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✦ across the hall — lando norris/reader

it's summer when lando norris moves in opposite you. you remember because it'd been 35 degrees celcius that day, you'd already been pissed, and he'd knocked on your door and had the nerve to stare at your tits.

ever since then, you haven't been able to get rid of him. he teases you in the hallway, calls you pet names, brings girls home at two in the morning.

you don't like lando norris. but it doesn't erase the fact that he's right across the hall, and he likes you.

includes — fem!reader, cocky, arrogant, obsessed lando norris, neighbours, unrealistic/inaccurate f1 calender, bad first impressions, slowish burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, p in v, LOTS of flirting, nicknames (baby, gorgeous, etc.), max fewtrell + pietra pilao appearances, misunderstandings, lando's incredibly bad at expressing his feelings, mild angst, alcohol usage radio check — first post in about a millenia but it's finally here!! i seriously had so much fun writing this one, thank you guys so much for waiting <3 word count — 15k

MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.

It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your French lessons from high school would not help you at all.

You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.

The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in French, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’.

“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.” She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.

Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure.

But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.

A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again as if it’ll magically appear in english. It won’t. You know it won’t, but the same desperate delusion that’s taken over your life makes you reach for it anyway.

Your gaze is still on the blender, hand blindly searching through the mess on the marble countertop. The lid, perched dangerously close to the edge, makes contact with your arm, tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter.

“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, her voice high and whiney and dramatic. Hastily, you switch it onto the next channel, a news outlet with monotone speech and dull colouring.

“I think the word for it is burnt out.”

That’s what your agent, Emilie, had told you over the phone a couple days ago. You wanted to scoff at it now—throw the stupid remote on the floor too as a petty release for your frustration.

Burnt out. You wouldn’t be burnt out if the entire universe seemed completely set on your demise.

Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You rise halfway, gaze snapping to the door, motionless like you’re trying to figure out if this is your mind playing tricks on you.

A minute later, there’s another knock, a little louder, one you do when you don’t think anyone is home.

Immediately, you drop everything else in your hands, ecstatic at the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.

You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. Probably another delivery guy, you think, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better.

You swing the door open.

Fuck.

“Hey.”

There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you knowyou’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too.

You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.

Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.

“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.

“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.” You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose.

He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care.

“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?” “I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”

Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation taking its place.

“Oh,” you say, and he smiles. “Right.” “Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.” “Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.” “Probably work.” “What do you do?” “Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”

It's a vague answer. Everyone you asked in Monaco 'worked with cars'. It's how you managed to get your Ferrari in the first place.

You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.

“I—” “Are you staring at my fucking tits?”

He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.

“Well—” “Seriously?” “They’re right there.” “What?!” “How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—” “Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus.” “No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?” “I’m not telling you. Not after that.” “Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”

You slam the door shut.

He doesn't don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before he does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.

You glance at the TV, face flushed red, hands slack at your sides.

“On the topic of sport—Mclaren move up in the constructor standings with another win from their golden boy, Lando Norris.”

There’s a faint ringing in your ears, a mix of horror and disbelief.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.

“I mean, that’s life. Almost costed me a win but I guess I'm just that good.”

You look at the TV, the door behind you, at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this.

The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.

You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. The strap around the back of your ankle digs into your skin, the minidress keeps falling and you’re so tired you’re half-inclined to let it.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.

Lando’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face. He’s in jeans and a plain hoodie. You look like polar opposites.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.

“Hey,” he says, and you hear the smug grin in his voice. “How are you?” “Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?” “You’re not angry anymore?” “At you? Yes. I am.” “For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.” “I don’t give a shit.” He laughs again, the slight rasp in his voice sending something fluttering down your stomach.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on the 17th floor, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.” “Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?” “I’m curious.” “Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”

His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words. “So you know who I am.” “Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.” “And what do you think?” “About what?” “Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.” “Shut up,” you mutter, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.” “Yeah? Who won the last race?” “How would I know?” “Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”

You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer. “You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.” “You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.” “Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.” “You’re a prick.” “Am I?”

The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.

“But seriously, where’d you go?” “I said out,” you fumble for your keys. “Dinner.” “You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?” “Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, sliding your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” “Mm,” he hums. “No.”

You look up at him again, just before you open your door.

He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been noticing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.

“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.” You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.

The door shuts, sending one last draft of cold air and cologne past. You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling straight onto the couch in exhaustion.

The silence aches. You stare up at the ceiling, gaze tracing the ornate plaster moulded in the edges. The aperol from an hour ago is dull, barley buzzing anymore.

You hate silence. It’s one of those things you career had conditioned—the fast paced model environment since your teenage years. There was always the click of a camera, the shouting of a director, the house music that for some reason seemed mandatory for every shoot you went to.

Silence was uncomfortable.

You shift your head to look at the door again, barely visible above the back of the couch.

Maybe that was why coming home had always felt bittersweet. You’d finally get some rest at the cost of pure silence. Now though, Lando had moved in—loud, insufferable, Lando, and for some reason, it felt like something pivotal. Something incredibly major.

“Morning.”

You’ve dragged yourself through another night of endless doomscrolling, of fixed routine. Sun seeps into your apartment building’s hall, the silver numbers on your door glinting.

You pause for a beat at the door, still not quite released from the grasp of sleep, staring ahead of you.

Lando’s shirtless.

His tan skin is bare, toned, disappearing beneath the prominent lines peeking above his joggers. Like usual, he’s got a protein shake in one hand, looking completely refreshed like he’s been up for hours already.

“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me?” “I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you wish I was?” “No.” “Shame.”

You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky, millionaire-status athlete.

“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.” “I’d rather drink acid.” “Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other." “Why would I ever do that?” “I’ll give you an autograph.” “That doesn’t work on me,” you glare. “Go bribe the receptionist downstairs.” “I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you stop at the threshold of your door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.” “Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?” “You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”

The laugh that comes out of you is real. Slightly startled. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.

“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.” “Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?” “That’s personal.” “Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.” “Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.” “So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.” “I’m not telling you.” “Finance? Daddy’s money?”

You scoff, leaning against your doorframe. “Modeling.” “Oh?” he says. “Go figure.” He cocks his head, taking another sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.”

You’ve gotten the compliment thousands of times before. It sounds no different coming from him, and yet you’re instinctively standing straighter, thank you on the tip of your tongue.

Lando shifts too, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, a slow grin taking over his features.

You’d found yourself watching his interviews last night. He’s got a tendency to smile when things he says anything remotely personal. To laugh, scoff, redirect the conversation into something comedic. It makes you think it isn’t just a one-liner. Maybe he really does think you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

But you know better than that.

He opens his mouth, about to say something you know will be incredibly idiotic.

“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”

Lando blinks, mouth closing, words dying in his throat.

“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—” “Unbelievable.” “Baby, c’mon.” “I’m going to be late.”

You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“When will you admit you like me?” he calls, hand gripping your door to keep it open. You’ve got one hand on the door handle, giving it an experimental nudge. It doesn’t move an inch.

“Lando.”

He grins, slowly letting go. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”

You smile back, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.

It’s been three days.

Three days of Lando accidentally showing up in the hallway whenever you do. Three days of his teasing, his faux pleading to make you like him. You hear him at four in the morning, that low voice of his followed by someone else. A girl.

You weren’t jealous. Why would you be? You were more so annoyed at the fact it’d been four in the morning, and they weren’t exactly being quiet. She was nowhere to be seen the morning after, but he’d been there. In his doorway, shirtless, with a protein bar in his hand and a half-assed apology about the noise.

The elevator opens and you sigh, making your way down the hallway. Your clothes feel like they’re sticking to your skin, the leftover photoshoot makeup on your face is uncomfortable.

Fucking Monaco heat.

Lando, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen for once.

You glance in your bag as you walk, sifting through for your keys. The bag—your first ever designer you’d bought with your own money, is full of items that have no business accompanying you to a photoshoot. There’s a sim card from France, an empty box of matches, a forgotten hotel room keycard from your last stay in Italy. More evidence that your life is currently a complete and utter mess.

