smug.

Not victorious. Just warm. His thumb moves slightly at your waist. Slowly and carefully. Like he’s savoring it now instead of testing you.

“That’s what I was checking,” he murmurs.

“Checking?”

“Yeah.” His forehead almost brushes yours now. “If you actually wanted me to.”

Your heart stumbles again. His hand slides from your waist back to your wrist, fingers threading through yours.

“You react,” he says softly. “But you never pull away.”

“You like seeing me flustered,” you say.

“I do.”

“And you like knowing you’re the one causing it.”

He smiles slowly.

“Very much.”

Then his thumb lifts to your chin.

Tilts it up gently.

“So what happens,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “if I keep going?”

Your pulse spikes. But you don’t move away. And that’s all the answer he needs.

[starlightskiesss]

Hello ! That fic was really cute, author! If possible, can you add a read more tag, though?

Their dynamic was really cute too, I liked that she stood by her principles and made sure that he went to HR first before even entertaining a date lol

Looking forward to more pathetic lando from you, it was really well written!

Hi! Thank you so much 🤍 If you have any more ideas related or unrelated, feel free to to make more requests. I just added the read more tag!

[starlightskiesss]

Hello are you open to writing darker fics with angst or are you mostly comfortable with fluff? My idea was Lando pining for an older girl (5-7 yrs) who was hired as his p.a or pr manager (either works) but she thinks that he's too young and he's trying your convince her to like him back. The general vibe i was looking for was mainly pathetic lando × workaholic, serious reader. Lemme know if this idea works, I have others if not!!

Lando Norris x PR Manager!Reader

pathetic Lando | slow burn | angst | age gap | PR chaos

SUMMARY: He’s your driver. That’s all he’s supposed to be. But Lando keeps staying too late, talking too softly, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And you keep pretending you don’t notice…even when it starts becoming impossible.

