🫱🏼🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ🫱🏼🫲🏼
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ
ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴇxʜᴀᴜꜱᴛɪᴏɴ
ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴅᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ
The Styrian hills pulsed with sound, engines howling, hearts pounding, thousands on their feet. Lando tightened his grip on the wheel as he hurtled down the straight toward Turn 4, the famed downhill right-hander where so many races had turned to legend or ruin. He braked late, almost recklessly, and the car twitched under him, rear dancing on the edge of control. He caught it, feathered the throttle, and forced the car to obey.
“Gap to P1, eight tenths,” came the voice in his ear.
He didn’t answer. There was no room for words in this kind of battle.
Up through the climb toward Turn 6, the Red Bull Ring’s rhythm grew more violent. It wasn’t a street circuit, it was a battlefield stretched across green hills and bleeding curbs. Every gear shift was a gunshot. Every apex, a calculated risk. He didn’t blink.
Through the high-speed kink of Turn 7, the car shivered, but he kept it pinned. Sector times flickered on his dash, green. He was gaining.
The leader was weaving down the straight to break the tow. Lando stayed tucked in, inches from the rear wing, feeling the downforce slip away like sand through his fingers. He waited. Waited—
Then launched.
Up the hill into Turn 3, he dived late. Locked the inside tire. Smoke. The other car tried to cover it, but it was too late. Lando took the corner like a man possessed, holding the line with just enough tire on the edge of the curb to keep the stewards guessing.
The overtake stuck.
But it wasn’t over. Not yet.
The final laps blurred into survival. The tires were gone, nerves shot, radio silent. Even the cheers from the grandstands had become white noise, he only heard the wind slicing past his visor and the scream of the hybrid engine begging for mercy.
Down through the sweeping final corners, helmet low, jaw tight, he wrung every last breath of speed from the car. The checkered flag was waiting.
He crossed the line.
And then—
There had always been something sacred about winning. Something poetic. Something that turned men into giants and giants into legends. For Lando Norris, the roar of victory had always felt like a rush of flame through his chest—raw, electrifying, impossible to contain. But not today.
Not when his heart felt like a cracked trophy already.
The moment he crossed the finish line—P1, pole converted to triumph, his name echoing across the Red Bull Ring—there should have been a surge of pride. He should have thrown his fists into the sky, screamed through his radio, laughed until his ribs ached. But none of it came. Only silence did.
He coasted his car to a halt in parc fermé, helmet still on, visor down, heart screaming louder than the crowd ever could.
Mechanics and team personnel rushed toward him—cheers, applause, cameras clicking in bursts of artificial light. Oscar pulled in beside him, a proud second. Max Verstappen not long after, third.
Lando stepped out of his car like it weighed far more than it should. Helmet off, curls damp with sweat, the sunlight striking his face just as the tears began to well up.
He tried—gosh, he tried—to bite them back.
Tried to raise his fists in that iconic gesture of joy, to smile through the pain, to honor the people who had made this win possible. But his chest heaved. His shoulders quaked. And then—
He broke.
Right there, in front of the world, he fell to his knees on the tarmac and sobbed.
Not just from exhaustion. Not just from the race.
But from a kind of heartbreak that no victory could mend.
Oscar didn’t even hesitate.
Helmet still on, he jogged over and dropped beside him, crouching low, wrapping one arm around his teammate’s shoulders. The cameras flashed, capturing something far more human than any celebration ever could. Max, after handing his car off to Red Bull engineers, paused when he saw it. And even he, so often stoic and distant, stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Lando’s back as the younger driver’s body shook with grief.
No one had expected it. No one had prepared for this version of a podium finish.
Lando was supposed to be glowing.
But all they saw was a man who had given everything, only to lose something that mattered more than a trophy.
The moment was raw.
Heavy.
Unignorable.
Eventually, Oscar helped him up. Together, they made it to the cool-down room, where Lando sat in silence, staring at the floor, refusing even the water offered to him. When it was time to step up to the podium, he did it with a hollow sort of presence—holding his bottle, lifting his trophy, waving at the crowd—but his smile was faint and false. His eyes betrayed everything.
During the national anthem, he wiped his face once more.
The confetti didn’t matter.
Neither did the champagne.
Because (Y/n) wasn’t there.
And she had made it clear, she never wanted to be.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
But she had seen it.
Back in the quiet of their temporary suite, the television had remained on. Ajax had begged to watch the race, and (Y/n), seated far away with her arms crossed and jaw tight, had reluctantly let him.
She hadn’t spoken a word throughout.
Not when the lights went out. Not when Lando led every lap. Not even when he crossed the finish line, triumphant.
It was only when the camera caught him kneeling beside his car—shaking, crying, utterly shattered—that something flickered behind her eyes.
She couldn’t move.
The cheers from the crowd faded into static. The commentators’ voices became background noise. All she could see was the pain in Lando’s face. The sorrow etched into the way he held himself. And when Oscar crouched beside him, embracing him like a brother—when Max stepped in with a gesture more telling than words—something deep inside her stirred.
But she shut it down just as quickly.
No.
She didn’t want this.
She couldn’t want this.
Not even now.
Her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves.
Ajax had looked at her then. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
And she said nothing back.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
The next morning arrived in grey and gold.
Suitcases packed. Passports checked. Their taxi waited at the front entrance of the hotel. Their time in Austria had come to an end.