Your fingers close around your keys just as you make it to your door. There’s no welcome mat outside, just plain, boring marble. You’d never bothered, considering the fact that it’d just been you coming home and you’d felt weird greeting occasional hookups with a fucking welcome sign at the door.

You slide your key into the lock, turning it, hand instinctively already heading in the direction of the light switch. You’re a creature of habit. Of routine. Of the belief that there’s not a mat outside the door, but you’re heel catches on something there anyway.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, glancing down at the marble floor. It’s not a doormat. It’s a thick, glossy magazine, a note on the top and a paperclip marking a specific page.

You snatch it up, the shiny cover smooth against your fingertips.

You snort, plucking the note off of the cover.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?

He’s smiling in the picture, trophy clutched against him, champagne in his free hand. His race suit is half off, tugged down to show the black fireproofs below clinging to his skin. He looks smug, egotistical, like he’s saying I’m better than you even though the camera is looking over him.

You look at every inch of the cover, studying it, gaze greedy though your fingers are already sliding between the pages to the one he’d marked.

Finally, you flick it open. Another podium picture takes up the entire page. It’s softer. His head is tilted back in pure relief, the smile on his face relaxed, eyes shut.

You skim-read the article beside it. The words compassionate and caring making a few appearances, followed by ‘what’s not to like?’. It talks about his rookie year, his home race win, the generic career-oriented stuff, but there’s a specific section towards the end that catches your eye.

“How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?” “First off,” Lando laughs, looking away. “I have to admit I don’t think I’m too good at relationships in the first place. I’m much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text—a weakness of mine, actually.” He looks flustered to admit it, a slip in the usual playful person we see out in the paddock. I ask, “Then what’s your ideal type in a person? Someone equally as bad at replying to text messages?” Again, he laughs, “Sure. I guess. Probably someone who can even put up with me in the first place. Someone who doesn’t just let me get away with everything all the time. Maybe bullies me a little. Also ideally someone who doesn’t know the first thing about racing—I wanna come home and not talk about freakin’ cars all the time, you know? ” “I see. And, I apologise if this is intrusive, have you found that person?” He smiles, leans back in his cushioned chair. It’s more of a smirk. “No. Not yet. I—”

You stop there, at the end of the page, itching to flip over and finish the section. Instead, your gaze snags on the picture again. It’s perfect, really. His smile, the expression on his face. Probably would’ve fooled you if you didn’t know him.

“Asshole,” you mutter, shoving the magazine in your bag and hastily stepping into your apartment. You throw it onto the coffee table in the living room, tucked away like all your other problems. It doesn’t make a reappearance until a few hours later, when you’re in the kitchen, attempting to make one of those ‘nutritious, protein-filled’ meals off of social media that’s probably a sham.

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Mindlessly, you swipe it off the surface, lazily throwing in more pepper into the pot on the stove. It wasn’t like you were too focused on cooking anyway. There was a 90% chance you’d give up and order takeout.

Unknown number — like the gift?

You slam the pepper back onto the counter before you've even read the last word.

You — why the fuck do you have my number?

Unknown number — guess jfc that girl at the reception is incredibly easy to convince should really learn her name

The pot hisses, spitting boiling hot water against your arm, throwing a tantrum you’re not paying attention to it. You curse and turn it off all together.

You — i need to file something against her what’d you bargain this time?

Unknown number — another autograph and a picture this time

You — you’re insane strangely obsessed

Norris — but did you like the gift? thought it was a really good article if i’m being honest i look fuckin mint

You — sure

Norris — don’t tell me i didn’t look hot did you stare at it? for how long?

You — two seconds max

Norris — haha still a bad liar babe are you home?

You — might be why do you care?

Norris — just curious fewtrell and his gf just landed in monaco i’m waiting in the airport rn

You aren’t sure why he’s telling you that. It seemed too personal, like an update you’d tell your friend for no reason at all.

You — right are they staying with you?

Norris — for a week gonna stream you should watch

You — i’m busy

Norris — boooo fine

You chew the inside of your cheek, liking the message, before putting your phone face down on the counter.

He gets home an hour later. You hear another British accent, suitcases against marble, a feminine voice before it disappears into the apartment. Lando laughs, loud, making a joke with a very audible shut up in response.

It makes you glance up from the couch at the door. There are boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table in front of you, half eaten and waiting to be packed into the fridge. A bottle of wine is leaned against your side. Your laptop is open with a new campaign proposal, something to do with a Euro Summer, all prestigious exclusivity.

Your gaze strays again to the hardwood coffee table, the magazine sitting there among the mess of takeout.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?

His perfect face, that trophy in his hand, the glint of pure happiness in his eyes.

You blame that smile when you open up Twitch on your laptop, half an hour later. You blame the wine, the stress that isn’t making you rational. You blame Lando Norris’ frustrating likeability.

He’s already live when you search his name.

As soon as you click onto it, his voice fills your living room. You can see his apartment clearer now, his office by the looks of it. He’s got helmets lined up on one of the shelves, racing sim behind him, trophies scattered here and there like he doesn’t know whether to display them or not. ‘Fewtrell’ is sitting beside him, whispering something that makes Lando let out a loud laugh you think you can hear through the walls of your apartment.

It sinks in then.

You’re watching Lando Norris live, when he’s quite literally right next to you.

“Is this a new setup?” Lando reads from the chat, leaning back into his chair. He smiles, and it isn’t the smile from the magazine. It’s the one he uses in the interviews. “Yes. Yes it is. Moved recently.” “That’s why it looks so much cleaner,” his friend cuts in. “Cause you haven’t even fully unpacked yet.” “Fuck you,” Lando scoffs, nudging him in the side. “I’ve unpacked plenty. Everyone tell Max to shut up.”

You mindlessly click onto your phone, the live still playing on your laptop.

Norris — gonna stream you should watch

Your fingers ghost over the keyboard.

You — its been a week since you moved in should really unpack

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up, a silver of tan skin revealed beneath his hoodie before he snatches up his phone. You watch as he reads the message, eyes flickering to stare straight at the camera, before he starts typing.

Your phone buzzes again.

Norris — knew you weren’t busy how long have you been watching?

“What’re you smiling about?” Max asks, and Lando shrugs, muttering ‘mind your business’.

You — barely a minute don’t get cocky

Norris — never could come over yknow i should introduce everyone to my gorgeously sexy stunning model neighbour

You glance at the live again. He’s smiling wider now, turned to the side like he’s hiding his phone.

“Lando, mate, can you focus?” “I am focused.” “No, you’re texting your freakin’ girlfriend or whatever.” “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “Sure looks like it.”

Lando scoffs, quickly typing something else before sliding his phone into his pocket.

Norris — girlfriend, huh?

Your fingers clench around your phone, heart slamming against your ribs.

“You’re washed,” Max says, and you slowly glance to the screen. “So fucking washed.” “I haven’t played this in like, a year,” Lando answers, dragging his chair closer to the table. He glances at the camera, smiling. It’s triumphant, like he knows you’re sitting there, flushed pink, unable to come up with a reply.

You slam your laptop shut, his voice cutting off mid sentence. The wine bottle beside you tilts, almost falls, until the world decides you’ve been through too much today and lets it perch on the edge instead.

“Fuck,” you say, and it comes out breathy and dry, barely making a sound. There’s a muffled shout from his apartment, a bark of laughter. Clearly, he wasn’t affected as you were.

The thought makes the heat sink into your chest. It makes you snatch up the bottle of wine, turn on the TV to drown out the noise, and throw your phone somewhere else. Somewhere far out of reach.

Everything goes quiet two hours later. You hear his apartment door open, footsteps, the rubbish chute opening and closing, a pause just as he passes by your door.

His door slams shut. Yours doesn't open. Your agent texts you about another project, and you hate how you’re disappointed by the fact it isn’t him.

It’s nine-thirty in the morning, you’ve got a campaign to shoot in an hour and a half, and you’re sitting at a table across from Lando Norris for fucking breakfast.