author’s note: first time writing!! be nice pls feedback is appreciated <3 thank you for the request anon!! i really hope I did your idea justice 🫶

~~~~~~~

“You’re late.”

“I’m three minutes late.”

“You’re three minutes and forty-two seconds late.”

Lando drops into the chair across from your desk and stares at you like you’ve personally offended him.

“You time me?”

“I schedule you.”

“That’s worse.”

You don’t look up from your laptop. “You have media in twelve minutes. If you’re not downstairs in five, I’m sending someone to drag you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You finally glance at him. “Try me.”

He grins. There it is. That stupid grin that makes interns trip over themselves and charms the whole paddock. You don’t react, that’s new for him.

He tilts his head. “Did I do something to offend you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you act like I’m a problem you have to solve ”

“You are a problem I have to solve.”

He laughs, amused at how serious you always were.

“You’re harsh,” he says.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’ve never laughed at one of my jokes.”

“That’s not in my job description.”

“Maybe it should be.”

You close your laptop. “Downstairs. Now.”

He stands, but he lingers at the door.

“You know,” he says casually, “most people like me.”

“Most people don’t manage you.”

That one makes him pause.

He doesn’t understand yet why he keeps coming back to you. You don't bother entertaining him.

It starts subtly. He begins staying after meetings. Everyone filters out, everyone but him, he’s still leaning against the table while you gather papers. 

“You don’t have to hover,” you say without looking at him.

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re hovering.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

“That would be unproductive.”

He smiles slower this time. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're incapable of feelings ”

You zip your bag. “Feelings complicate things.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes that’s the point.”

You pretend not to hear that.

The first real shift happens after a race weekend in Barcelona. He finishes P5. Solid, but not what he wanted. In the motorhome, the engineers leave. The cameras are gone. He drops into the couch and stares at the ceiling.

“I could’ve done better,” he mutters.

“You executed the strategy correctly.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You hesitate before sitting across from him.

“What do you mean?”

He glances at you, surprised you asked.

“I don’t know. I just… I hate feeling like I’m almost there but not.”

“You’re improving.”

“That’s such a PR answer.”

“It’s true.”

He watches you for a long second.

“Do you ever just say what you feel?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

He sits up.

“I think it’s relevant.”

You hold his gaze,calm and steady.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you believe in me.”

“I do.”

He blinks.

“You’ve never said that.”

“You’ve never needed me to.”

“I do.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. You clear your throat. “You’re one of the most talented drivers on the grid.”

“That’s still professional.”

You stand. “Because that’s what I am.”

His eyes follow you.

“And what if I don’t want you to be just that?”

You turn slowly. 

“That’s not your choice.”

After that, he pushes more openly.

During a sponsor shoot, he leans closer than necessary.

“You know,” he murmurs while cameras adjust lighting, “you’d look good in one of these team jackets.”

“I already have one.”

“I mean mine.”

You stare at him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re being inappropriate.”

He smiles faintly. “You like using that word.”

“It fits.”

“You know what else fits?” he smirks.

“Don’t.”

He studies your expression.

“You feel it too.”

“No.”

“That was too fast.”

“It’s still no.”

He laughs, but it’s strained now.

“You don’t even hesitate.”

“Because I’ve already thought about it.”

His smile fades.

“And?”

“And it’s not happening.”

He swallows.

“Why?”

“You’re younger.”

“By five years. Not fifteen.”

“It matters.”

“Only because you want it to.”

“It matters because you're my client.”

“I want to be more.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“You treat me like I’m a kid.”

“I treat you like you’re my client.”

“And that’s all I am to you?”

You don’t answer.

He searches your face.

“Say it,” he challenges quietly. “Say you don’t feel anything.”

You hold his gaze.

“I don’t feel anything.”

The lie tastes bitter.

He nods slowly.

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t look convinced.He tries again two weeks later. It’s late, the paddock is mostly empty. You’re reviewing revised sponsor terms when he steps inside and closes the door.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m working.”

“You always are.”

“Pretty much yeah that's usually what a job is .”

He moves closer.

“Can I take you for dinner.”

You stand immediately. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re crossing a line.”

“Then move it.”

Your breath falters.

“You think this is a game?”

“No,” he says, softer now. “I want to go out with you and you're not giving me a chance”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I haven’t.”

“You will.”

His voice drops.

“You really think I’m that shallow?”

“I think you’re young.”

“And I think you’re scared.”

That hits.

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why won’t you even consider it?”

“Because if this goes wrong, I lose my job.”

“And if it goes right?”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He steps closer until there’s barely space between you.

“One date”

“No”

It comes out immediately, too fast, too automatic, like your body is answering before your brain can catch up.

