the worst part - ln1 - infertility
❀ pairing: lando norris x fem!reader
❀ word count: 1.4k
❀ summary: after struggling with loss and infertility, lando reminds his girlfriend that they still have a future together
❀ warnings: talks of miscarriage and infertility. this story may be upsetting for some readers
❀ authors note: please don't read this if the themes upset you. look after yourselves
❀ infertility: a condition where a person or couple cannot conceive after a year or more of regular, unprotected sex; can have many causes affecting reproductive health
endurance masterlist
She had told herself that it was just a baby. A small, sleepy thing bundled in cream knit and snuggled in blankets, warm, real and alive.
She was halfway through laughing at something Lando said when she saw it. The sound died in her throat so quickly it almost hurt.
Lando noticed immediately. He always did.
“What?” He asked softly, smile fading as his eyes tracked her gaze.
And then he saw it too.
A pram parked near the hospitality doors. A couple leaning over it, cooing. The tiniest sock she had ever seen dangling from the edge like it might fall off and float away.
Her fingers tightened around the paper cup in her hands.
“Oh,” Lando breathed,
She hated that sound. She hated that he knew what she was thinking about.
“I’m okay,” she lied automatically.
She wasn’t. Not even close. Suddenly she wasn’t in the paddock anymore, it was like she was somewhere colder.
White walls. Bleach and antiseptic. The hum of fluorescent lights and a doctor who wouldn’t look at her for more than three seconds at a time.
There had been a screen and a deafening silence. Then the words that still echoed sometimes in the worst moments, when she let her guard down.
I’m sorry.
That was all it had taken. Two words to split her life clean in half.
She blinked hard, dragging herself back into the present like she was clawing her way through the thick fog.
Lando’s hand found hers, warm and grounding. His thumb brushed across her knuckles like he was trying to smooth something invisible away.
She swallowed and forced a smile. “I said I’m okay.”
He didn’t argue. That was the thing about Lando. He never pushed when the cracks showed. He just stayed close enough that she could reach him when she needed to.
But that day, even that felt too much.
She could hear the baby making small noises and it hit her straight in the chest like a physical blow.
Her lungs forgot how to work.
Because it wasn’t just the miscarriage anymore.
It was the months after. The waiting. The quiet hope she tried not to feel.
It was the negative tests hidden at the bottom of the bin. It was tracking cycles like a second job. It was holding her breath every month only to feel the familiar drop of disappointment settle heavy in her stomach.
I was the way time kept moving for everyone else.
She had thought she was doing better.
Months of pretending had almost convinced her. Until then.
“I need some air,” she said quickly.
Lando didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah okay.”
He didn’t ask if she wanted him to come. He just moved with her, guiding without touching too tightly, like she might shatter if he did.
They slipped out a side door into the cool afternoon.
The paddock noise dulled instantly, replaced by distant engines and the hum of generators. The sky was pale, the kind of washed-out blue that made everything feel a little unreal.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“I hate this,” she whispered. The words surprised even her. She hadn’t said them out loud before.
Lando kept quiet, so she kept talking.
“I hate that it still does this to me. I hate that I see a baby and suddenly it’s like–” her voice cracked, “Like I’m right back there again.”
She remembered gripping the edge of the bed so hard her fingers went numb. She remembered the way Lando had held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
But there was more now. A quieter grief layered over the first.
“I thought losing them was the worst part,” she admitted shakily. “I didn’t realise that the worst part wasn’t over.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“The trying,” she whispered. “The hoping. The waiting every month just to be disappointed again.”
Her throat tightened painfully.
“I kept thinking next time would be different. That maybe my body just needed time. Maybe it would happen again and we’d get our chance.”
She laughed brokenly. “But it never did.”
Lando exhaled slowly, like the air weighed something.
She kept staring at the ground.
“I couldn't ever be happy for people properly.” Her mouth trembled. “I saw babies and I just thought about ours. And the ones that never came.”
That was the part she almost never said. The quiet infertility grief that no one saw because there was nothing visible to mourn. No hospital room. No announcement. Just an absence that stretched on and on.