He’s in jeans, a loose, button up shirt, the top few undone to show perfect tan skin. There are sunglasses resting on the top of his head, colorful fan-made bracelets stacked on one wrist, pink Richard Mille on the other. He cocks his head as he flicks through the menu, tongue darting out every now and then to lick his lips.

He looks unbelievably good.

You shift on your chair, rustic iron scraping on the brick, outdoor flooring. Port Hercule sits right nearby—you see yachts pulling out of the dock already, a sign of Monte Carlo waking up. There’s french chatter, the occasional rumble of a sports car.

You’ve been pretending to look through the menu for the last five minutes. You know what you want already: the usual iced coffee and light meal you get before every shoot, but still pretend nonetheless.

“You’re staring.”

His voice still has the rasp of sleep at the end of it, and when you focus on his face again, he isn’t even looking at you.

“How would you know that?” “I can sense it,” he says, letting the menu fall back onto the table with a quiet thud. He grins, cocky like he always is, “You know I look good.”

You snort, settling back into your chair.

Egotistical, arrogant, idiotic.

Those three words you’ve been repeating to yourself are fading by the minute.

“You look hot. What shoot do you have to be at today?” “Some campaign,” you sigh, also setting aside the menu. “Clothing thing.” “I could probably get you into some F1 promo.” “And end up in the same magazine you were in? I think not.”

His smile widens, and he leans forward. “Did you keep it?” “Keep what?” “The magazine. With my face on the cover.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any blush from creeping onto your face. The magazine is still sitting where you left it on the coffee table, like an accusation, like something so pointed that you don’t want to address.

“You kept it.” “Would be a waste of money if I threw it out,” you lie. “And it matches the colour scheme of my apartment anyway.” “When am I ever going to see your apartment?” “Never.” “You’ve seen mine.” “I’ve seen the door and the hallway.” “And the office,” he adds, eyes glinting with amusement. “Remember?”

You clear your throat, glancing over at the port. He laughs, his chair scraping back as he settles into it again.

“I’m not trying to tease you. This is supposed to be a fresh start, remember?” “Is it?” “I’m trying,” his face turns serious when you look back at him. “I’m formally apologizing for staring at your tits the day we met. It’ll never happen again. Unless you let me.”

You suddenly understand why people let Lando get away with being him. You’ve seen his interviews online—the ones post-race where he’s cocky, high off a win, grinning with sweat glistening down his neck. You’ve seen how he says the most arrogant lines, makes inappropriate jokes, and no one ever seems to reprimand him for it.

He picks up the menu again, only to thumb at the corner of the card, still staring at you.

“Can we start over?” he asks. “Properly. Disregard everything you know about me—pretend I met you yesterday and asked you out.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, “Was this your plan? To lure me out under the ruse of an apology, then turn it into a date midway?” He grins, and you laugh despite yourself, reaching for your glass again.

Maybe if you’d met him earlier—maybe if he’d knocked on your door a mere ten minutes before he did, things would play out different. Maybe he would’ve actually complimented you and asked you out normally. You weren’t sure if Lando Norris was capable of asking a girl out politely, but just for now, you were choosing to believe he could.

“So,” you set down your glass, looking at him. “Lando, was it?” The look on his face is nothing short of delight, and he leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Right,” he answers. “Lando Norris.” “And what do you do for work?” “I drive cars.” You smile, “What kind?” “Formula 1 cars.”

The waiter comes back around with your food. Lando leans back, eyes still on you, relaxed like he’s just taking you in. You don’t snap at him this time. You let him stare like you’d let someone you were dating, you let him appreciate the fact that you’d even agreed to come out with him in the first place.

The rest of your ‘date’ goes by quickly. He’s likeable. You’d learnt that a while ago, but just refused to let yourself believe it. You find out he’s leading the championship, that Max is his best friend from childhood, that he thinks you’re the hottest person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I could drop you off, if you wanted.”

You don’t even realise you’ve been scraping your fork at nothing for the past ten minutes, subconsciously dragging out the conversation. His own plate is empty too, and his arms are crossed, another smile on his face.

“To my shoot?” “Yeah,” he answers, glancing further behind you at his car. It’s obnoxious. A McLaren P1, jet-black, the number plate a combination of LN and a bunch of fours. It screams ‘this car belongs to Lando Norris’, and the amount of stares it had gotten as he’d driven past only proved that further.

“It’s only a ten minute walk.” “You’re in heels.” “Barely.” He frowns, like he’s genuinely offended, “I’m not letting you walk in heels. What kind of date would I be?” “You’re saying you’re one of those guys who’d carry me if my feet got sore?” “Of course,” he reaches for his glass of water, glancing over it at you. “You don’t believe I’d be a good boyfriend?” You raise your eyebrows at him, “I never mentioned anything about boyfriends.” “Still,” he sets the glass down again. “You don’t think I would?”

You’ve, reluctantly, been stalking his past relationships. You know the last two have been Portugese—both models, both the kind of gorgeous that seemed gifted by Aphrodite herself, and every single break-up addressment had said the same thing: praise and the stereotypical “we just want different things”. He seemed like a good boyfriend, but you weren’t sure if that was the PR talking or not.

“I don’t know,” you answer, truthful. “I’d give you about a six out of ten for offering to drop me off.” He lets out a laugh, laced with surprise, “A six out of ten?” “Point-five if you walk me in too.” “Seriously?” “No,” you scoff. “I’m kidding. You don’t need to drop me off.”

He sighs, heavily, and you hear the scrape of his chair before you register him moving to stand.

“What’s the address?” “Lando,” you start, but he reaches out a hand, holding it in the space between you.

We’re still on a date, he seems to silently say, keep pretending you like me.

You haven’t been pretending. Not for the past hour. You feel like you should tell him—reassure him maybe, but then he’d tease you about it for the next month.

“Knew you’d cave,” he says when you let him help you stand. His hand trails to your waist, voice smooth in your ear. “You know, I think we’d be good together.” “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say as he guides you past the various tables, briefly stopping at the front counter to tap his card. “This is a one time thing.” His grip tightens, thumb grazing the skin of your waist.

“Sure,” he says.

There’s a feeling in your gut that this’ll be far from a one time thing. You know that he knows it too.

Lando’s halfway through your Instagram feed when there’s a sharp bang on his door.

He pauses, thumb hovering over a picture from about two years ago, dragging his attention to hallway. He’s leaned against his kitchen counter shirtless, cereal half-eaten next to him. Max and Pietra had left for their early flight an hour or two ago. His own empty luggage he’s meant to be packing for the next few races lays strewn around his living room.

It’s silent. Slowly, he glances back at his phone.

There’s another bang, louder, someone knocking impatiently, then—

“Lando! Open the fucking door!”

Ah, fuck.

He drops his phone on the counter, stretching as he makes his way to the hallway.

“Morning,” he says when he swings open the door. He leans against the doorframe, smiling, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You glare at him, phone in one hand, hair slightly messy like you’d just gotten up too.

“What the fuck is this?”

He glances at your phone, at the picture sitting there.

It’s the two of you, his hand around your waist, you glancing up with your eyes slightly wide. It looks strangely intimate, actually. Lando saw it about twenty minutes ago on his own Instagram feed.

“Was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he admits, taking your phone and swiping through the rest of the pictures. There’s more of the two of you at the cafe, some in his car, photographed perfectly so the angle makes it look like you’re closer than you are. “If it makes you feel better, I had no clue.” “No, that doesn’t make me feel better.” He grins, handing it back and turning to walk inside his apartment. The door is left open like an invitation, and you follow him, glaring.

“Lando.” “It’ll blow off within a couple of days,” he answers, returning to the kitchen counter. He picks up the spoon from his bowl of cereal. “I promise. Don’t stress your pretty little head about it.” “I’m not stressed. I’m pissed. You—” “Isn’t it your job to be photographed?” “Not while I’m having breakfast with an athlete.” “A hot athlete.” “Go fuck yourself.”

He huffs out a laugh, muffled by the spoon in his mouth. Your anger wears off a little when you tear your attention off of him.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his apartment, you realise.

It looks the same as yours—the same layout, marble countertops, herringbone flooring. It’s messier though, more photographs on the walls, trinkets he’d presumably gotten from fans. His apartment looks more lived in than yours, though he’s only been here for a couple weeks. It smells like him too—cologne, linen, a hint burnt toast like he’d failed at cooking breakfast this morning.

“Where are you going?” you ask when you catch sight of the suitcases. “Moving again?” “You wish,” he says, still eating his cereal. “Nah. Race this week.” “You’re gone for a week?” “Three. Triple-header and I’ll be in London for conveniency. Closer to MTC.”

You don’t understand a word he’s saying, apart from the fact he’s gone for three weeks. Three.

“Oh,” you manage, and he stops, spoon pausing in his bowl. “Right.” “Gonna miss me?”

Probably.

The thought isn’t as startling as you thought it’d be. You’d gotten used to him recently—relied on him in fact, to fill the silence you’d dealt with every time you came home. You wouldn’t tell him that though, of course.

“No,” you say, and he smiles like he sees right through you. He pats the countertop, and you move without realising, pulling back the stool opposite him. “Might have some peace and quiet for a little.” “You’re gonna miss me.”

You don’t agree or deny it this time. He finishes off his cereal, chucking his dishes in the sink before facing you again. You try ignore the fact that the sight of his back muscles moving sends a flush of pink crawling up your neck.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Yesterday. That you were leaving.“ “Didn’t think you’d care that much,” he shrugs, resting his forearms on the counter. “Plus it’s only three weeks. You’ve lived without me for, what? Few years?” You don’t answer, and he stands up straighter, head tilting.

“I’m only gone for a little bit.” “I know.” “You seem—” he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem like you actually care.” “Do you think I hate you?” “Sure looks like it.” “I don’t,” you say. “Hate you. I don’t love you, that’s for sure, but I don’t hate you.”

His head is still tilted at you, fingers mindlessly tapping on the marble countertop.

“Will you watch?”

You blink up at him. He chews at the inside of his cheek, fingers still tapping, restless.

“Do you want me to watch?” “Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. Obviously.”

His voice is softer than usual—careful, like he’s holding something in. You want to answer him, make a sharp comment that’ll ease the tension. Instead, you stay quiet, leaning forward the slightest inch without even meaning to. His gaze flickers to your neck, the thin strap of your top, stopping at where the counter blocks off the rest of you.

“You look good.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“I just woke up.” “I know.” “You weren’t waiting in the hall this morning.” “It isn’t eight-thirty yet.”

The time you’re usually out in the hallway. Even you didn’t know that about yourself.

“I should go.” “Stay.” “I’ve got work.”

You push back your chair, and he’s instantly moving, trailing after you.

“Not even for another few minutes?” “I’m already off schedule.”

You pass by a framed picture of a car—his Formula 1 car. There’s a shelf next to it, one full of what looks like a bunch of magazines and decorative pieces. There are photos too, polaroids of his friends, a girl that you don’t recognize.

He catches your wrist just as you continue past it, almost at the threshold of the front door.

“Is there some kind of limit on how much you let yourself near me everyday?” “An hour. Max.” “It’s barely been ten minutes.” “More time for later, then.”

His grip tightens, and you swear you feel his thumb graze over your skin. “My flight is in two hours.”

He looks desperate now, his voice still soft, reasoning.

“More time for when you get back, then,” you say, glancing at his hand. “In three weeks.”

Again, his thumb traces over your wrist. You swallow, an attempt at regaining any sense of rationality. His cologne is intoxicating now, and when you look up at him, his hand trails to your waist instead.

“You’re in my apartment,” he says, more to himself. “Jesus.” “I know that.” “Do you always look this good?”

You’ve learnt to stop expecting him to stay on a single thought. It’s like he says whatever crosses his mind first, without a care in the world about an answer.

His other hand settles at the small of your back, tugging you close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—the tension, the intensity of him standing there.

“Lando.”

He hums in response, somehow not focused yet entirely fixated on you.

You make the mistake of glancing away—glancing down, at his bare torso. At the defined lines disappearing beneath his joggers. When you look up again, a single thought runs through your head.

You want to kiss him.

You want to know how his skin feels, how he tastes, if his stupid, cocky exterior followed into his sex life. He lets his gaze roam too, and you know the same exact thoughts are circulating in his head.

Just at you move closer the slightest inch, he lets go.

“I think I’ll miss you,” he says, arrogance returning in full force. You’re still breathless, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s already smirking, hands sliding into his pockets. “You and your gorgeous face.”

It’s silent for a few beats. He raises his eyebrows, standing there in all his infuriating glory, like he hasn’t just baited you into almost kissing him.

You can’t fucking believe him.

“Fuck you.” “I’ll dedicate a win to you.”

You turn away, wrenching open his front door and storming out of his apartment. He follows, leisurely, stopping at the doorframe.

“Promise you’ll watch?” “Go fuck yourself.”

You slam your door shut, letting it ring in the hallway. It’s the last time you see him in a month.

Dates before hook-ups had never really been your thing.

Some people liked it—the whole package, being wined and dined before ultimately back to a hotel just to fuck. You liked getting it over and done with as quick as possible.

It sounded sad, and only after your friend from home had told you so, you’d decided to trythe entire process for once instead.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

You glance down at the man beneath you.

He’s got dark hair, dark features, the typical Monegasque, billionaire look. You think his name starts with an M.

“Sometimes,” you smile, hands trailing up his chest. You resist the urge to look at your bedroom door, at the wall like you can see the apartment right across your own. You’d sat through an entire, boring dinner for this moment. You refused to let yourself get distracted.

It’s been three weeks since Lando left for his races in Europe.

You’ve settled back into normalcy. Routine. No one bothers you every morning in the hall, no one nags you with questions in the elevator. Your phone remains silent—your entire apartment floor remains silent.

It’s weird.

Theoretically, it shouldn’t be weird. It should be the opposite of weird. You should be relieved, actually. Instead, you’ve been filling his absence with hookups, with the same impulsive purchases prior to him moving in, with races playing on your stupidly large TV.

He’d won in the Netherlands. You’d wanted to text him then—to tell him you’d watched, that you were so happy you’d spilt a glass of wine as he’d crossed the checkered flag. But you hadn’t, and your last messages were still from when you’d scheduled that breakfast together a month ago.

You don’t realise your gaze has already strayed away from the man in your bed. He’s been talking this entire time, more compliments, probably.

“Hello?”

You snap your head back to him, blinking. He’s got an irritated look on his face, and he sits up, making you fall onto the bed beside him.

“Am I too boring for you?” “What?” “Clearly, I am, considering the fact a fucking wall holds your attention better.”

He stands, snatching up his discarded clothing around your bedroom. You sigh, heavily, watching him from your bed. You’re still in lingerie, a pale blue lace set, dainty, and something you probably shouldn't be wasting on a random hookup.

“I knew you were entitled. An entitled, spoiled brat with an apartment she probably doesn’t even pay for herself.”

The man is still talking, and you roll your eyes, sliding off the bed when he walks out of your bedroom.

“You’re wasting an entire night, by the way,” you say, following him to the door. It wasn’t like you wanted to have sex with him anymore, but you did want an orgasm. You could probably shut your eyes and pretend it was someone else, and that was enough for you.

“I don’t care,” he says, and you stop at your front door, watching him tug on his shoes. “You’re a bitch.” You don’t answer that, stepping aside to let him pass.

“Spoiled fucking—” he mutters something else in French, shaking his head as he continues down the hall. You watch him, resting your head against your doorframe, still in your lingerie.

“Night,” you call, and just before he can press the button for the elevator, the doors open.

You freeze, blood turning cold.

Fuck.

Lando steps out of the elevator as the man steps in, suitcase and bag dragged next to him, hood thrown over his head like he’d just gotten off a flight.

“Already called someone to replace me?” your hookup says, and you shut your eyes, sighing again. You want to die. You want to sink into the wall and disappear. “Real fucking classy.” “Shut up and go home,” you answer, and the elevator doors close.

The hallway goes silent.

You open your eyes again, and Lando is by his own apartment door, barely a meter away from you.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice makes something inside of you flutter. One hand is around the handle of his suitcase, the other slack by his side. He looks exhausted. You think there might be circles beneath his eyes.

“Hi,” you answer, suddenly too aware that you’re still in fucking lingerie. “You’re back.” “I’m back.” “And, um—” you gesture in his general direction. “Yeah.” “Who was that?”

You wince, looking away again.

“No one.” “Didn’t seem to like you very much.” “I know. I zoned out when we were about to have sex.” Lando laughs, and it’s raspy, tired—hot.

“Do you wear that for every hookup you have?” he asks. “Or did you know I was coming home tonight?” “I’m not wearing this for you,” you scoff, fixing the strap of your bra. “Do you wish I was?” “Obviously.” “Five minutes in and you’re already flirting.” “Negative,” he says. “You’re in a fucking lace set.”

A cold draft of air flits past, and you mindlessly wrap your arms around you. He tracks the movement, jaw flexing.

“You didn’t answer my question.” “Would you be jealous if I said yes?”

He releases his hold on his suitcase, stepping closer to you.

This is what you’re used to now—what you’ve been missing for the past three months.

You know what you probably look like. The flush from earlier hasn’t exactly worn off yet, your hair is probably messy from hands tangling themselves in them, you’re in lace that you know makes you look good.

Lando smiles. It’s one of his cocky, smug, smiles.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you meant it to, softer. “And second place. Twice.” His smile falters a little.

“You watched.” “You asked me to watch.” “I know—I just—” he stops, glances at the strap of your bra, then turns away back to his suitcase. “Fuck.” “What’s wrong?”

When he turns back around, he’s got a shirt in his hands.

“Can’t focus when you’re dressed like that,” he admits, handing it to you. “Not that I don’t like it. Just wanna have a proper chat.”

It’s his Mclaren jersey, four clear on the back, black and orange. You thumb over the material for a second, before shrugging it on.

Lando jaw flexes when you look at him again.

“Suits you.” “I knew you’d say that.” He scoffs, head tilting towards his apartment.

“When did you land in Monaco?” you say, following him inside. “Couldn’t you have texted me?” “We haven’t texted for a month, gorgeous.” “I know, I just—” his door shuts behind you, leaving you still flushed, standing in the hall of his apartment. He throws his keys on the wooden console table by the door, lazily resting his suitcase against the wall. “Give me a heads up or something. So I don’t have a fucking hookup when you get back.”

He pauses, glancing back at you.

“You missed me,” he smiles. “Didn’t you?” “I—” “I missed you too.”

He moves closer, and it gives you a rush of familiarity. The blush on your neck must’ve spread to your face, because he lets out a soft laugh, hands settling on your waist.

“I thought about you a lot. On the plane home, on the podium,” one hand slides beneath his jersey, resting on your skin. “In my hotel at night.”

You try not to focus on his face too much. Ultimately, it doesn’t work, and you find yourself studying it instead. He looks exhausted, shoulders tense, his voice lower than usual.

“What’d you think about?” you ask, but the words sound distant in your own head. “Coming home and tormenting me again?” “I thought about your pretty face,” he corrects. “The way you looked in my apartment before I left.” “When you baited me?” He smiles, palm warm on your waist, “I never baited you.” “Sure felt like it.”

You’re still mad at him for it. Mad that he hadn’t finished what he’d started.

“Did you want me to kiss you then leave you for a month?” He says. “Would you have rather fucked and then lived through a month in silence?” “We wouldn’t have fucked.”

He laughs at that. It’s short and incredulous, so insufferably sure in himself it makes you want to slap him.

“Don’t kid yourself, baby.” “Fuck you.” “Is that your natural response whenever I know you’re lying?” “It’s my response when you’re being arrogant,” you answer. “You can’t just start something and not—” “You think I don’t want to finish this?” he says, still amused. “I want to kiss you more than anything—I’ve wanted to kiss you the second you opened the door two months ago. I want to fuck you and have you wear that set for me. Not some shitty fucking hookup you don’t even know the name of.”

You throat is dry, heart stuttering in your chest at the words. Heat spreads through you, through your thighs, still bare but covered by his jersey.

“Then why don’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you intended. “Instead of waiting when you know it’ll happen?” “You deserve better than that,” he answers, and one of his hands move to your face instead, fixing your hair behind your ear. “You deserve to be obsessed over. Not to be taken out to dinner once just for the part that comes after.”

He pulls away, both hand sliding into his pockets. You take a step back, just to breathe, tearing your gaze away. His apartment looks untouched from a month ago,

When you finally have the courage to look at him again, he’s smirking.

“I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you a lot.”

Your fingers curl at your sides.

“Congratulations on your win,” you end up on, reaching for the door. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t stop you. He stands there, relaxed in his ownapartment, gaze flickering to your thighs knowingly.

“Goodnight, gorgeous.”

Lando hates being mature.

He hates making actual, rational decisions, ones that make him wait instead of giving things to him instantly. For example: not fucking kissing you when he’d had the chance. Twice.

He winces every time he thinks about it, sighs when he passes by the entry of his apartment. The image of you in his jersey, the pale blue set beneath it, continues to randomly flash in his head. Tormenting him. Except it feels less like torment and more like unshakable regret.

The stack of magazines in his living room seem to stare at him everytime he brushes past. Most are ones of himself, things he plans on planting outside your apartment with stupid notes attached.

The other half of the stack is magazines you’d sent him, back when everything had been fine. Magazines with you on the cover, so, incredibly gorgeous that he’d always stopped in his tracks when he’d picked them up. One of them is of Oscar. His teammate. Your own hand written note still attached: the better mclaren driver x, and he remembered immediately knocking on your door and playing hurt about it.

It was a joke. He knew it was a joke, but it didn’t stop the flare of jealousy that’d sparked inside of him anyway.

His gaze strays from the stack, to the white box on the table next to it.

It’s lingerie. Lacy, light pink, gorgeous, inside an equally as delicate box. It’d probably be even prettier on you—the whole reason he’d bought the damn thing anyway. It sits there like a shadow, like a guilty secret, waiting for the right moment he can give it to you and play it off like another fucking joke when you both knew it wasn’t.

He wants you. Badly. And yet he was holding himself back for some Godforsaken reason.

He hasn’t seen or spoken to you for the past two weeks. The rhythm the two of you had settled into feels tense, throwing every possible interaction out of sync.

It feels like you’re avoiding him—it probably feels like he’s avoiding you. He’s not. He, for once in his life, just doesn’t know what to do or say.

It doesn’t help that another week later, you’re not even in Monaco.

He hears you leave, the sound of suitcases on marble, unfamiliar voices and laughter. Another two hours and, like some deranged, obsessed admirer, he finds out through your friend’s Instagram stories that you’re on a private jet halfway to Mykonos, Greece.

When he drags himself through the rest of the day, through to the next morning, you’ve posted in a nightclub that he’s been to before. He studies the picture, the group you’re with, the men specifically. One of them is looking at you, but your eyes are closed, smiling, too caught up dancing with your friends to notice. Lando can’t tell if the man is staring at you in a casual, passing glance way, or a I wanna have sex with you way.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses his phone out of reach, and decides he really needs to keep himself distracted for the rest of the time you aren’t here.

He does. Well, he tries.

He focuses on the upcoming triple header. He focuses on fulfilling every single one of Jon’s insane, training requests. He lets himself scroll on Instagram for a maximum of ten minutes everyday, as if he owes it to himself.

You post from clubs, from hotels, from yachts. Your skin glows, you look more carefree than he’s ever seen you. He’s never been so mesmerized in his life.

It’s five days into your absence when you post the picture he’d subconsciously been waiting for.

You’re leaned against a man.

Lando’s fingers hover over the picture, hood pulled over his head, sitting on one of the benches of his gym. There’s a drink in your hand—champagne, and you’re leaning back, the man’s arms draped over your shoulders. The coastline of Mykonos beautiful in the background, the kind of picture that unintentionally makes you feel inferior. The kind of picture he’d sometimes post, albeit without holding a girl against him.

He shuts his phone, shoving it into his bag, restarting his reps with a newfound sense of determination to get you out of his head.

You get back a week later There’s no laughter or conversation this time. Just your suitcase, your keys, the quiet shutting of your apartment door.

His heart is instantly slamming in his chest again, and yet for another excruciating seven days, he doesn’t see you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, tilting his head back against his couch.

He feels like shit.

For the entirety of this past month, he's felt like shit. He knows he should just knock—just talk to you, but he's gone so long without that he thinks he doesn't know how.

His apartment is awfully quiet for ten o’clock at night, silent apart from his nagging thoughts of regret.

He wants you to be the girl he’s spotted with in headlines. The girl people speculate about, instead of some random model he’d danced with at a club in Ibiza. He wants you with him on yachts, on planes, standing in parc ferme after a win. He’s wanted you since he’d stared at your fucking tits almost half a year ago.

It’s then that he realises he needs to do something. Something that doesn’t consist of sulking about you, thinking about you, or frankly, anything to do with you. Maybe an evening run, or a session on his sim. Maybe he could call up Max despite it probably being about two in the morning over in London.

Or, maybe, he could just knock on your door, kiss you, and see what happened from there.

He glances at the white box on the coffee table, the magazines beside it.

The media had always called him blessed. Mclaren’s golden boy. Incredibly, miraculously lucky. As he finally stands, slipping out of his apartment, he thinks it might be true.

Jimmy’z is as loud as it always is.

He’d called up Carlos, asking what he was doing and where he was, and it’d led him here. To the most exclusive club in Monte Carlo. It smelt like alcohol, like intoxicating perfume, the music pulsing so loud in his head he can’t think.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Carlos asks him at the bar, waiting for their drinks. “Surely can’t be the championship. You’re leading by a mile.” “No—it’s not,” Lando answers, staring ahead of him. “Something else. Personal.” “When’s the last time you had sex?” He winces, glancing over, “Seriously?” “Two months, then.” “Fuck you.”

Carlos laughs, taking their shots from the bartender and sliding one across to Lando. He downs it instantly, savouring the burn in his throat and praying it’s enough to ease his tension.

“How about—” Carlos’s hands are on his shoulder, steering him to look in the direction of a girl. “Her. Blonde on your left.” “I’m not doing this, Carlos.” “No?” he surveys the crowd, before steering him again. “Her?”

Lando freezes. Carlos, too busy with his ongoing bit of listing random women, doesn’t notice.

You’re standing there, in a dress that glints beneath the strobing lights, drink in your hand, a carefree smile on your face as you talk to a group of your friends.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—

Lando’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears it drowns out the music.

You look beautiful.

It's the first time he's seen you in almost a month, but that's all that's running through his head.

He can see the way you’re talking, using your hands, more animated than he’s ever seen you before. Just as he can even choose to tear his gaze away, for both your sakes, someone’s approaching you.

He’s tall, blonde, frame nudging past people with the clear goal of getting to you. When he does, you blink, smiling and shaking his hand.

It’s nothing like the first time you and Lando met. It plays out perfect—the man makes you laugh, complimenting you by the looks of it, and you’re already pulling your phone out of your purse.

Something sparks deep inside of him. Jealousy. A pang of something possessive when he knows it isn't fair. Still, he’s moving, cutting Carlos off mid sentence.

“Where are y—” “I’ll be back.”

He reaches you in under twenty seconds, managing to catch the ends of your conversation.

“Did you want another drink?” “Yeah, that’d be—”

The man steps aside just as Lando stops in front of you. He watches your attention shift, watches the recognition flash across your features.

“Lando?”

The man blinks, head snapping towards him. You’re frozen on the spot, gaze darting between the two of them.

“Sorry, man,” he says, and Lando straightens. “Kinda busy h—” “Leave.”

The command comes out short. Rude, but Lando can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m sorry?” “Leave,” he repeats, and you’re silent, hands lowering to your sides. “Now.” “Excuse m—” “Get the fuck out,” he says, stepping closer. You tense, but stay quiet. “Do I have to make you?” The man scoffs, muttering something and disappearing into the crowd.

It leaves you and Lando silent again.

“What the fuck are you—” “Not here,” he says, grabbing your wrist to lead you out the back. “Fuck.”

You stumble outside, glass still in one hand, a glare on your face. The heavy door slams shut, and Lando releases his hold.

“What the fuck was that?” “I dont—” “What gives you the fucking right?” you say, voice raising. “You think you can dictate who I talk to just because we live opposite each other?!" “No, fuck, baby—” “You’re a fucking dick, Norris.” “I know.” “You’re arrogant, cocky, egotistical—” you shove him, and he doesn’t resist, staggering back. “You ignore me for a month and this is the first thing you fucking do?!”

He winces, rubbing his shoulder. You’re breathless, face flushed pink, looking at him with disdain. “I wasn’t ignoring you.” “Fuck you.” “I wasn’t,” he repeats, moving closer. You step back, and he doesn't try again. “I was just—I didn’t know what to—” “Is this a game to you? Am I a game? Are you testing to see how long you can keep me waiting for and how long I’ll keep letting it happen?”

He shakes his head, and you lean against the wall, exhaling.

“Were you…” he starts, and you look at him. “Planning on fucking him? And the guy in Greece—” “You’re unbelievable." “Were you?” “Would it matter?” “Yes. A lot.” “Tell me why.”

Because I’m in love with you.

“Because you’re out of his league.” “Lando,” you laugh, disbelieving. “Don’t fucking lie.” “Were you hoping I’d say something else?” he grins, then immediately curses himself. What the fuck was he doing? “That I’d say because I want to fuck you?” “Don’t you?”

His smile falters.

“What?” “We’re unfinished, remember?” you say. “What happened to wanting to kiss me? To fuck me more than anything? No, I wasn’t planning on have sex with him, or anyone, but God I sh—”

He’s moving before you even finish the last word, hands fitting around your waist, lips crashing against yours with six months worth of want. Of need. One hand slides up from your waist to your jaw, the other sliding beneath your dress, warm on your skin.

You smell so good, like vanilla and lip gloss and champagne. Like everything he’s ever been searching for. It’s overwhelming. Filling his head until all he can think about is your lips, your tongue against his. He feels you chasing him back—nails digging into his shoulder, head tilting, lips parting so easily for him.

It’s better than any other kiss he’s had in his life.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.” You let out something between a whine and a moan, quiet, probably accidental. He feels your hands tangle in his hair, the warmth of your body as you arch against him. Impulsive, his hand trails down again, skimming beneath the waistband of your panties. You whimper then, hand catching his wrist to keep it still.

“Lan—” you start, eyes shutting as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing beneath your ear. You find his lips again, and there’s a sense of desperation, urgency. “I—fuck. Just—”

He abruptly pulls away, breathless, stumbling.

You stay still, face flushed pink, dress, creased from his roaming hands. He knows he probably looks the same, maybe worse. It’s silent, apart from the sound of ragged breathing and muffled bass from the club.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I…” Your eyes are wide and startled, watching as he presses his fingers to his mouth, lowers them, then covers his face. “Lando—” “I’ve got a triple header this week,” he bursts out. “U.S, Mexico, Brazil. I leave tomorrow morning.”

You’re still panting, motionless, processing the words.

“So you’re gone for—” “Three weeks.” “A month.” “Almost a month.”

His heart is racing, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Before you get to even open your mouth, he reaches for you again. You’re not even surprised, kissing him back with the same exact intensity. It feels different from the first two. It feels like another promise, one that he knows he’ll keep, one that says when I get back, you and me are real.

“I'm not waiting for you any longer.” “I know,” he mutters, thumb grazing against your cheek. “I know that. I promise.”

He steps back again, and you’re already moving to your apartment door, pausing just as you turn the door handle. You aren’t smiling at him. Your lips are parted, blush dusted across your skin. When he forces himself away, you stop him.

“Lando.” “Yeah?”

You smile then—pefect, fucking angelic, and he almost reaches for you again.

“I missed you.”

Fuck.

You’re not sure when you realised you might be in love with Lando Norris.

As far as you remembered, he’d always been the same. He’d run into you in the hall every morning, in the elevator, on the way in and out of the building. He’d make the same shitty jokes, flirt in the most arrogant way possible, slide his hand around your waist when you’d sift through your mailbox.

It’s hard to tell, because Lando is so, undeniably, him.

You don’t know whether a shitty pick up line means something else. You don’t know if the small graze of his thumb on your skin is accidental or pointed. He calls you gorgeous, baby, a smile on his face that seems all too knowing, then you open your phone the next day to an article titled ‘Lando Norris spotted with model in Ibiza’.

You think you might’ve realised after that night in his apartment. It’d sat at the back of your mind like a shadow, a constant reminder that the two of you were ‘unfinished’. Whatever the hell that meant.

Or maybe it’d been the silence that came after, the month of tension, of absence that’d felt like torture. You’d hated it so much you’d left for Greece in hopes you’d return home to normalcy.

Mykono’s had been dreamlike. The coastline was gorgeous, you’d spent your days on yachts and nights in clubs. You’d met a guy called Elias—Greek perfection, and that had been it. You’d only met him. You hadn’t gotten his number, had sex, gone any deeper than knowing his name and age and the name of his dog.

All you could think about was home. Of your apartment and Lando, right across from it. You thought about his shitty pick up lines, his touch, the magazines always tossed outside your door. You thought about him, staring at the sea like you could see Monaco, and when you’d arrived home, he hadn’t been there waiting.

Naturally, you’d done the only thing you knew how whenever your life was thrown into disarray. You’d gone to Jimmy’z, with the sole purpose of getting wasted, but the universe, as you’d established almost six months ago when he’d moved in, absolutely hated you and you’d run into him anyway.

You remember being so, unbelievably frustrated. Frustrated at the sheer audacity of him, the shitty greeting after a month of pure silence.

But then he’d kissed you. You still couldn’t get the feeling out of your head—his hands on your waist, sliding up the planes of your stomach, your jaw, slipping down briefly to dip at the waistband of your panties.

Then he’d fucking left. Again. Without another word. Leaving only another promise and a white box outside your door.

It’s been five days since the kiss. Four since he'd left, leaving another promise in his wake. Four since you’d opened that perfectly wrapped box he'd left outside your door.

Lingerie. Light pink, dainty, lingerie.

You were sure you were reading into it too much. This was Lando, after all. Someone who jumped at the opportunity to make things amusing when they got too personal—but the thought of it. The thought of him seeing the set and thinking of you.

You tear your gaze away from the box, over to the screen instead, the Grand Prix in Austin on lap 55. Lando’s leading, like you’ve discovered he usually is. When he crosses the line in first, you’re not even looking. Your gaze has slid over to the box again.

It’s then you decide you’re going to something completely and utterly stupid.

You — [ 1 image attached ] congrats on the win

A wave of regret washes over you the moment you hit send.

The picture stares back at you on your phone: you, on your fucking knees on the plush, duvet of your bed, the pink lace flush against your skin. It’s a good picture. A really good picture, and yet you want to throw your phone off the balcony despite it.

He doesn’t answer for ten minutes. An hour. Two.

You swipe onto the messages again, debating whether to delete everything and block his contact, curled up in bed with the set still on, when—

Lando — fuck fuckfuckfuck what the fuck baby baby what the fuck

The torrent of messages makes you sit up, thighs pressing together, blush already making its way up your neck.

Lando — no you can’t do this not while i’m away for another two weeks i’ll book a flight back to monaco right now i’m not even fucking joking

You — be patient norris

Lando — are you still wearing it??

You shift slightly, debating on whether to send him another picture.

You — [ 1 image attached ]

Lando — oh fuck you’re gonna kill me

You — what took you so long to answer earlier?

Lando — post race celebration debrief whatever the hell knew i should’ve checked my phone sooner

You — where are you?

Lando — hotel im meant to go out with everyone in twenty minutes fuck

You can imagine him in his room, his face tinted crimson. You can imagine his voice, picture his touch you so badly craved.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando — if i win all three of my races you wear that set for me when i get home

Your fingers clench around your phone.

You — deal

Then you slide your phone onto your bedside table, silent, like it’ll soothe your racing heart.

The day of the Brazil Grand Prix, two weeks later, you’re curled up on the couch, anxiously biting the pad of your thumb as you watch. You’d found yourself watching the recent races with more attention than any other. Probably because of the looming shadow of the deal you’d made with him, growing closer with every lap he spent in P1. He’d won Mexico last week with a 25 second gap, Austin with 10, but this one was different. It held more weight.

The commentator raises his voice, saying words that have no meaning to you, until—

“Lando Norris wins the Brazilian Grand Prix!”

You can’t breathe. Your body rushes with adrenaline, with anticipation, heart thundering against your ribs.

An hour later, you get the text.

Lando — i’ll be back on monday

The day Lando Norris had moved in across the hall, you knew your life would change.

Did you think it’d change this much? No. But you knew it’d change, and the revelation gave you a sense of unexplainable comfort.

He gets home on Monday, eight pm. You’d spent the entire day pacing, then attempting to be productive, then pacing again. The lingerie had stared at you from its spot on your chair, accusationally, waiting for the moment you reached for it again.

You hear him walk into his apartment. You count the minutes until he comes out again, until he knocks.

Lando’s already smiling when you open the door.

He’s in joggers, a cotton tee, backwards cap. He looks how he usually would on a regular day. One where he didn’t have a very blatant deal to have sex with you.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out quiet. “Miss me?”

You drag your gaze up to his face, taking a step closer. It’s silent for a few seconds, weighted silence, before you give in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already moving, hands on your hips to press you against him.

He kisses you soft.

You sink into him, lips against his, letting him guide you. His tongue licks into your mouth—not desperate like the first time, but slow. Savouring. The surface of your door is cold against your back, and you blindly reach for the handle, turning it and sending the two of you stumbling inside.

He doesn’t comment on the interior, the stack of magazines, the box still on the couch. He just keeps kissing you, hands roaming idly, beneath your shirt and brushing against the lace of your bra.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when he feels it, pulling away to catch his breath. “You wore it.” “That was the deal, wasn’t it?” He groans, muttering, “you’re killing me, baby”, hand sliding to your jaw.

Your hands reach up to his hair when he leans again, tossing his cap off to the side, tangling in the soft curls. A helpless moan escapes you when his hips move against yours. You can feel how hard he is, the pent up frustration and longing. You wonder if he’s been like this since Brazil, since his flight, and the thought sends heat pooling at your core.

“Bedroom,” you say between kisses, though you make no move to stop. “On the left.” You don’t register the length between the door and your room. You don’t register him nudging you onto your bed either, only the warmth of him on top of you, his hand tugging your shirt off.

He pulls away again, just to take you in. His gaze surveys every inch of you, roaming freely, turning you inside out though he hasn’t said a word. He looks dishevelled—awestruck, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“You’re—” he blinks, like he can’t believe he’s even here. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous—” “Off,” you say, and your voice sounds so far away. You lean forward, pulling at his shirt. “Take it off.” He immediately shrugs it off, and you scramble to tug your own shorts off too, about to reach for his joggers until he does it for you. You let yourself be greedy, taking in the sight of his tan skin, the curve of his muscles, the lines that disappear beneath his boxers. “Please,” you say, quiet. You don’t know what you’re saying please for. It might be please kiss me, please fuck me, please don’t keep me waiting any longer. Probably a combination of all three. “Lando.”

His palm skims up your thighs, tugging you effortlessly closer. You can see how hard he is now—the prominent outline of him against his boxers. It makes you clench around nothing, fingers curling in your bedsheets.

“What do you want?” he asks, and you whine, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “Tell me.” “I want you.” “Where?”

Everywhere, you want to say, thighs pressing together when he tugs the lace down. His hands push them apart again with a small murmur of stay still for me, and you think you might come right then and there.

“Lando,” you whine when he moves away, sliding up the planes of your back to the clasp of your bra. “Just touch me. Anywhere. Fuck me.” He laughs then, low, his touch so gentle and only adding to your desperation.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, then he’s back to your thighs, tracing idly. His fingers—finally, graze over your clit, and you immediately arch into him. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.” He circles it, featherlight, making you gasp. His fingers move quicker at the noise, slipping down to your folds.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, leaning down to trail kisses at your jaw. “These past three weeks—past few months?” His finger slides inside of you, barely, but it makes you moan, hips jerking in an attempt to pull him in deeper. “I know you have, baby,” he says, slowly pulling out, just to fuck in deeper. “Fuck.”

He moves swifter, thumb pressing against your clit, slipping in a second finger. It feels overwhelming already—too much, and yet you want even more. He curls his fingers perfectly, like he’s already learnt you. You already feel so full, his thick fingers quickening when he feels you tense.

“Lan,” you say, and he groans at the name. “Please—” You come abruptly, hard, body trembling. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise in your ear, even as tears spring at your eyes in overstimulation.

You whimper when he slowly pulls his fingers out again. Wordlessly, he taps the side of your cheek, and you open your mouth instinctively.

“Jesus,” he rasps when you take his fingers into your mouth. You open your eyes to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and he looks devastated. Utterly ruined at the sight of you. “You’re perfect.” You keep your eyes on him, still slightly shaking, licking over his fingers and tasting yourself on your tongue.

His next movements are a blur. You watch him tug his boxers down, cock hard and leaking. It’s big. So fucking big and all it does it make you impatient. He grins when you try move closer, stopping you halfway.

“Relax for me,” he says, and you’re falling back onto the mattress, head hitting the plush pillows. He reaches over, grabs a condom from God knows where, rolling it on and settling between your thighs. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, but you relax, letting him guide you exactly where he wants. “That’s it, baby.”

He nudges against you, gentle, and you both tense.

“Breathe,” he says, but it comes out strained, like he’s holding himself back. He pushes in, slow, stopping at just the tip. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” You whimper, hands fisting in the sheets, head tilting back when he eases in deeper. “You okay?” he asks, stopping to brush your hair out of your face. “You look—insane. So fucking unreal.” “I’m fine,” you gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. He leans forward, kissing you, reassuring. “Move. Please move.”

His hands settle on your waist when he slides all the way in, and you both groan at the feeling. You turn your head to bury it in the pillows, but he immediately tilts it back towards him. “Let me hear you,” he murmurs, starting to thrust in and out. “It’s just us. C’mon, gorgeous.” You moan at that, and he pushes in harder, deeper, hitting all the right spots inside you.

You can hear his ragged breathing, your own name on his lips. He sets a rhythm, steady, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every moment. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and he groans, thrusts turning rougher.

“You take me so well, baby,” he says, and he sounds breathless, hoarse. “So fucking well.” “I can’t—” you clench around him, overstimulated. “Lan—I can’t—” “You can,” he breathes, sinking impossible deeper, filling you perfectly. “Come for me. I know you can.”

It feels so good, like heaven, like the world really only consisted of the two of you. He moves your leg higher, and you let him, pliant, overwhelmed with pleasure. You’re sure your nails have left scratches, deep marks, but it only seems to encourage him more.

“Feels good, huh?” he says, and he’s grinning. You roll your hips against his in response, and the flash of confidence shatters, turning into something that sounds like a whine. “You’re so good—you’re so fucking good to me.” He ghosts his lips over your neck, and you turn your head to kiss him. It’s messy, hungry, his tongue against yours and his cock relentless inside you.

The second time you come feels euphoric—dizzying, knocking all the air out of your lungs. All you can think about is Lando, his name, his touch, the months of craving of him all for this exact moment.

He shudders a second later, hips stuttering, grip bruising on your skin. “Fuck,” he groans when he comes, panting. He thrusts in again, rhythm faltering, his face pressed against your neck. “Fuck—I think I’m in love with you.”

Then he collapses, gasping, flushed a pretty shade of pink. You lay there, chest rising and falling, eyes half lidded, not yet processing his words.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, trying to regain your breath. You whine quietly at him pulling out, barely sensing him moving to toss out the condom.

“Everything okay?” he asks, quietly. You’re too spent to answer, so you move towards him, letting him press kisses on your forehead, your neck, down your shoulder.

He looks completely wrecked, hair tousled and messy. When he turns away again to presumably find tissues, you see the marks on his back, the indents of your nails. You’re sure you don’t look much better, but you know if you asked he’d say you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

I think I’m in love with you.

“Lando,” you say, softly. He blinks, glancing back at you, concern in his eyes. “Did you meant that?” He cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean. You see when it clicks, when the blush deepens into crimson.

“Yeah,” he says, and you sit up, flinching at the ache in your muscles. “I mean—I think so. You’re all I ever think about. Ever since I moved in.”

You study his face, the expression on it. He’s studying you back, looking for a reaction, a response in your eyes.

“I think I might be in love with you too,” you answer, and his shoulders physically relax. He falls back onto the bed, on top of you, face burying in your neck. “Even though you’re a cocky, arrogant, piece of shit.” “Thanks,” he mutters. “I try.”

You laugh and feel him smile into your skin. “Stay tonight,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair. “If you want.” “If I want,” he repeats, grinning. “Right.” You scoff, settling back into the pillows. He kisses you, muttering something about finding a towel, and you let him go.

You wonder if all those months ago, if you’d opened the door to him in a better mood, if he hadn’t fucking stared at your tits, you would’ve had this sooner. Maybe you would’ve kissed him the first time you’d had the chance to, maybe you would’ve said yes to every single date he’d asked you on, and almost 10 months of wait would turn into one.

But it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter because now, you finally had him.

It’s summer in Monaco, three months later, and there’s a magazine outside your apartment door.

The glossy cover is smooth on your fingertips, there’s a note stuck to the front, and a paperclip marks a specific page. You smile, leaning against the doorframe, plucking the note off and staring at the cover.

It’s you.

Well, not just you. It’s the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, it’s Lando in his race suit, it’s the two of you kissing after he’d just won the championship.

You’re crying—you remembered crying, but hadn’t realised how obvious it’d actually been. There are tears streaks trailing down your face, his hand is resting on your jaw to tilt your face towards him.

Lando Norris — An Interview with Formula 1’s newest World Champion

Though the championship has been the center of attention for Lando Norris, it isn’t the only thing people have been talking about. We sat the British F1 driver down almost a year ago with the question: How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?

Back then, he’d responded with his usual, boyish charm—claiming he thinks he’s ‘much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text’. But now, after the events of his championship-winning Grand Prix, it seems as though that wasn’t entirely true.

“You said in a previous interview you wanted someone who can put up with you—who doesn’t let you get away with everything. You also said you hadn’t found them yet. What about now?” We ask Lando, fresh off his championship win and the reveal of his girlfriend.

“Now? Yeah. I’ve found her.” “And is she ticking all your boxes?” “Every single one. She puts up with me—she has since we met a year ago, actually. She doesn’t know a thing about Formula 1. She’s hot, sexy, and gorgeous—ticks all my boxes.” “And how did you meet?”

Lando smiles at the question, blushing.

“I mean—fuck, I wish I could say we met somewhere romantic, but no, it was quite the opposite,” his smile grows. “No further comment.” “Alright. Final question: Any messages for her? For anyone?” “No. She’ll get a message when she reads this interview anyway.”

You close the magazine, glancing at the note he’d attached on top.

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