He doesn’t move away, he just stays there, close enough that you can’t ignore the fact that he’s waiting for something from you that you keep refusing to name.

“You didn’t even think about it,” he says quietly.

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

A pause.

“You’re lying again.” he says

Your jaw tightens. “I’m not lying.”

“You are,” he says, not accusing, just certain.

You step back immediately, like distance can fix everything.

“Just let it go Lando” you say, voice rising slightly. "pushing me isn't gonna turn my answer into a yes.”

“I’m not pushing you,” he replies.

“You are standing one step away from me and asking me out.”

“I’m asking,” he corrects gently. “Not forcing.”

The distinction makes you angrier.

“Do you hear yourself?” you snap. “Do you understand what this looks like? I’m your PR manager. I’m responsible for your image. For your sponsors. For your career decisions in public. And you want to - what? Complicate that because you’re bored?”

His expression changes instantly, hurt in a way he tries to hide too late.

“I’m not bored,” he says quietly.

“Then what is it?”

A beat.

And then he says it — simple, unguarded, like he’s tired of pretending you don’t already know.

“I like you.”

That alone makes everything go quiet for a second too long.

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re thinking carefully - because your brain kind of stalls.

Then you recover too quickly.

“You can't,” you say.

It comes out flat. Like you’re shutting a door before it can open properly.

He nods once.

“Okay.”

He says without any argument. And that bothers you more than if he’d pushed.

You look back at your screen, but you’re not reading anything anymore.

“we'll work on it” he says.

“There is nothing to work on Lando ”

A pause.

Then he shrugs slightly,

"We'll see"

You don’t know what to even say to that.So you default to what you always do.

“Goodbye Lando ”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. Then just nods and leaves.

The next few days you actively tried to avoid Lando, which was hard because well, he was everywhere, but you needed time to sort through this. To snap back. On your third day of mission avoiding Lando, you hear his laugh, you turn to catch a glimpse of him when you see it. One of the newer staff. You notice her laughing with him near the garage. It’s nothing serious. Nothing you can even justify being annoyed about. But you still feel it. Which annoys you more. You’re standing nearby pretending to check emails, but you’re not actually reading anything.He says something. She laughs. He smiles back. And something tightens in your chest before you can stop it. You look away first immediately. Like that fixes it, it doesn’t.

Later that night, he finds you still in the paddock office.

“You’re still here?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe.

“I’ve got work.”

“You always say that.”

You don’t look up. “Because I always do.”

He steps in but doesn’t sit.

Just stays standing there like he’s not sure where he fits in the room anymore.

“Are you okay?” he says.

You pause for half a second.

“I'm fine”

“Don't give me that”

You finally look at him.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to talk to me”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He sighs.

“Right."

A pause.

“You didn’t like seeing me talk to her earlier.”

That hits too directly. You immediately shut it down.

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t react to the speed of it. Just watches you.

“You do that thing,” he says.

“What thing.”

“Say no too fast.”

You let out a short breath, annoyed now.

“Lando, don’t start reading into everything.”

“I’m not reading into it,” he says. “I’m just… observing.”

That makes you stand up.

A bit too quickly.

“ I don't wanna do this tonight lando.”

“Do what” he says, a bit sharper now.

“Cross lines that are not supposed to be crossed."

“I'm just asking you why you look like that when I talk to other people.”

That stops you for a second but you recover quickly.

“I don’t look like anything.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Okay, sure.”

A pause. Then he adds, softer again

“You’re allowed to just say you don’t like it, you know.”

“I don’t like what?”

“Me talking to other women ”

You don't answer. But your silence was all he needed to know that you didn't like it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

"Just leave Lando I'm not in the mood"

“I’m not trying to make your life harder,” he says.

“I know.”

A pause. Then he looks at you properly.

“I just don’t think I can pretend I don’t feel something anymore.”

That hits you in the chest and you don't like it because you can’t answer it cleanly.

"Just go on one date with me please"

He asks quietly. You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you shut your laptop a bit too firmly.

"I don't understand why you're doing this ”

“I told you why.”

"You're unbelievable" she snaps

“You’ve been like this all week,” he says.

“Like what.”

“ Avoiding me, barely talking to me. Then acting like I’m doing something wrong just by being around.”

You let out a breath through your nose, already tired.

“You are doing something wrong.”

That makes him pause. Not offended, just confused.

“What?”

You stand now. Because sitting down makes it feel contained and it isn’t contained anymore.

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, voice tightening. “This whole… thing you keep doing. Acting like it doesn’t matter what the consequences are.”

“I do know the consequences,” he says.

“No, you don’t,” you cut in immediately. “You know them in theory. Not in reality.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him in.

“You think it’s just you,” you continue, words coming faster now. “But it’s not just you. It’s me. It’s my job. It’s my entire career if this gets out and someone twists it the wrong way.”

