🧜🏻♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴀ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ🧜🏻♀️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ + ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ
ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛᴏxɪᴄ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ
ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴏꜰᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ
The confirmation came quietly, in the sterile privacy of a clinic in Nice, with the ocean humming just beyond the window. The doctor’s words were clinical, concise, spoken in a tone softened by habit, but the air in the room felt heavier than stone. (Y/n) didn’t speak. She nodded. Thanked them. Walked out with the paper in her hand and a silent storm blooming in her chest.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t smile.
She simply existed—as if her body had detached from her thoughts, from her fears, from the life it now held within it.
The silence carried all the way back to Monaco.
Lando knew before she said a word. She stepped into their home, and he looked up from the kitchen counter, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. Just walked up to her slowly, one cautious breath at a time, and reached for the envelope in her hand.
She let him take it.
He read it once, then again. His jaw tightened. But when his eyes lifted to meet hers, they didn’t blaze. They didn’t burn. For the first time in months, there was no fire, only something startlingly human. Fragile, even.
“You’re pregnant,” he said, as though saying it aloud would make it real.
She nodded once.
A silence lingered, thick but not suffocating.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached out. His palm landed flat against her stomach—not possessive, not demanding. Just a touch. Bare. Careful.
And she didn’t flinch.
From that day forward, something shifted in Lando. The storm he had once worn like second skin began to settle, folding inward until it resembled stillness. He no longer gripped her too tightly. His voice lost its edge. His presence, though still vast and consuming, no longer bled menace. Instead, he became… gentle.
He brought her tea in the morning before she asked for it. He filled her bedside drawer with vitamins, with small handwritten reminders tucked between them. He adjusted his schedule so he could be home longer, away from the chaos of travel, of circuits, of podiums and paddock whispers.
It startled her.
She had expected rage. Reprisal. Chains disguised as lullabies. But what came instead was patience.
In those first few weeks, she woke often in the middle of the night. Fear gnawed at her in the dark—fear of what he might become once the novelty wore off, once the tenderness ran dry. But each time, when she turned, Lando was there. Sometimes asleep. Sometimes watching her. But never angry. Never cruel.
There were days she would forget—forget how things had started, forget the man who had dragged her back into his orbit with force and fire. Because now, he moved differently. He touched her like she was breakable, spoke to her like she mattered.
It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was close enough to mimic it.
She found herself breathing a little easier.
Lily noticed the change, too. When she saw them at the next Grand Prix, it wasn’t the sharp grip of Lando’s hand around (Y/n)’s wrist that caught her eye, but the way he hovered slightly behind her, protective but not possessive. She approached (Y/n) cautiously, her smile soft and questioning.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
(Y/n) nodded. “I’m… I’m managing.”
Lily didn’t press. But her eyes lingered, reading the spaces between every unspoken word.
It wasn’t long before she discovered the truth. The pregnancy didn’t stay a secret for long. By the time the paddock reached Japan, the gossip had crept through every corridor, every team radio, every waiting lounge. Lando didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it either. He didn’t need to. The way he kept a hand on the small of (Y/n)’s back, the way he left early to be with her, the way he made space where he never had before, those were confirmation enough.
When Lily saw her again in London weeks later, she pulled (Y/n) aside into a quiet café with dusty blinds and lemon-sugar air.
“I heard,” Lily said softly, wrapping both hands around her cup.
(Y/n) smiled faintly. “It’s true.”
“I’m not going to say congratulations.”
“I know.”
They didn’t need to pretend. There was no fairytale here. No carefully spun gold from straw. Only reality, thick and raw and painted in shades of survival.
But Lily stayed beside her anyway. In silence. In understanding.
After that, they met often. Sometimes in cafés, sometimes at bookstores, sometimes in parks where no one looked twice. They talked about everything and nothing—movies they hadn’t watched, childhood games they remembered, things that had nothing to do with Lando Norris or Formula 1 or the weight of being someone’s possession.
Lily never asked what happened that day, the one that ended with (Y/n) walking away from her family with a suitcase and silence. She didn’t need to. She saw the shadows that curled around (Y/n)’s spine, the hesitation in her steps, the way her gaze flickered to exits without realizing.
In return, (Y/n) gave her trust. Not in full, but enough. Enough to share her worries. Her fears. Her hesitation about motherhood, about love, about whether this version of Lando, the one who kissed her belly goodnight and whispered poetry in the mornings, was real or just a mask.
“I don’t hate him anymore,” (Y/n) admitted once, as they sat by the harbor under a sky swollen with stars. “But I don’t know if that’s because he changed, or because I’ve learned to live with who he is.”
Lily didn’t answer. She just held her hand.
Meanwhile, Lando tried. He tried more than he ever had. He sent her pictures from the road—his view from the plane window, the breakfast he skipped, the race suits laid out in the garage. He FaceTimed her between practice sessions. He asked how she was feeling, if the baby kicked, if she’d eaten. It wasn’t performative. It was quiet, consistent effort. And slowly, it began to soften something inside her.
Sometimes, she even replied. She sent blurry photos of the ocean, pictures of her books with scribbled annotations, recordings of the baby’s heartbeat from her last visit. They weren’t grand gestures. But they mattered.
For once, they existed in something resembling a rhythm.
He flew her to London at one point, placing her under his parents’ watchful care for a week. His mum cooked. His father asked about her family. They didn’t judge. Didn’t ask for details. They only made space, and it was more than she expected.
In the quiet room they gave her, she found herself watching the sky, wondering if this was peace. If this was what healing could look like, even if born from wreckage.
When Lando returned from his race in Baku, he brought her back to Monaco personally. He carried her bags. He kissed her softly on the forehead.
And that night, he lay beside her—not for sex, not for dominance—but just to listen to the rhythm of her breath.
She asked him a question then, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you trying so hard now?”
He stared at the ceiling.
“Because I didn’t know how to before.”
Honesty. Unvarnished. Unexpected.
She didn’t respond.
But in the morning, she placed his hand on her belly when the baby kicked.
And he cried.
For once, neither of them felt alone.
And even if the past couldn’t be erased, even if the beginnings were twisted and cruel, something within the silence had begun to shift.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was something close to hope.
To be continued...🧡
🧜🏻♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9: ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪɴ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ🧜🏻♀️
📝 Note from the Author: Third post for todayyyy!!! Only three chapters left, might as well just drop all of it today HAHAHAHA. At this point I feel like I’m live-streaming your heartbreak with bonus caffeine jitters.
This chapter? Whew. It’s like watching a storm finally calm into a drizzle, and then you realize, wait, do I still need an umbrella or is this secretly healing weather?? 🌧️➡️🌤️
As always, don’t forget to like, comment, reblog, or if you’re the type who just reads silently, 𝓣𝓗𝓐𝓝𝓚 𝓨𝓞𝓤. That means more than you know. Truly.
Goodbye for now, see you in the next chapter!
With love, me 🧡
