FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
Summary: You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Song: STAY · Justin Bieber
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 4.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock air always smelled the same—a sharp, metallic cocktail of high-octane fuel, expensive espresso, and the frantic, buzzing energy of three hundred people trying to move in a space designed for fifty.
It was a sensory overload you had grown accustomed to over the last four years, but even with the familiarity, the weight of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media never quite ceased to feel like a spotlight burning against your skin.
You walked beside Lando, your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your team hoodie.
You were doing your best to keep up with his quick, rhythmic stride, his McLaren team kit a bright papaya blur against the charcoal gray background of the hospitality units.
"You're quiet," Lando said, not breaking his pace. He didn't look at you, his eyes scanning the horizon of the Silverstone paddock, but you felt the subtle shift in his demeanor.
It was the Lando-radar—he always knew when your mood dipped, even if you were masking it with the practiced cool of a driver’s partner.
"Just tired," you lied. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You were exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from being ‘on’ for seventy-two hours straight.
Without warning, Lando stopped. He didn’t just slow down; he pivoted on his heel, effectively blocking your path. Before you could react, his arm was around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
It was a casual, possessive movement, the kind that reminded everyone watching—and there were always people watching—that you were his.
You stiffened, your hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest. "Lando," you hissed, your voice low. "People are taking photos. Right there."
You gestured vaguely toward a group of fans pressed against the metal fencing, phones already held high like digital offerings. Lando didn’t even glance at them. Instead, he ducked his head, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear.
"Let them," he murmured, his voice laced with that mischievous, boyish charm that had stolen your heart in the first place. He squeezed your waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I haven't seen you all morning. You’ve been busy with PR, I’ve been in the sim. I’m allowed to say hello."
"You said hello at breakfast," you countered, though your heart was performing a treacherous little somersault in your chest.
"That was two hours ago," he insisted, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes were bright, lit with a spark of genuine affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "I missed you."
You didn't know how to handle it. After four years, you still didn't. You were a person of quiet gestures—notes left on bathroom mirrors, shared silences while watching movies, holding hands when the lights were out.
You weren't a ‘public display’ person. The vulnerability of being seen in private, intimate moments—even something as simple as a touch—felt like undressing in a crowded room.
Lando, however, had spent his entire adult life under a microscope. He had learned that if you’re going to be watched anyway, you might as well control the narrative. If he wanted to hold your hand, he held it. If he wanted to pull you close, he did it without hesitation, regardless of the cameras.
"Come on," he said, shifting his grip from your waist to your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He started walking again, pulling you along with him, his pace unbothered by the stares.
The rest of the morning was a blur of briefings and team meetings. You found yourself retreating to the back of the McLaren garage, watching the mechanics work on the MCL38.
It was a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you often felt like you were just a spectator to a life you were only partially living.
When the session ended and the drivers began to filter out, you saw Lando heading your way. He looked winded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a chaotic mess beneath his cap.
When he spotted you, his entire face transformed. The intense, focused ‘racer’ expression melted into a wide, effortless grin.
He didn't head for the engineers or the debriefing area. He walked straight to you, ignoring the team principal standing five feet away, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"God," he groaned, his voice muffled by your hoodie. "I need a coffee before I throw a headset through a wall."
"That sounds like a productive way to spend the afternoon," you teased, though you reached up, patting his back awkwardly. Your eyes darted around the garage. Several mechanics were snickering, and the telemetrics lead was pointedly looking at his tablet.
Lando pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders now. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the skin of your neck. "Come to the hospitality with me? Please? I need a witness so I don't punch something."
"I have emails to catch up on," you started, but he was already shaking his head before you finished.
"Emails can wait. You’re coming with me." He didn’t bother asking twice. He took your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.
As you walked through the paddock, he kept his hand firmly clutched in yours, occasionally swinging them between you like a couple of teenagers.
It was almost nauseatingly domestic, and it made your skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectators.
"Lando," you said, once you reached the relative privacy of the McLaren hospitality tent. You ducked into a quiet corner near the coffee machine. "Could you… maybe not?"
He paused, a cup of black coffee halfway to his mouth. He looked at you, genuinely confused. "Not what?"
"The… the touching. The holding hands in the paddock. The leaning on me when there are twenty cameras pointed at us."
He tilted his head, his expression earnest. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"It’s not that it bothers me," you said, choosing your words carefully. You didn't want to hurt him, but you needed him to understand. "It’s… it’s just that I’m not used to it. Private things should stay private. I feel like we’re performing when we do that."
Lando set the cup down. He moved into your space, his presence filling the corner. He didn't touch you this time, which felt strangely more intimate than the public displays. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.
"I’m not performing," he said softly. "I’m just… I’m proud. You’re my person. You’ve been my person for four years. Through the podiums, the crashes, the bad races, the move to Monaco. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel real."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t want to hide you. I don't want to act like you're some secret I’m keeping in a drawer. If I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your hand because I like the way your skin feels against mine. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the fans. I care about how I feel when I’m with you."
"That’s very sweet," you said, your throat tight. "But you know how people talk. They dissect everything. They look for meaning in where you put your hand or how you look at me. It’s exhausting."
"Let them talk," Lando countered, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Let them dissect. They don't know us. They don't know the late nights, or the way you make tea, or the way you handle me when I’m losing my mind after a DNF. They’re just observers. We’re the ones living it."
He reached out, tentatively this time, covering your hand with his. "I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m just telling you why I am the way I am. For me, the PDA… it’s a way of tethering myself to you. In a world that’s always moving, you’re the only thing that stands still. I just want to make sure I’m always touching that anchor."
You looked at him—really looked at him. You saw the layers of the man the world saw as a race driver, but you also saw the man beneath. The one who was lonely at the top, the one who navigated the pressures of fame by clinging to the few things that were genuine.
"I’m an anchor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, the tension breaking. "You’re the best anchor. A little bit stubborn, maybe, and you complain about the cameras too much, but you’re definitely the anchor."
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. It was a soft, gentle moment, a stark contrast to the chaos just outside the tent.
"I’ll try," you whispered. "To be… less bothered by it."
"You don't have to change," he insisted, pulling back to look at you. "Just know that when I do it, it isn't for the cameras. It’s for me. And hopefully, it’s for you, too."
The rest of the weekend was a learning curve.
When you walked through the paddock on Saturday morning, Lando’s arm was around your waist again. The inevitable cameras clicked, but this time, you didn't stiffen. You didn't try to pull away.
You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you, and for a fleeting second, the cameras didn't exist. There was just the two of you, moving through a crowded space, anchored to each other.
You realized that perhaps you had been looking at it wrong the whole time. You had viewed the PDA as a performance for the world, but Lando viewed it as a statement to himself. It was a way of claiming his own reality in an environment that was designed to be artificial.
By Sunday, the atmosphere was thick with the tension of the race. The drivers were in ‘the zone,’ quiet and focused. You spent most of the morning in the motorhome, catching up on those emails you’d ignored.
A few hours before the race, there was a knock on your door.
Lando stood there, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his hair slicked back with sweat from his warm-up. He looked pale and intense, the adrenaline already beginning to surge through his system.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
"Hey. You okay?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t go to the sofa. He didn’t pace. He walked straight to you, pulled you into a crushing embrace, and just held you. He didn't speak. He just rested his chin on the top of your head, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
This was the PDA that no one saw. This was the vulnerable, quiet reality.