He goes quiet at that. You keep going anyway, because stopping now feels worse.

“I am older than you,” you say, voice breaking slightly at the edge of control. “I manage you. I am literally responsible for keeping your image intact and you think I can just—what? Date you and nothing happens?”

“It’s not like that,” he tries.

“It is like that!” you snap, finally losing the careful tone. “To everyone else it is. To PR. To sponsors. To the paddock. To your team. Do you understand how fast that turns into a problem that I carry?”

He steps forward slightly. Not close enough to touch you. But enough that it registers.

“I don’t care about all of them,I'll be by your side I'll protect you just give me one chance” he pleads.

“You don’t get it,” you say. “You’re not the one who loses everything if this goes wrong.”

His expression tightens slightly at that.

“I’m not asking you to risk everything” he says.

“You are, by not stopping” you interrupt.

That’s the moment it tips. Because he exhales like something inside him finally shifts from patience to frustration.

“I did stop,” he says, a bit sharper now. “I backed off. I gave you space. I did everything you wanted and you still look at me like I’m doing something wrong just for existing near you.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It is what it feels like.”

The silence after that is heavier. And when you speak again, your voice is lower, strained.

“This is exactly why it can’t happen,” you say. “Because you don’t even see the weight of it. You think feelings are enough.”

“They are enough for me,” he says immediately. You shake your head once, like you can physically push that away.

“No,” you say, voice tightening again. “No, they’re not. Not here. Not like this.”

He steps closer this time.

“Then what is it going to take?” he asks. “Because I’ve been here. I’ve waited. I’ve backed off. I’ve tried doing it your way and you still—”

“You’re too young for me,” you cut in suddenly.

It comes out harsher than intended. But it lands. He stills. You push forward before you lose the thread.

“I have to think about every single consequence,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “Every headline. Every sponsor meeting. Every person who will say I’m unprofessional or worse. And you get to just—want me without that weight.”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say immediately, and it almost breaks there. “I know it’s not fair,but it's the truth"

After a long beat he speaks up again

"So what will it take for me to earn you?"

He asks,eyes almost looking hopeless.

"You can't, you can't assure me that I won't lose my career you can't assure me that I won't get torn apart just for being romantically involved with you, it would just be instant destruction for me."

"And if I could?"

"Could what?"

"Assure you that no matter what happens between us you're career will remain untouched. Then would you date me?"

You pause "You can't do that though"

"That wasn't the question"

The room feels smaller all of a sudden.

“You’re asking me to gamble my entire life on a hypothetical,” you say, keeping your voice even, controlled. “On feelings.”

“I’m asking you if that’s the only thing stopping you.”

“It’s not the only thing.” You look at him properly then, and that’s your mistake. His hair’s messy from pulling at it, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with jet lag. “You’re younger than me. You’re my driver. I manage your schedule, your image, your interviews. If this goes wrong, it doesn’t just go wrong privately. It explodes.”

“And if it doesn’t go wrong?”

“You don’t know that it won’t.”

“You don’t know that it will.”

You exhale sharply, frustrated. “You’ll be fine, Lando. You’ll still have your seat. Your sponsors. Your fans. If they find out you’re seeing someone older? They’ll call you lucky. If they find out I crossed a professional boundary? I’m done. Blacklisted. Finished.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I’d let that happen?”

“You wouldn’t get a choice.”

Silence stretches between you. He steps closer, not touching you, just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“If I spoke to the team,” he says quietly. “If I went to HR myself. If I made it clear this is something I’m pursuing, not you. If I put it in writing that you’ve never encouraged it, that you’ve tried to shut it down every time. If I take the risk publicly so you don’t have to.”

You stare at him. “You’d tell them.”

“Yes.”

“Before anything even happens?”

“Yes.”

“You’d risk the media circus? The headlines?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Your throat feels tight. “Why?”

He laughs softly, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Because I’m already miserable. You think this is fun for me? You think I enjoy you looking at me like I’m some kid with a crush?” His voice wavers, just slightly. “I know what this is costing you. I know you’re scared. I am too.”

You swallow. “Then stop.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He nods, once, like he expected that. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Then I’ll do it properly. I’ll speak to the team. I’ll make sure there’s a clear disclosure. I’ll request you get reassigned if that’s what makes you feel safe. I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes with it.” His voice is steady now, resolved. “And if after all that you still don’t want me, I’ll stop. Completely. No more pushing. No more lingering. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just tell me it’s not because you’re afraid.”

Your composure cracks.

“Do you have any idea what this looks like from my side?” you burst out, the words sharp and uneven, nothing like the calm, measured tone you’ve perfected over the years.

He doesn’t interrupt you. That almost makes it worse.