“I thought about what they would’ve looked like. If they would’ve had your smile.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “Or your curls.”
A fragile sound left him - something between a laugh and a sob.
“I thought about how old they would be now,” she continued.” What they would be doing. If they’d like racing or if they’d hate it.”
Her throat closed. “And then I remember that they aren’t here. And that I don't know if they ever will be.”
A bone pressing silence fell between the two of them. Thick and heavy.
For a moment she thought she might crumble right there on the asphalt. That the grief would finally win and split her open where everyone could see.
But then Lando stepped closer. He reached for her slowly, like he was asking for permission without using words.
And then she broke. The sob came out ugly and sudden, tearing its way up from somewhere deep and buried.
She buried her face in his chest, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m so sorry,”
“For what?” He murmured instantly, hand cradling the back of her head.
“For ruining today. For still being like this. For–” Her voice shattered. “For not being able to give you a baby.”
The words fell out before she could stop them.
The one fear she had never said aloud. The one that lived in the darkest corners of her mind and whispered when she was alone.
She felt him go completely still. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her. There was something in his expression, something almost angry.
“Don’t,” he said, voice rough.
She blinked, startled.
“Don’t you ever say that again.”
“But it’s true,” she whispered. “I couldn’t–”
“No.” His hands tightened on her arms, not hurting her but grounding her. “That wasn’t your fault.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“But my body–”
“Your body didn’t fail me,” he said, firmer now. “Or us.”
His thumb brushed under her eye, catching a tear before it could fall.
“We lost a baby,” he said quietly. “And we’ve been hurting ever since. That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”
She couldn’t breathe. He said it so simply, like it was obvious.
But the guilt had been living inside her for so long that hearing him say it felt almost unreal.
“I think about them too,” he admitted softly.
Her heart twisted.
“I’ve seen kids and wondered,” he continued. “All the time, what they’d be like if they’d be loud. If they’d steal my hoodies. If they’d roll their eyes at me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek and he didn’t even seem to notice.
“But do you know what I don’t think?” He said.
She shook her head, barely breathing.
“I don’t think you took that away from me.”
The words landed somewhere deep in her chest, cracking something open.
“I didn’t lose a future,” he whispered. “I just got a different one. And you’re still in it.”
Her lips trembled. The last fragile piece of control inside her snapped. She sobbed into him, shoulders shaking, every ounce of grief that she had bottled up, finally spilled over. Every quiet breakdown, every forced smile, every moment she pretended she was okay when she wasn’t. The pain of knowing that she couldn't give them the child they were both so desperate for.
He held her through all of it.
His hands stayed warm and steady on her back, like he was memorising the shape of her pain so she didn’t have to carry it alone.
Eventually, her breaths evened out into shaky inhales, hiccuping remnants of sobs catching in her throat.
He pulled her back into his arms and held her through the quiet storm that followed, every ounce of grief, every silent negative test, every moment she had felt like time was leaving them behind.
They stayed outside until the air felt easier to breathe.
Her tears slowed, then stopped, leaving only the dull ache behind her ribs, the kind that never fully disappeared, but didn’t feel quite so sharp when she wasn’t carrying it alone.
Lando didn’t rush them back inside. He just stayed beside her, their fingers loosely intertwined, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against her skin like he was reminding her that he was there and she was safe.
© rosietoesf1 — please do not repost, translate, or copy without permission ♡
@moonlightphilosopher, @drs-and-daisies, @butchoscar, @nickie-amore, @papaya-on-top, @cedartwig, @todoyaexiste, @dreaming-starlet, @chronic-pain-and-positivity, @tarenm, @thisdoesntexsist-cherry, @cs-jj-firebug, @engelsmoment, @treehouse-mouse, @moonlitelaine, @melancholymoonlightsworld, @kebsf1shit, @thecraziestfox, @marywantsttobattle, @chezze-its, @celiaisacaterpillar, @tatertot101xx, @avidcreep, @elisemeetsthesun, @spooky-librarian-ghost, @thepenskefiles, @whump-loverz, @ilocuras24, @peachy-pg, @rosiebear, @jarofstarsxx