"I’m nervous," he admitted finally, his voice barely a murmur.
"You’re always nervous before the start," you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back.
"I know. But today feels… different. I just wanted to see you one last time before I have to go be 'Lando Norris' for three hours."
He pulled back, searching your face. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—a lingering, soft touch that tasted of nervous energy and deep, abiding love. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline.
"See you after?" he asked.
"Always," you promised.
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He turned to leave, walking with a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squared, his head held high.
As he walked out, you realized you hadn't even thought about who was watching. You hadn't felt the need to hide, or to be ‘proper,’ or to worry about how the world perceived your love.
You watched him go, feeling the quiet hum of his presence still lingering in the room. You realized that Lando was right. The world could look, they could stare, they could dissect every interaction until there was nothing left.
But they would never understand the alchemy of it—the way you held each other together, the way his hand in yours wasn't about the show, but about the connection.
When you walked out of the motorhome to head to the garage, you saw him ahead of you, walking with his team. He stopped at the entrance, turned around, and scanned the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.
He didn't wave. He didn't seek attention. He just gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment, a secret language that only the two of you spoke.
You nodded back, a smile playing on your lips.
The cameras were still there, the paddock was still screaming with noise, and the pressure was still building.
But as you made your way through the crowd, you didn't feel the need to hide. You kept your head high, your pace steady.
When you reached the garage, Lando was already in the cockpit. You stood by the wall, watching the mechanics scramble. You felt someone standing next to you—another driver's partner, someone you’d spoken to a few times.
"He looks focused today," she said, nodding toward the car.
You watched his helmeted head, the way he was checking the steering wheel settings, his movements precise and calm.
"He is," you said, a sense of pride swelling in your chest.
As the cars began to move, the noise became deafening. You reached out, gripping the safety rail. A hand covered yours. You looked down—it was Lando’s trainer, a man you’d known for years, offering a silent gesture of support.
You squeezed his hand. You weren't holding Lando’s hand, but you felt the connection, the web of people who loved him, who supported him, who were tethered to him.
The race went well. It was a grueling, tactical battle, but you watched every lap, every overtake, every moment of brilliance. When he crossed the finish line—a solid P3, a hard-fought battle—you felt a surge of relief that hit you like a physical wave.
When he finally made his way back to the pit lane, the adrenaline was high, the fans were screaming, and the cameras were desperate to capture his reaction.
You were in the ‘cool down’ room, waiting. When he burst in, tossing his helmet onto the table, he looked ecstatic. He was drenched in sweat, his lungs laboring for air, his face glowing with raw, unadulterated joy.
He spotted you immediately.
He didn't run to his team, he didn't check his phone, he didn't wait for the cameras. He bypassed everything and everyone, closed the distance between you, and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet.
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small room. He spun you around, his face pressed into your shoulder, his heart hammering against your own.
"We did it," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion.
He didn't care about the producers behind the glass, didn't care about the microphones picking up his breathing, didn't care about the optics of a driver being ‘soft’ after a podium. He just held you, his hands tight against your back, his head resting on your shoulder.
"You did it," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly.
He pulled back, his face inches from yours. He was glowing, his hazel eyes wide and bright. He didn't let go of your waist. He didn't try to pull away to talk to the team. He just stood there, his forehead resting against yours, taking a moment to breathe you in.
"That was for you," he whispered, a smirk touching his lips.
"The race?" you teased.
"Everything," he said. "The race, the fight, the waiting. Everything is for you."
You smiled, the last of your resistance melting away. You realized then that the PDA wasn't about him being dramatic or needy; it was his way of saying, ‘this is my center.’ It was his way of remaining human in a world designed to strip humanity away.
You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, your touch lingering on his skin. You didn't care about the cameras anymore. You didn't care about the optics.
"You're a menace," you whispered.
"I know," he said, his grin widening. "But I'm your menace."
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before pulling back to see the effect it had on you. You didn't shy away. You held his gaze, your hand moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath the papaya suit.
"We have to go out there," he said, nodding toward the door where the interviews were waiting.
"I know," you replied.
"Stay close?" he asked, his hand finding yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in that familiar, grounding way.
"Always," you said.
He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he didn't let go. He didn't try to look composed for the cameras.
He just walked out, dragging you along with him, his hand in yours, his heart laid open for the world to see, and you didn't pull away.
For the first time in four years, you didn't feel like you were performing. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be—right by his side, anchored in the eye of the storm, holding onto the one thing that made all the chaos worth it.
The lights of the paddock hit you as you walked out, the noise rising to a crescendo, but you barely heard it.
You were focused on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his hand in yours, the physical tether that connected you to him, through every race, every win, every defeat, and every quiet moment in between.
As Lando greeted the reporters, he didn't pull his hand away. He kept it firmly in yours, a silent, defiant, and beautiful declaration. You stood beside him, watching him speak, realizing that for all the years you’d spent worried about the world, you had missed the most important lesson of all: that when you’re with the right person, the world doesn't matter.
Only the anchor does.
The weeks that followed brought a series of races, each one a different challenge, but the dynamic between you had shifted, subtly but fundamentally.
You were in Singapore, the humidity so thick it felt like a heavy, wet blanket pressing against your skin. The heat in the paddock was stifling, the noise of the city reflected off the glass buildings, echoing in the narrow walkways.
Lando was exhausted. The jet lag, the heat, the relentless schedule—it was wearing him down. You found him late on Saturday night, sitting on the steps of the motorhome, his head in his hands. He looked defeated.
You didn't say anything. You just sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. He didn't look up, but his hand found yours, his grip tight, almost desperate.
"It’s just… it’s been a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the cooling units.
"It has," you agreed, leaning into him.
He leaned his weight against you, a silent plea for support. You sat there for a long time, the only movement the shifting of your hands as you rubbed his palm, his breathing slowly steadying as he leaned into your presence.
A group of team members walked past, casting curious glances in your direction. A few weeks ago, you would have pulled away. You would have felt the heat of the embarrassment rising in your cheeks.
But tonight, you didn't. You kept your hand in his, your body pressed against his side, a silent, unified front.
Lando shifted, turning toward you and resting his head on your shoulder. He sighed, a long, shaky sound. "I don't know what I'd do without you here."
"You’d do just fine," you said, your voice soft. "You’re Lando Norris. You thrive on this."
"I thrive on the racing," he corrected, looking up at you with tired, genuine eyes. "The rest of it… the travel, the lights, the expectations… that’s just noise. You’re the only thing that isn't noise."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch tender and vulnerable.
"I know I’m a lot," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I know I’m clingy. I know the PDA is probably annoying for you."
"It’s not annoying," you admitted, the words feeling true for the first time. "It’s… it’s a lot to get used to. Especially with everyone watching."
"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your temple. "I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just… I need to know you’re still there. I need to feel like I’m anchored to something real, even when everything around me is drifting."
You looked at him, feeling the weight of the last four years—the highs, the lows, the moments of profound isolation, and the moments of intense, shared joy.
You realized that you and Lando weren't just a couple; you were a unit, a team of two navigating a life that few people could ever truly understand.
"You’re always anchored to me," you said, your voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere."
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of the night forgotten.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He closed his eyes, a sense of peace finally settling over him. He didn't move away, and you didn't pull back. You just sat there, two people against the world, holding onto each other in the quiet, humid dark.
The final race of the season was in Abu Dhabi. The air was cool, the track lights shining brightly against the darkening sky. The energy was electric, a mix of anticipation and the bittersweet end of a long, grueling year.
You stood in the garage, watching the final preparations. Lando was calm, focused, a version of himself you’d come to cherish—the man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was loved.
When he finally pulled his helmet off after the post-race debrief, he caught your eye across the garage.
He didn't wait. He walked straight to you, ignoring the cameras, the reporters, and the team members. He pulled you into a hug that felt like coming home.
"We made it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"We made it," you echoed.
He pulled back, his hands resting on your waist, his eyes bright with that familiar, boyish spark. "So, what are we doing for the off-season?"
You laughed, the sound light and free. "I’m taking you somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no cameras, no paddock, and absolutely zero motor racing."
He grinned, the expression wide and genuine. "Sounds perfect."
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both a celebration and a promise—a promise of more to come, of more years spent side-by-side, navigating the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, together.
As you walked out into the paddock, the lights overhead shimmering like stars, he didn't let go of your hand. He held it firmly, his fingers interlaced with yours, his presence a constant, grounding rhythm against your own.
You looked up at him, the man you’d chosen, the man who had chosen you. You realized you didn't care about the cameras, the fans, or the prying eyes. You didn't care about the performance of it all.
You only cared about the person holding your hand, the person who made all the noise feel like silence, and the person who made you feel, for the first time in four years, like you were finally exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily, naturally, a truth that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Lando smiled, a soft, radiant look that belonged only to you. He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and pulled you a little tighter against his side.
"I love you too," he said, his voice low and steady. "Now, let’s go start that vacation."
And as you walked away, deeper into the night, you didn't look back.
You just walked forward, hand in hand, anchored to each other, ready for whatever the next season—and the rest of your lives—would bring. . . .
or: your neighbors are a strange pair. there's lando (golden boy, smile too wide, canines hiding something wicked). and there's oscar (too good to be true, too kind to be clean). they're only home december to february, but, god, do they make the most of it. to your expense. oscar piastri x lando norris x fem!neighbor!reader
warnings: neighbor!oscar and neighbor!lando being muppets, this is DISGUSTANGGGG voyeuristic bullshit, porn with plot because duh!!
♡
there is a special place in hell for oscar piastri and lando norris. and it's paved with spilled beer, sticky shot glasses, and a bass-heavy playlist that makes your overhead lamp shiver with each pulsating beat. (one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, god, when were they going to shut up?)
you'd tried it all at that point. high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds. white-noise apps. begging to sleep at your best friend's, or your ex's, or an overpriced hotel room on the other side of the island (a low moment, you admit). and fifteen desperate texts to your landlord later, righteous rage was coloring your insides less rational by the minute. (god, you would break your own lease if it meant those two inconsiderate idiots would get what was coming to them.)
what kind of normal neighbors threw parties on a tuesday night? what kind of normal neighbors kept a strict schedule—december to february, blackout season, working nine months just to come home and ruin your remaining three? what kind of neighbors haunted your peace (in-person) when they weren't haunting the screen of your living-room television?
the answer? none. except these two.
(fuck it).
your feet hit the tile cold and sharp as you count the steps out of bed, across the hallway, up the echoing stairwell, breathless with exhaustion and a splinter of glee you haven’t felt in weeks. (maybe you want a fight. maybe you want to be the problem, for once. it's only human.)
"some of us pay rent here," you rehearse, not-so under your breath. "some of us have actual jobs. some of us care whether or not our neighbors can sleep through the night.”
you take the stairs two at a time, a bead of sweat trickling down length of your spine. up close, the beat syncopates with your pulse, every floorboard humming under your bare feet, slinking up your calves. (only then, somewhere on the landing, do you realize you're not at all dressed for the confrontation you're about to instigate. of course.)
it's too late to turn back now. you raise your fist as you approach the door, swallowing the taste of marijuana smoke curling under the jamb, the clatter of a southern-english accent, sweat, and sugar, and suffocating heat. you pause. you could walk away, try again tomorrow, let your anger go gracelessly. (but all of a sudden the music gets impossibly louder, crashing through a fresh round of voracious laughter, and your patience—never your strong suit—snaps right in half.)
you knock. no, you pound. hard enough that it goes silent for half a second before resuming (if not doubling) in volume.
it takes fourteen seconds for someone to come to the door. you're raising your hand to knock again when it swings open, and there goes your dignity, because lando norris is standing in front of you, and he's smiling, and very, very drunk, and, oh, no.
he's shirtless, flushed a deep cherry-red, black training shorts riding halfway up his thighs. he pulls at them with his free hand as he throws a 'be back 'n a second' over his shoulder, pupils blown wide under blinding hallway light. you catch low-lit glimpses of drinks stacked on an entryway table before lando steps out, letting the door shut with a low clunk behind him. "hi, neighbor," he slurs, voice curling gentle and soft. "y'lost or somethin'?"
you open your mouth to say something, anything, but all you can do is inhale the scent of his sweat, the reek of gin splashing faintly under expensive cologne, and it should disgust you (it almost does), but your anger is tangled now, caught in something deep, and dark, and wrong. (you came here to yell at him, remember?)
"i've lived here longer than you," you bite out, and you swear lando's eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. "so no. i'm not lost."
"m'kay," lando chuckles, a low, warm thing that starts in his chest and spills down the hallway. "d'you wanna come in? 's that it?"
"no," you say, indignant, and his smile shifts, looser, an uptick in the curve of his mouth.
"wha's up, then?" he asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. his grip is tighter than you'd expect, knuckles turning white, as though he's holding himself back from reaching for you, resisting the urge to pull you in with him—
"what's. up?" you snarl. "what's up is that it's four in the morning, and you're throwing a fucking rave! what's up is that the walls in this building are made of fucking paper and i have to listen to every fucking thing—"
the door opens, interrupting you, and oscar steps out slow, hair touch-mussed, white t-shirt sticking translucent-thin to the dip of his collarbone, the sharp hinge of his shoulders. he doesn't say anything at first, standing there too tall, too comfortable, gaze scraping over you so thoroughly you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.
(it's surgical, his silence. you swear he's underneath your skin, storing your image for later review. you think about snapping at him to stop staring, but that would be admitting you feel seen when all you wanted was to be heard.)
"everything alright?" oscar finally asks, voice vibrating straight to the bone. you suddenly feel violently unsteady. lando doesn’t move, and for a second you forget what you wanted to yell about. (for a second, the entire world goes deathly quiet.)
"no, actually, it's not," you snap. "unless you're about to tell all these people to get the fuck out, nothing is 'alright'."
oscar blinks, arms folding slow across his chest. "didn't think we were that loud."
your scoff is graceless. "you have got to be kidding me."
"i'm not."
"are you seriously telling me you don't hear it?"
"we don't."
"it's fucking loud."
"this could've been a text message," your rage burns so hot you almost hit him. though you doubt it would do much.
"fuck. off."