“I worked for this,” you continue, voice shaking now, not from anger but from something deeper. “I worked through internships where I wasn’t paid, through bosses who didn’t take me seriously, through being the youngest woman in every room. I built this reputation from nothing. And one rumour—one headline—and it’s gone.”

He swallows but stays quiet.

“You get to be impulsive,” you say, softer now, more honest. “You get to follow what you want because you’re talented and indispensable and the team revolves around you. I don’t have that protection. If this blows up, they won’t say you chased me. They’ll say I blurred boundaries. They’ll say I was unprofessional. They’ll say I used access.”

His jaw tightens. “I would never let them paint you like that.”

“You wouldn’t get to control the narrative,” you snap, then immediately shake your head. “That’s the point. You don’t understand. I’m older than you. That alone changes how people see this. Five years isn’t dramatic to us, but to the outside world? I’m the irresponsible one. I’m the one who should’ve known better.”

The silence stretches.

You drag a hand over your face, frustrated at yourself for even letting him see this much.

“And it’s not just my job,” you admit quietly. “It’s my family. My parents already think this industry is unstable. They think I’m one bad season away from unemployment. If this turns into a scandal, they’ll look at me like I proved them right.”

His expression softens completely.

“And you,” you say, looking at him properly now, “you’re… you. You’re still figuring things out. You’re still growing. You still have so much ahead of you. I don’t want to be the person who complicates that.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” you insist, but your voice is weaker now. “What if you wake up in a year and realize you wanted someone easier? Someone who doesn’t overthink every single thing? Someone your age?”

“I don’t want easier.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I know what I feel.”

You let out a brittle laugh. “Feelings aren’t protection.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “But they’re real.”

You look at him then—really look at him—and he doesn’t look reckless. He looks terrified. Determined. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

“I’m not rejecting you because I don’t feel anything,” you confess before you can stop yourself.

The words hang between you.

His breath stutters. “You don’t?”

You close your eyes briefly. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be this upset if I didn’t. I wouldn’t be losing sleep over this if it didn’t matter.”

His voice drops. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for it?”

“Because you’re the only one who can afford to.”

That hits him. You see it. You step closer without meaning to, your voice lowering. “If I let myself want this, I lose my objectivity. I lose my guard. And if something goes wrong, I don’t just lose you. I lose everything I built.”

He doesn’t argue. He just says, very softly, “Then let me carry some of that.”

“You can’t carry my career.”

“No,” he admits. “But I can make sure you’re not the one taking the fall. I can go to the team. I can disclose it before anything happens. I can put it in writing that you’ve shut me down every time. I can make it clear this was me. My choice.”

Your heart pounds.

“You’d risk that?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“Even if they advise against it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it damages your image?”

His answer doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

You search his face for arrogance, for carelessness. There’s none. Just sincerity and something fragile underneath it.

“And if I still said no?” you whisper.

His throat works. “Then I’d stop. I wouldn’t make your life harder. I just… I need to know it’s not because you think I won’t step up.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“You don’t get how hard this is for me,” you say, quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve spent years being the serious one. The responsible one. I don’t fall for drivers. I don’t blur lines. I don’t risk stability for something that might fall apart under pressure.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being responsible,” he says gently. “I’m asking you to let me be responsible too.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

You look at him,this man who everyone assumes is impulsive, playful, unserious - and you see how carefully he’s choosing every word. How he hasn’t once raised his voice. How he’s giving you an out even while he’s standing here baring his pride.

“I’m scared,” you admit finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to lose everything.”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he says honestly. “But I can promise that I won’t let you be alone in it.”

Silence fills the room again, but it’s different now.

“If you’re serious,” you say slowly, “you talk to the team first. Not after. Before. You make it clear I didn’t pursue you. That I’ve tried to keep it professional.”

“I will.”

“This is such a bad idea,” you murmur.

“Probably,” he agrees.

You study him for a long moment.

“You don’t get to be careless with me,” you say softly. “If I let you in, you don’t get to wake up one day and decide it was just a crush.”

“It’s not.”

“You can’t be so sure.”

“I am,” he insists quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

Something inside you finally give, not because he pushed, not because he cornered you, but because he stayed. Because he listened. Because he understood what this would cost you and offered to shoulder it anyway.

“Talk to them,” you repeat.

His eyes flicker with something fragile and bright. “And when I do?”

You hold his gaze.

“Then we try,” you whisper.