Ajax stood in front of his sister, arms folded, jaw clenched in the way only teenage brothers could manage when they were deeply, miserably disappointed.
“You’re really leaving?” he asked.
(Y/n) didn’t look at him. “We have to. The flights are scheduled.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You could stay. Just a few more days. Talk to him. Explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” she said softly.
“Yes, there is,” Ajax snapped. “You don’t have to want him right now. But you can’t just leave like it means nothing. You saw what happened yesterday. He didn’t even try to hide how broken he was.”
“I never asked for this.”
“Neither did he!” Ajax’s voice cracked. “But he still showed up. He still raced. He still won, even when it was obvious he was falling apart inside.”
(Y/n) didn’t respond.
Their father stepped in then, placing a hand on Ajax’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“But—”
“Let it be, son.”
Ajax’s chest rose and fell, frustrated tears threatening to spill.
And yet, (Y/n) didn’t speak.
Not as the luggage was loaded. Not as they climbed into the taxi. Not as they pulled away from the hotel, leaving the circuit behind.
She kept her eyes forward.
And the mark on her wrist remained tucked beneath her sleeve.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
It was Zak Brown who broke the news.
Monday afternoon had come with overcast skies and long debriefs. McLaren’s HQ inside the paddock was quieter than usual, the champagne scent already faded, the energy dulled.
Lando sat slouched at the edge of the team’s post-race review, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table. Oscar sat beside him, listening intently as engineers walked through the race telemetry. The data was brilliant. His pace had been near perfect.
But Lando wasn’t listening.
Not really.
He was just… there.
Present in body.
Absent in spirit.
Zak entered the room partway through and paused before the monitors. His phone was pressed against his chest, having just ended a call.
He cleared his throat.
“Just spoke to Ajax,” he said. “They’ve flown back to Greece this morning.”
Lando didn’t even flinch.
Not until Zak added, “He tried to convince her to stay. But she wouldn’t.”
That made him close his eyes.
Oscar cast a glance toward him. Quiet. Careful.
Lando swallowed thickly, voice barely audible. “Thanks for telling me.”
Zak nodded slowly. “I know this isn’t what you hoped for. And I’m sorry.”
But Lando just shook his head.
No more tears.
No more questions.
Just a tired, defeated quiet.
The debrief ended thirty minutes later.
And without a word, Lando stood, walked out, and took a flight.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
The Norris family home was nestled along the soft green countryside of Somerset, a far cry from the racetracks, press circuits, and roaring engines of the Formula 1 world.
By the time Lando arrived, the sun had begun to set in muted streaks of lavender and apricot. He stepped through the front door carrying only a single duffle bag, his shoulders slumped, eyes ringed in fatigue.
His mother was in the kitchen, slicing apples.
She turned when she heard the door.
And paused when she saw his face.
She didn’t speak.
She just stepped forward and opened her arms.
Lando dropped the bag.
And walked straight into them.
His mother held him like she used to when he was ten years old and inconsolable over a karting crash. Like she had when he first left home to chase a dream the world warned was too far, too high.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t have to.
She felt it all in the way his body collapsed against hers, in the broken breaths, in the tremble of his fingers.
“I saw the podium,” she whispered against his hair. “You handled it with more grace than anyone else could have. I’m so proud of you.”
He cried again.
Not like before.
Not publicly, not surrounded by the scrutiny of cameras and press.
Just a boy, in the arms of his mother, letting the ache bleed out.
His father joined them not long after. Said little. Just squeezed his son’s shoulder and told him he had nothing to be ashamed of.
That night, Lando didn’t sleep in his usual bedroom. Instead, he lay on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, curled against the soft cushions with his mother seated nearby, watching over him like she had when he was small and sick.
She stroked his hair.
She hummed softly.
And when his sobs finally subsided into the shallow rhythm of sleep, she remained there, hand resting gently on his shoulder.
Outside, the night deepened.
Inside, Lando dreamt of the moment that should have been—of her eyes meeting his, not in fear, but in wonder. Of her reaching back when he extended his hand. Of her choosing him.
But dreams, he would learn, were not the same as fate.
And sometimes, even the deepest connections weren’t enough to make someone stay.
To be continued...🧡
🫱🏼🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛꜱ🫱🏼🫲🏼
📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, Another day, another chapter to rip out your hearts and sprinkle a little heartbreak over your timelines!
Today’s post is a heavy one, I won’t lie. I wrote this while dramatically playing sad orchestral scores and clutching a pillow like it betrayed me. Just know, if your chest aches after reading it, that’s totally normal. It means you’re still alive.
To the lovely readers who continue to show up for my stories: I SEE YOU. Thank you for reblogging, liking, screaming in the tags, and commenting like you’re unraveling emotionally (because… same). Your support keeps me from launching my drafts into the void.
But if you're just silently reading, lurking in the shadows like a soulmarked (Y/n) hiding her wrist, thank you too. You’re just as valid. You’re seen. You matter. I appreciate every single one of you. Truly.
Now, don’t forget to:
Reblog 🌀 (share the heartbreak)
Like 💔 (suffer with style)
Comment 📝 (make me cry back)
Or do none of those, and still, I am so grateful you’re here. Sending fictional pain and gratitude, always.
With love, me 🧡