"gladly," he replies, expression something between surprise and amusement. "you're what's keeping us here."
you wish you had something to say to that. you really do.
but oscar moves, slow, cracking the door just enough to let the party spill out in tidal waves of laughter and thudding bass. there’s the unmistakable crash of glass shattering hard on tile, the scrape of voices overlapping in drunken crescendos, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor and lando’s impossibly sharp cologne that drifts under the door and settles right smack in your diaphragm.
lando shifts off balance, and it's watching electricity, the way oscar’s hand slides up without missing a beat, palm coming to rest with such easy certainty against lando’s elbow that it makes something coil tight in your gut. (they fit together, in some secret way you've only just noticed.)
you blink, and the doorframe is suddenly closing on you, an acute end to the conversation. "i'm telling the landlord about this!" you snap, cutting through the lull between songs.
oscar throws a glance over his shoulder, mouth quirking upward. (you'd think he was beautiful, if he wasn't such an ass.) "cry to daddy, baby. go ahead."
you're halfway down the stairs when you realize he called you baby.
♡
it only gets worse from there.
you decide to start with mailing lists. harmless, really. except you sign both lando and oscar up for fifteen of them. each.
first, the alcoholism anonymous emails. ("struggling to stay sober? you’re not alone. join our virtual support meeting!") then, the porn addiction group emails. ("battle porn cravings with our scientifically-backed mindfulness exercises!") the spam is worse: "THE SECRET TRUTH BEHIND F1 DRIVERS’ UNBELIEVABLE FITNESS ROUTINE—CLICK TO FIND OUT!"
you think you’ve got away with it. nights fall silent, merciful quiet pressing against your eardrums with an unnatural pressure. no thudding footsteps. no blaring music. (no reason to see them again.)
that is, until the magazines.
stacked like a brick wall on your doorstep, tied so sweetly that you let yourself believe, for half a heartbeat, that this is some kind of olive branch. an apology wrapped in glossy, fresh pages, slick covers of... official F1 magazines. (well, high-octane marketing that you don’t care about but now absolutely cannot ignore.)
you untie the bow, flipping through the first with impatient flicks of your wrist. there’s lando first—turned away from the camera, low, golden light catching his cheekbones and the faint flush blooming just above the dark fabric of his racing suit. then oscar, skin in vivid color, helmet clutched in the space between his elbow and hip.
(you don't stop to excuse the slick heat ruining your best pair of panties—a mistake, certainly.)
you almost miss the note scrawled onto the top right of the last page:
pictures of me should help w/the porn addiction. make it worse, i mean. xxx lando
you did not get away with it. you do, however, up your game.
you think you’re clever about it. anonymous shipping. no gift receipt, no note, the billing address a throwaway email you haven’t used since college. you order nineteen different protein powders—who even needs that many flavors?—to be shipped right to their door. the perfect play.
you track the order, refresh the delivery status twelve times an hour, and choke imagining oscar drinking the the mango sorbet flavor out of politeness and then sending you a legal notice. (very polite of him.)
the package lands at their door right before noon; by dinnertime, you’re yet again positive you’ve won. (it's unnerving, the way you’re slightly disappointed.)
it doesn't last long.
at first, you think you’re hallucinating a beat, muffled and persistent, seeping through the walls that night, familiar enough for your shoulders to rise and fall with each measure. it's sweet caroline. playing loud enough to set your bathroom mirror twitching with every bass kick.
you don't mind it for the first ten minutes.
but you go from neutral to rage in the time it takes the chorus to repeat for the ninth time. the song loops, as if trying to drill a singular, awful message through your skull. (you were going to kill them. you debate calling the landlord. animal control. the goddamn police.)
instead, you climb onto your kitchen counter and pound your fist against the vent on the ceiling with as much force as you can muster.
the song only gets louder in response. the second hour of it, you're already planning your next move. by the fourth, you're curled up on the couch with your head planted in between the thick leather cushions, unable to hear yourself think.
by the time sweet caroline finally sputters out—an ugly, abrupt end to an ugly, abrupt punishment— you’re asleep, lyrics splintering like a broken record across your eyelids.
your saving grace? boxer briefs. in forest-green, aquamarine, navy blue. two pairs each. the catch? you order the absolute smallest size in stock, the ones that barely look made for humans, let alone someone even slightly well-endowed. you put their address in the shipping box, smirking like you can taste victory. (and god, that’s enough to make your pulse jack up.)
hope these fit right. from, your neighbor.
it's magnificent until your buzzer goes off the next morning, slicing through your kitchen headache-sharp. you ignore it once, twice, but it doesn't stop, impending doom on your doorstep. (bad omen, bad, bad, bad, your brain suggests, before your hands even reach for the doorknob. this isn’t a game anymore.)
when you finally crack the door, the hallway is empty save for a sleek, black box on your doormat—unmarked, glossy, obnoxious in the soft spill of hallway morning light.
your fingers slip on the lid as you hastily carry it inside, paper brushing against your skin like a tease.
a bra. delicate, impossible, nearly see-through. italian lace, if the quality was any indication. baby-pink embroidery, scalloped cups heavy with hand-stitched rosettes—you trace a strap with your fingertip, just to prove it's real. matching panties underneath, same pale pink, nothing left to the imagination except the price tag (obscene, you notice, and in euros, which honestly makes it worse).
the card’s slipped under the elastic, scrawled in a neat hand you recognize now.
hope these fit right, baby. — o.p.
oscar piastri just sent you lingerie. i see you, it said. come here and see me.
♡
they simply don't let up.
the parties multiply. a glitter bomb ends up from in their vent to yours (lando's idea, clearly). oscar smiles, polite as ever, when you mention his new underwear. somewhere, in the midst of rubber-banding their junk mail and replacing their tequila with water, you crack. (because it's valentine's day, and it's been two and a half months of their bullshit, and you're feeling especially, violently, completely single.)
you pick a dress (short). you wear a pair of heels that's been collecting dust since last june. you're halfway out the door (shallow breath, prickling nerves for a stranger) when you see it.
the black box. perched dead-center on your dresser. mocking you in the low lamp light, like it knows you’re full of shit.
you ignore it to fix the strap on your shoe, but your eyes dart back, magnetic as a car crash. god, it’s just underwear. (it’s lingerie. it's gorgeous. it's his. for you, for you, for you.)
you groan. turn away. then turn back. meander over to the dresser. (fuck it.) you snap the band off, peel back tissue—cursing under your breath when you almost tear it. the lace is softer than you remember as you slip it on underneath your dress, light as air. skin-like in all the right places.
you stare at yourself in the mirror, playing with the neckline of the dress. (low. too low. not low enough. you want everyone to see. you want to curl up and die.) you roll your eyes at your reflection—hope these fit right, baby, you can hear oscar saying. my pretty baby.
(nope. nope. nope. not doing this right now.)
the hallway’s already buzzing with weekend chatter as you lock your door behind you, pressing the elevator button at the end of the corridor with a breath that burns. (this is not about them. it isn’t. it’s about needing something easy. a drink, a stranger, the pleasure of knowing you could want and be wanted and go home alone. or not.)
the elevator dings, and you catch his reflection in the mirrored panel inside before your own.
oscar.
(don't look at him. don't look at him. don't look at him.) you catch the flick of his eyes bouncing back and forth in your periphery as the doors close—impassive, as if he's categorizing groceries on a shelf beside you. the floors blink down to your left—thirteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, one—
oscar slams the bright red 'emergency stop', jolting you both forward.
you blink. "oscar. what the fuck."
"don't go."
"i—what?"
"don't. go."
your laugh is brittle, barely-concealed offense. "i have a date."
his mouth sets as you stare at him, ironed-out lines of soft skin. not angry. not anything. "today?" (he still won't look at you.)
"yes, today," you snap. "obviously."
the silence is full, thick and sour. "it's cold out," is all he says. "you don't have a coat."
that stops you for half a second. then—anger, hot and immediate, renders you nearly non-verbal. who the fuck are you to tell me what i have and don't have? you want to yell. who the fuck are you to tell me what i need?
"i don't need a coat," is what comes out. "let me out. god—"
you move for the door, and he steps into your path, not close enough to touch, just... there. close enough to hold your gaze. close enough to catch the hitch in your breath. (come closer, go farther, go away, be here, do nothing, oh, god.)
"don't," he murmurs, and something rotten twists in your chest. "trust me."
"you're—" you inhale, schooling your tone. "you're a real piece of shit."
his expression goes blank. not annoyed. not offended. (flat, you realize.) he reaches past you and presses the emergency stop again, and the elevator sinks to the first floor, a clean dismissal.
you take two steps out then turn on your heels, ready to give him the final piece of your mind, to say something razor-blade sharp and stinging, something to pretend you didn't care what he thought of you, that you've never cared what he thought of you—
when you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel. and with it, the pink lace of your bra beneath the neckline of your dress. (visible. obvious. his gift, on you, like you wanted him to look.)
but he doesn't spare you a glance as the doors slide shut.
oh.
♡
valentine's day comes and goes.
so do your neighbors.
mid-february hits hard and fast, and suddenly the apartment above yours is dark more often than not. no music bleeding through the vents at all hours of the night. no laughter and clinking beer bottles ricocheting down the stairwell. their door stays shut for weeks. their lights stay off so long you wonder if they've moved.
you tell yourself it’s a blessing. a needed vacancy.
(it should be.)
you sleep through the night for the first time in weeks, sans noise-cancelling earbuds and white-noise apps. your mornings are quieter (and you definitely don't spend minutes each morning staring at the vent above your kitchen counter wondering when you'll hear something again). the building settles back into something resembling... normal.
you don’t get any mail that isn’t yours. (which should be a good thing.)
you stop checking the hallway camera on your way home from work. you stop planning your next move at odd hours of the night. (which should be a relief, shouldn't it?)
you catch yourself pausing in the kitchen when a door slams somewhere down the hall, waiting for the tell-tale pair of footsteps, a chance to catch them in the act, to stop holding your breath. but nothing happens.
(you open and re-open the black box nearly a hundred times. you wake up at 3:30 in the morning with your heart in your throat. they're training, you tell yourself. this is their job. you wanted this, you wanted this, you wanted this.)
nothing happens. then everything happens.
1:37 am. monday. keys scrape on the floor above you. a door slams. suitcase wheels stutter across tile, thunk-whine, thunk-whine, the rhythm unmistakable and unwelcome. (welcome home.) you freeze, heart a tight fist in your ribs; irritation hits first. of course they couldn’t be gone for good, they were back to disturb your peace, wreck your life, make you miserable.
then relief. sour, thick, slamming through you. you listen to the subdued laughter stuffed behind walls, and you stay stubbornly in bed, staring at the patch of light bleeding under your door from the hallway. (nope. not going. won’t give them the satisfaction.)
but the pattern returns.
at first, it’s subtle: a stray beat of music, dull and far, seeping through the drywall late tuesday. a clatter of glass bottles. laughter—two, maybe three voices, never more, but always too loud, always right above where your head hits the pillow. you clamber around at midnight searching for your noise-cancelling earbuds, falling asleep to remixes of god-awful pop songs.
but lando and oscar were never subtle.
friday night brings bass so heavy the lamp rattles on your nightstand, voices crashing over each other in slurred crescendo, liquor and something else headier threading the air. and god, you try to be angry. you roll onto your back, curse loud and colorfully at the ceiling. practice the way you'd uppercut both of them if given the opportunity. realize you wouldn't do half the damage you wanted to.
(you'll never admit that you missed the reason to go storming up there.)
you throw back the sheets, pad across the hallway past the elevator, up the echoing stairwell, and the closer you get, the louder it is. you can feel the bass in your teeth, in your collarbones, rattling up through the soles of your feet to your thighs. that familiar flush of nerves, rage rising. (or maybe just excitement. you’ll never admit the difference.)
lando somehow opens the door before you knock—not shirtless, not wasted, just standing there in one of his old karting shirts, collar loose, curls still slightly damp from a midnight shower, eyes much too focused on you. he leans against the doorframe, mouth tilting (never quite a smile). "are y’lost again?"
your jaw sets, resisting the pull of his mouth, the dare in his voice. "you’re throwing another rave."
"could say that," he shrugs, glancing over your shoulder. "missed us?"
"no." (maybe? yes?)
"wanna join?"
you hesitate for a beat too long. "no."
his gaze flickers, obvious. "suit y'rself, then."
the music thrashes through your bones, inside louder than ever, laughter ricocheting from wall to wall. you’re about to turn, to tell him to shut it down, to tell him anything else so he won't leave—when from the living room, clear and bored as anything:
"let her in, lan." (oh, oscar.)
lando shrugs, steps aside. "y'heard him."
you step in, ignoring the heat behind your cheeks, the flush crawling up your neck at the smoke and sugar and sweat and something warm swirling in the air, oscar leaning against the living room window, arms folded, face unreadable in the garish light. a handful of people you don't know gathered around the kitchen counter, backs pressed to the island, yelling over the music, laughing at jokes you don't understand.
oscar doesn't look at you when he cuts the speakers. "party's over."
lando's brows shoot up, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "bit early, mate," he murmurs, but he doesn’t look surprised—that, more than anything, flips your stomach inside out.
oscar's gaze flicks up, across the room, over you, past you, then: "everyone out. now."
lando shepherds the crowd, clapping everyone on the back ("rain check, see y'next time"), dragging footsteps and half-mumbled complaints crossing the threshold, the scrape of coats off hooks, the last pair of heels clacking across the floor. the energy empties out in a seismic wave, and, more suddenly than it feels, it is silent.
the door clicks shut.
lando is standing behind you—close enough that you feel his breath ghosting the back of your neck, more threat than comfort. you don’t move. (won’t give either of them the satisfaction.)
you scoff, voice dry: “i thought that would take a lot more work.”
oscar is already watching you, eyes shadowed against the harsh overhead light. "how was your date?"
(fuck.)
you dig your nails into your palm. "it—fine. it was fine."
lando makes a low, amused sound, somewhere between a snort and a sigh that curls against the curve of your spine. you resist the urge to shiver. "tha's convincing," he chimes in.
"it's true," you snap, turning your head over your shoulder, and that was a mistake, because your breath catches in your throat the second your eyes meet lando’s. his gaze flickers, brows a touch raised, a challenge, a dare, a promise. (come here and see me. come here and see. come here.)
then, his breath just barely brushing your ear, he murmurs, "y’wanna go home?"
your heart stalls. because you should go home. you really should.
lando nudges again, quieter still. just for the two of you. "y'wanna stay?"
and you're not sure if you say yes, or you nod, but lando's mouth finds yours, an explosion of mint-chased cigarettes, and sloppy want, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of the shattered sound echo down your spine.
he's dragging your bottom lip between his teeth like he knows you wanted it (needed it), a thin line of spit stretching between his mouth and yours; heat burns your cheeks as his tongue darts out, licks the strand away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that infuriating too-wide grin.
you've barely caught your breath when there's a hand curling around your stomach to spin you around—oscar. he's got one palm at the base of your spine, and the other anchoring itself at the hinge of lando’s jaw. his thumb traces slow over the mess you made, catching that slick string at the corner of lando’s mouth (cleaning up after you, messy girl, look at what you did).
lando's lashes flutter, running a full-body shudder, and you feel it where his hip is pressed to yours, everywhere you’re tangled together. (you feel it in your goddamn bones.)
oscar's hand slips south just as he kisses lando, almost gentle, except for the way it's not, except for the way watching their mouths share the same breath of air cracks something open deep in your stomach. lando's hands fist in oscar's shirt the same way they had in your hair, wounded need you’ve never seen from him—not on tv, not at the door, not even when he kissed you.
it's reserved for oscar. you understand that now.
you don’t realize you’re staring until oscar breaks the kiss with a soft, low sound—more an exhale than anything else—and shifts to press his mouth to yours.
not hard. not rushed. not sloppy, not hungry. purposeful, controlled. you hate him for it.
he’s correcting the angle, you realize. molding you soft, like you kissed lando all wrong and he’s showing you how it should be, what you should do. the hand at your back tightens, pulling you flush to his chest; the other lingers on lando’s jaw, thumb stroking absent circles there (to kiss both of you at once).
(and you don't hear lando whine—you feel it.)
oscar pulls back just enough for you to see it—the faint shine on his mouth from kissing lando first. it glistens when he drags his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mix of you and him and lando into something you shouldn’t want but do.
and you're getting ready to tell him off for it, but lando's mouth is on you, hot at the column of your throat, two months of restraint branded into a blind, hungry path for skin. (the blind leading the blind, you don't have any more control than he does—)
"easy, mate," oscar warns angling your face toward the wall with a kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "you'll spook her."
lando's exhale punches straight through your stomach. "s-sorry," he says, but he doesn't mean it. (he's been starved off of praise for years, and, fuck, this is what he looks like waiting for someone to give it to him.) his teeth scrape your pulse, forcing a breathy sound of surprise out of you before you can swallow it down. both his hands are frantic—one fisting the fabric at your hip, the other tugging, tugging, tugging until the hem of your sleep shirt slips off your shoulder and pools at the crook of your arm.
(all of a sudden he's higher, fingers grazing the curve of your chest.)
he goes still.
"pretty," lando whispers, the words slurred with want, and you're not exactly sure who he's talking to. he noses at the exposed skin, kissing the skin like he’s thanking it. (thank you, thank you, thank you.) "c-can i take it off?" (he's talking to oscar. about undressing you. like you're not even there.)
oscar steals whatever sound was about to leave you, fondness in the lick he gives your upper row of teeth. it's predatory, but you want it, and you would feel ashamed if you could feel anything at all. "she doesn't seem to mind." he taps the side of your cheek as your eyes roll back, heat lining your cheekbones. "right?"
you barely get out a nod as lando's mouth trails lower, lips closing around the top swell of your breast as he's pulling your shirt down, down, down—"oh—"
oscar's breath brushes your ear when his hand clamps over lando's, halting the motion. (oh, you hate him now, the absolute piece of shit, making you wait, starving you of something he so evidently wants.) "let her take this off." he puppeteers lando's hand where it grips the hem of your shirt. "by the window."
your pulse trips. "the—window?"
both men go still, watching you. assessing. your gaze slams against lando's, his pupils blown black in the half-light, but he doesn’t say a word. he just waits, knuckles white on your hip. (because that's what he does for oscar. waits.)
oscar’s thumb drags slow over your cheek, and you realize you've been quiet for too long. "you heard me. go on."
you want to tell him to fuck off, or at least to pull the blinds, but lando’s teeth are ghosting your skin, and you’re suddenly, unreasonably hot all over. the window’s only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles with your shaky stance. you catch the streetlights flickering beyond, the golden spill of someone else’s kitchen window. it's too early in the morning to catch passerbyes on the street, but the impossibility dwindles.
you half-turn, glancing over your shoulder. oscar’s watching you with that unreadable look from the elevator, a hand lingering alongside lando's hip. you don’t know who you want to impress more. (danger, danger, danger, danger.)
you're curling your fingers under the hem of your shirt when oscar's voice lilts through the room.
"aren't you going to open the window?"
(you're going to kill him.) "oscar."
"yes."
you roll your eyes—try for defiance, but your hands are trembling. "it's—someone could see me."
"so?"
you suddenly find yourself unequipped to handle the english language. "so it's—wrong. and... dirty. and i—"
"—am both of those things." oscar finishes for you, and something hot curls low in your stomach. he nods to where your palm traces over the soft skin of your navel absently, a flash of electricity sparking in his tone. "finish what you started, baby."
"what i started?" you're surprised you've got the breath to spit the words out. still, you reach forward to unlatch the window, beginning to drag the fabric of your shirt over your head, slow enough for them to see, for the world to see, if they cared to look. the air bites at every inch of bare skin you reveal. "y-you put glitter bombs in my vent. and you sent me lingerie."
"which you wore," comes lando's voice as you drop your shirt to the floor. you hear the scrape of his breath catching behind you as you shiver dutifully in the cold february air, nipples pebbling almost immediately under the gaze of the world turning, the pairs of eyes staring fire into your spine.
"only because—" you start to defend, but oscar interrupts, clicking his tongue.
"if you want to talk," he says, barely louder than the wind rattling the glass, "do it while taking off the rest."
you don't talk. but you do keep your eyes pointedly on the window latch, fingers fumbling at the waistband of your shorts.
"go slow" oscar murmurs as you rush, and you hate him for how gentle it sounds. how soft he's being with you. "make it pretty."
your face burns as you peel your shorts down, the fabric catching on your thighs, your underwear following behind it. you kick them away, bare feet against the cold floor, the chill biting up your legs, nowhere left to hide. the february air kisses between your legs, sharp and mean. (oh, that feels nice, doesn't it?)
oscar steps closer, his body a shadow at your back. "look," he says, voice honey-thick and terrible. "how many people can you see?"
you blink, eyes adjusting to the street below. it's a blur of streetlights and shifting shapes, the occasional glimmer of movement. at first, you want to lie—say no one, say it’s empty—but there’s laughter echoing up from the sidewalk, the far-off clatter of heels on wet pavement. you squint, heart pounding.
"n-none," you stammer, but it comes out pathetic.
oscar laughs, low and knowing. "look harder."
lando’s hand ghosts over your hip when your hands twitch by your sides. you swallow. there’s a group spilling out of a taxi, a pair of friends weaving home, someone lighting a cigarette under the yellow haze of a street lamp. oscar’s hand comes to rest at the center of your chest, over your heart, fingers splayed. "how many?" he asks again, mouth at your temple. "how many people could look up and see you right now?"
(honesty burns.) "seven. or—eight."
"fuck," is lando's exhale, palm sliding higher, stomach to sternum, flicking over your peaked nipples. when did they get so close? where did they begin and you end?
"imagine if they looked up," oscar continues, lips brushing your ear. you barely hear him over the sound of your heart. "imagine if they saw you. what would they think, hmm?"
your knees nearly give out. you press your palms to the cold window, the city yawning open below, the air biting at your skin. you bite down on a breath, but it doesn't matter. lando’s hands have found your waist, lips dragging desperate down your shoulder. but then he sinks lower. and lower, and suddenly he's slinking a hand in between your thighs, spreading your legs. (he's on his knees in front of you and staring at your pussy like he wants to pray to it, and oh, god, he better do something about it soon.)
you must jolt forward into lando's hand, because oscar punches out a breath.
"dirty," he grits out, and you can feel the hard press of him behind you, the slow grind of denim against naked skin. "dirty fucking girl." and oh, his thumb reaches through to push ever so slightly at the entrance there, circling the slick gathered from the show you put on. "ever take it back here before?"
shame tangles in your throat. "n-no," you answer honestly, and lando's resounding moan vibrates through your lower half. "guys tried. in the past. but i-i'd let you." (you're saying just about anything to get either of them to do something, aren't you?)
oscar hums, rocking his hips up against you, just once. you nearly choke. "bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?"
"yes," lando responds for you, and you're keenly aware of the way he's tonguing at the inside of your thigh, hot and desperate.
oscar's mouth meets your throat, and you stretch backward, hand stuttering into lando's hair. "would you? hmm?" his palm slides up your spine, curling at the back of your neck. "right here, where anyone could see you? would you let me just—" he pauses, and you hear his belt buckle clink. "—fuck your tight lit—?"
it's lando who doesn’t let him finish.
he moves forward, mouth catching on your cunt, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing short of obscene—half-moan, half-curse, all deep, dark hunger. your forehead hits the cold glass, breath fogging up the view, and you know if anyone looked up they’d see fucking everything, and humiliation courses through your blood.
lando leans his tongue flat, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to taste you, hands digging bruises into your hips, keeping you spread open for him, for oscar, for anyone who might be watching.
"there we go," oscar mutters, prideful. he leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand sliding down, down, down, until his thumb is sliding through the slick mess lando’s making of you, pressing down, not enough to penetrate but just enough to feel your natural resistance give.
"osc—lando—" you gasp when the latter's hands lock around your hips, grinding your body across his open mouth, and you damn near break the window with how hard your hand slams against it.
oscar’s thumb drags lower, circling, teasing, and then—fuck—there’s a second finger joining the first, slick and slow and stretching you open. it’s too much and not enough, and he's not giving you any time to recover, but god, you’re already so close you can taste it. lando groans, tongue somehow dipping inside of you, and you’re a mess down his chin but you know he wants it just as much as you do.
"jesus—y'hear that, baby?" oscar murmurs, clearly pleased, and only then does it occur to you how wet you actually are. you lock up, every muscle straining, right there, so close—
and then he pulls out.
you sob, hips jerking forward, and then you're coming around nothing, white light behind your eyes, knees stuttering against lando's shoulders as he suckles your clit into his mouth then releases it with a slow slip of his tongue, forehead drooping against your thigh. (you're opening your mouth to thank him when he kisses your hip, and you realize he already knows.)
"fuck you," you choke out, hands scrabbling for purchase. "fuck you to hell and fucking back—"
oscar's two steps ahead of you. one second he's lining up, and the next the blunt head of his cock slides easy, too easy, through the mess between your cheeks, hot and heavy, pressed right where you’re aching for it, contracting around nothing.
you shiver when he kisses the back of your neck, smoothing the sweaty hair at your nape. you expect him to scold you, to say something mean back as he gathers your slick in his palm and covers his cock with it. but no.
"perfect girl, sweet girl, fucking takin' it so good, fight me if you want me to stop, put up a fight, pretty—"
and then he's splitting you open so slowly you fold over, hands braced on lando's shoulders.
you squeeze your eyes shut as oscar punches out a choked breath ("tight fuckin' fit—"), a painfully sharp shot of electricity going up your spine. you've barely got your eyes open before you're keening, nails dug deep into the crevices of lando's broad collar. and god, isn't the man himself a sight, jaw slack, cheeks cherry-red, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats.
he shoves them down his thighs just enough to free his cock—flushed dark, leaking in his fist. he doesn’t even bother getting up, just sits back on his heels, hand working himself in time with the way oscar’s fucking you open. his hand tightens when you watch the flush creep up his chest, the way his stomach twitches when you moan.
(he likes the attention just as much as you do.)
oscar's breathing words into your neck, his voice deep, strangled brass, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. "did you miss us? hmm?" (nod.) "gonna let me fuck you like this all the time?" (nod.) "gonna let lando have a turn?" (nod, nod.)
lando whimpers like he can imagine it already, and you feel the sound like a live wire between your legs. you reach for him blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him up, and he goes willingly, cock still in his hand, mouth sealing over yours in a mess of tears and spit.
you kiss him the way oscar taught you—slow, controlled, all tongue and filthy want, and you taste yourself lingering in his mouth, slick and sharp and obscene. lando groans into it, hips rutting into his own fist.
"oh—" he breathes, breaking away to pant against your jaw, "god, 'm gonna come—"
oscar shifts behind you and you yelp, breaking the kiss as he angles your back, pressing your shoulder blades so you lean down, chest nearly touching lando's. his hips are already high into his hand, cock throbbing within reach, and oscar thrusts so deep you see stars as he grits out, "put your mouth on him."
(you almost want to say no. just to see what he'd do. but there's a shine in lando's eyes, oh, god, he's crying for you—)
your lips close around the tip just as his hips shudder up, unintentionally fucking your mouth. his hands fly to your hair, a half-syllable of your name leaving his lips as you close your lips tighter, a soft, possessive kiss in the swirl of your tongue. you barely get any warning before he's going ramrod straight, babbling, "shit, ‘m gonna—" and tumbling off the edge, release flooding your mouth.
you don't swallow. not immediately. not until oscar pulls you upright, presses you flush to his chest, and draws the hinge of your mouth open. "swallow," he says after what feels like hours, and you do, and he's kissing you, and oh, god you've never tasted anything better.
there's an ache in your navel, a desperate, sweet torment that buckles your knees and slackens your spine, and every single nerve ending sings when oscar's hand loops forward, fingers ghosting over your clit, a touch so light it should’ve been too much. it would have been too much, had his cock not sunk in just that inch deeper, had it not been exactly what you needed.
"fuck, 'm gonna—wait—osc—" your eyes roll back, because oh, god, you're going to come, and you can't believe you didn't do this that very first night, you can't believe you let so many months go by without knowing how shallow oscar's thrusts get when he's about to come, how he breathes your name into your spine and hunches forward as warmth splatters along your skin.
(you can't believe you went so long not knowing how it feels to come around his cock.)
you barely catch your breath before lando’s hands meet your hips, strong and sure and steady, catching your weight as you fold forward toward the open window.
oscar pulls out slow, and you wince as he eases away the discomfort, hands moving to the small of your back to trace the warmth of his release there.
"we're not done," he murmurs, enchanted with the way you arch up. "not by a long shot."
♡
note: I NEED HOLY WATER OMG. 😭 you all are INCREDIBLE i know this is longer than most of my works but i hope it serves as something new from me!! once again i apologize for my extended absences—i should have a lil something else coming soon!! LOVE FROM GRACIE!!
The paddock buzzed with the usual frenzy of engines revving and camera flashes, but lately, all eyes were on you—Y/N, the newest addition to the glamorous world of Formula 1 WAGs. As Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, you’d quickly become a fan favorite. Max wasn’t shy about showing his affection: an arm slung protectively around your shoulders as you walked through the garage, his fingers intertwined with yours during press conferences, or a stolen kiss on your cheek after a stellar qualifying session or race win. It was clear to everyone that Max adored you, his usually stoic demeanor softening whenever you were near.
But not everyone knew about your relationship from the start. Max had kept it private, especially from his father, Jos. He hadn’t breathed a word, letting the F1 gossip pages and social media do the revealing for him. So when Jos extended an invitation for dinner via a curt text message—"Bring your girlfriend. We should meet properly"—Max had stared at his phone for a long minute before reluctantly agreeing. "It’ll be fine," he’d told you, though the tightness in his jaw said otherwise.
The evening arrived, and you pulled up to the upscale restaurant in Max’s sleek Aston Martin. You were dressed elegantly—a simple white dress that hugged your figure just right, your hair cascading in loose waves. Max, in a crisp button-up and jeans, squeezed your hand as you walked in. "Just be yourself," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "He’ll like you."
Jos was already seated at a corner table, his posture rigid, a glass of whiskey in hand. He stood when you approached, offering a firm handshake to Max and a polite nod to you. "Max. And you must be Y/N," he said, his Dutch accent thick, eyes appraising you like he was sizing up a new tire compound. "Sit, sit. I’ve ordered some appetizers."
The start was civil enough. A bottle of red wine was poured, and small talk flowed as the server brought out plates of bruschetta and olives. Jos leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "So, how did you two meet? Max isn’t one for details."
You smiled, glancing at Max, who gave you an encouraging nod. "It was at a charity event in Monaco last year. I was there for work, and we just… clicked. He spilled his drink on me, actually—total accident."
Jos chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sounds like Max. Always focused on the track, not so much on the social graces." He turned to his son. "Remember that gala in Amsterdam? You were the same way with… what was her name? Daphne? Spilled champagne all over her dress too."
Max’s fork paused mid-air, but he forced a neutral expression. "Yeah, Dad. Ancient history."
The questions kept coming, innocuous at first. "What do you do for a living, Y/N?" Jos asked, spearing a piece of bruschetta.
"I’m a model," you replied confidently. "Mostly fashion and lifestyle shoots. It’s based in Monaco, which makes it easy to travel with Max."
"Monaco? Nice place. Expensive, though." Jos nodded approvingly, but there was a glint in his eye. "Max has always liked the glamorous types. Remember Kelly? She was from Brazil—model too, wasn’t she? Exotic look, always turning heads in the paddock."
Max shifted in his seat, his hand finding yours under the table. "Kelly was a long time ago, Dad. Let’s not—"
"And before her, there was that Italian girl, Sofia. Actress, right? Or was she a singer? Fiery temper, but she kept you on your toes." Jos waved his hand dismissively, as if reminiscing over old race strategies. "Y/N, you’re from Monaco—born and raised? That’s different. More… polished, I suppose. Not as wild as some of the others."
You felt a flush creep up your neck, but you kept your composure, sipping your wine. "Yes, born there. My family’s been in Monaco for generations."
Jos leaned forward, his gaze sharpening on Max. "Polished is good, but does it push you? Remember how Daniella used to challenge you? Spanish firecracker—she’d argue with you about everything, kept your head in the game. Won you that championship in ‘21, I’d say. Distractions can be useful if they’re the right kind."
Max’s grip on your hand tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Dad, enough with the history lesson. Y/N’s here now. Can we just enjoy the dinner?"
Jos raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I’m just making conversation, Max. Comparing notes. You’ve had quite the lineup—models, influencers, even that one racer’s daughter. What was her name? Elena? Tall, blonde, always at the parties. She fit right in with the F1 crowd. Y/N seems quieter. Is that what you need now? Someone to… settle you down?"
The server arrived with the main courses—steak for Jos and Max, salmon for you—but the atmosphere had soured. You poked at your food, appetite waning, while Jos continued his barrage, each comparison laced with subtle digs. "Sofia had that edge, didn’t she? Pushed you to train harder. And Kelly—God, she was supportive during the tough seasons. Traveled everywhere with you. Y/N, do you plan to do that? Modeling’s flexible, I hear."
Max set his knife down with a clatter, his voice low and edged with warning. "Stop it. This isn’t about them. It’s about Y/N."
Jos shrugged, cutting into his steak. "I’m just saying, son. You’ve got to think long-term. Championships don’t win themselves. The wrong partner can—"
"That’s it." Max stood abruptly, tossing his napkin on the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing stares from nearby diners. "We’re leaving. Y/N, come on."
You rose quickly, heart pounding, as Max grabbed your coat. Jos looked up, surprised but not apologetic. "Max, sit down. We’re not done."
"Oh, we’re done," Max snapped, his blue eyes flashing. "Thanks for the invite, Dad. Real classy."
The car ride home was suffocating in its silence. Max gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. The city lights blurred past the windows of the Aston Martin, the engine’s low hum the only sound. You stared out at the passing streets, replaying the dinner in your head—the way Jos’s words had twisted from curiosity to criticism, each ex-girlfriend’s name feeling like a jab. You didn’t dare speak, not wanting to poke the bear. Max didn’t glance your way once, his focus laser-sharp on the road ahead.
It wasn’t until you pulled into the driveway of your shared Monaco apartment—overlooking the glittering harbor—that the dam broke. Max killed the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, breathing heavily. You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching for the door, but his voice stopped you—rough, laced with frustration.
"This is why I didn’t want to go to dinner," he said, finally turning to you. His eyes were stormy, but there was a vulnerability there that made your chest ache. "I knew he’d pull this shit. Comparing you, digging up the past like it’s some fucking scorecard."
"Max…" you started softly, but he shook his head, cutting you off.
"He shouldn’t have done that. He had no right to bring them up, to make you feel like… like you’re just another one in a line." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neat style from earlier. "You’re everything to me, Y/N. He’s stuck in his own head, always has been. Think’s relationships are just tools for winning races."
You reached over, placing your hand on his thigh. "I know, Max. It’s okay. I didn’t let it get to me."
But he wasn’t done, the words tumbling out now like he’d been holding them in the whole drive. "It’s not okay. He acts like he knows what’s best for me, but he doesn’t. Not anymore. I didn’t tell him about us because I didn’t want his judgment. And now… fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve shut it down sooner."
"Hey," you said, turning his face gently toward you with your hand on his cheek. His stubble was rough under your fingers, but he leaned into the touch. "You did shut it down. We left. That’s what matters."
Max sighed, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. "I just… I adore you, you know that? The way you handle the paddock, the media, all of it."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "I adore you too, Max. Even when you’re being all protective and broody."
He let out a short laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Broody? Me?" He pulled you closer across the console, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It lingered, turning deeper as his hand cupped the back of your neck. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter, more earnest. "Promise me you won’t let what he said stick."
"I promise," you whispered, kissing him again. "Now, let’s go inside. I think we both need a drink that’s not from that restaurant."
Max nodded, finally unclenching. As you walked hand-in-hand into the apartment, the weight of the evening lifted, replaced by the quiet reassurance of just the two of you—against the world, the paddock, and even family.
