🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴍᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ🛏️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ɪᴅᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ
ꜰʟɪʀᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ʜɪɴᴛꜱ
ʜɪɢʜ-ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ꜰ1 ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ
ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
Weeks had passed since the hill.
Since the edge. Since the ice cream. Since her.
Lando had returned to the whirring rhythm of his life, the hum of obligations buzzing back into his bones. There was no time to pause anymore, no space for quiet. The media circuits spun with endless interviews, post-season reviews, and reflective commentary dissecting every tenth of a second from the championship that had slipped through his fingers.
He smiled more now. It wasn’t always real, but it wasn’t a lie either. He was doing better. Breathing easier. Sleeping some nights without waking up at the memory of wind against his skin and the silence of that ledge.
Oscar remained close, the young champion busier than ever with press and appearances. Lando held no resentment; if anything, their camaraderie had only deepened. A quiet understanding pulsed beneath their banter, a recognition that the sport they loved could be both crown and cross.
So, when Zak Brown, with his ever-commanding tone and sharp eyes, told them they had a final obligation before the winter break, Lando didn’t complain. Not when he mentioned the name Cho.
"One of the best designers in Europe. She’s doing the suits for the charity gala next month. I want you both looking sharp. This is a high-stakes crowd. Old money, new media. We don’t cut corners with this one."
That was how he and Oscar ended up in the backseat of a sleek black town car, windows fogged slightly as they sped through city streets toward a studio tucked into a quiet cobbled lane. It was one of those buildings that seemed to hum with importance, its facade minimalist and glassy, etched with the gold-foiled name: Maison de Cho.
The driver pulled up to the curb and wordlessly opened their doors. Lando stepped out first, fingers tugging at the collar of his coat. Oscar followed, hands in his pockets, head swiveling with mild curiosity.
Inside, the studio was an elegant hush of cream and gold. Sunlight spilled through vaulted windows, catching on crystal pendants that hung like frozen stars. Mannequins stood poised in corners, draped in suits that whispered wealth and precision.
But what caught their attention wasn’t the polished floors or the fragrant air, faintly sweet like peonies and leather.
It was the music.
A grand piano stood in the corner of the marble-floored lobby, its black lacquer gleaming like a mirror. Seated on its cushioned bench was a woman, her fingers gliding across the ivory keys with effortless grace.
The melody drifted like something from a memory. A Thousand Years.
Her eyes were closed, head swaying gently, lips parted as if she could taste every note. She wasn’t just playing—she was feeling it, breathing life into every progression, every gentle crescendo. There was something achingly vulnerable about the way she played, as though the music was a confession only the piano could hold.
Lando froze.
He knew her. Even before she opened her eyes, he knew.
And when she did, when she lifted her head and those familiar eyes flickered toward them, the rest of the world seemed to drop away for a moment.
(Y/n) Hwang.
Her gaze met his and widened, not with shock but amusement. A smile curled on her lips, subtle but unmistakably teasing.
"Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Norris," she said, voice soft with humor.
Oscar looked between them, brows raised. Lando said nothing at first, just blinking as if to make sure she was real.
Before he could speak, another voice sliced through the serene air.
"Gentlemen!" A woman swept into the room, her heels clicking like a metronome. She was dressed in all black, her hair pulled into a severe chignon, eyes sharp behind thick-framed glasses.
"Welcome to Maison de Cho. I am Madam Cho. You must be Lando and Oscar. It is an honor."
She smiled with practiced warmth, then turned to (Y/n), who had stood from the bench and now stood quietly beside it, hands clasped politely in front of her.
"(Y/n), darling, would you be so kind as to take our guests to the private fitting suite? And perhaps prepare a tray—something light, some tea, perhaps a few of those matcha things you make. I will gather the fitting essentials shortly."
"Of course, Madam Cho," she replied, bowing her head slightly.
She turned back to Lando and Oscar, giving them a playful wink. "Right this way, gentlemen."
Oscar nudged Lando with a smug grin. "Friend of yours?"
Lando didn’t answer. Not yet.
They followed her down a narrow corridor lined with sketches and framed fabric swatches. Everything smelled of cedarwood and jasmine, like memory and refinement woven into the walls.
The fitting room was less a room and more a private lounge. Velvet sofas in emerald green flanked a mirrored wall. Spotlights hovered like halos, adjustable but currently dimmed. A large rack stood to one side, draped in pristine garments waiting to be tailored.
(Y/n) moved with fluid precision, adjusting a tray table near the lounge. Within minutes, she returned bearing a lacquered wooden tray. On it were two porcelain cups, a glass teapot filled with golden-hued tea, a small plate of neatly arranged matcha mochi, and two glasses of water with lemon slices.
Oscar was already lounging on one side of the sofa, eyeing the sweets with intrigue.
Lando, however, stood awkwardly near the rack.
She placed the tray on the center table and glanced up at him.
"Still brooding, Norris? Or just shy now that we’re indoors?"
He laughed, quietly. His voice felt strange in his throat. "Didn’t expect to see you again."
“And yet here I am. The universe has a sense of humor.”
Oscar, already mid-bite, looked up between them. “Alright, someone catch me up. What exactly did I miss?"
(Y/n) sat delicately on the armrest of the sofa, crossing her legs with casual elegance.
"Your dear teammate almost mistook a cliff for a balcony view. I happened to be walking by."
Oscar blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"
Lando rubbed the back of his neck. "It was a rough day."
(Y/n) shrugged. "We had ice cream. It ended fine."
Madam Cho arrived moments later, arms filled with fabric rolls, measuring tape slung around her neck like a scarf. The mood shifted with her presence, businesslike but not unkind.
She began her work swiftly, directing them to stand, measure, shift, turn. She barked numbers in French to an assistant who appeared from another door with a tablet. Lando endured it with quiet patience. Oscar made faces every time a measurement was taken.
But Lando's eyes kept drifting.
To the corner where the piano stood.
To the woman who had unknowingly saved him, now humming softly under her breath as she noted down fabric preferences on a tablet. As if she hadn’t held his soul in her arms weeks ago.
When the measurements were done, and Madam Cho vanished behind a curtain to prepare swatches, (Y/n) returned with another pot of tea, this time infused with lavender.
Lando reached for a cup. Their fingers brushed.
She didn’t flinch. Just smiled.
"Nice suit, by the way," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t put it on yet."
She tilted her head, a glint in her eye. "Still suits you."
Oscar groaned dramatically. “God, I need Lily here. This is too much flirting for one fitting."
Lando laughed, a real one this time. Not forced. Not hollow.
As the appointment wound down, and their choices were finalized, Madam Cho returned with sketches and instructions. Business wrapped with precision, but the air lingered with something softer.
On their way out, just as the car pulled up again outside, Lando hesitated.
He turned to (Y/n), who stood beside the grand piano, fingers resting gently on the edge of the lid.
"Do you come with the suit?" he asked, voice low.
She smiled, half-teasing, half-tender.
"No," she replied.
Then added, more gently, "But I’ll be at the gala. Maybe you’ll save me a dance."
Lando nodded slowly, lips parting in a soft breath.
"I will."
Outside, the wind brushed his face. But this time, it didn’t sting.
The hill felt far away. And for the first time, the road ahead didn’t look so lonely.
To be continued...🧡
🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴋ🛏️