ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴛɪᴍɪɴɢ | ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ |
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴄᴀʀ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴀʀ-ꜰᴀᴛᴀʟ ɪɴᴊᴜʀɪᴇꜱ
ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴᴅᴜᴄᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏꜱᴘɪᴛᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ
ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ɢᴜɪʟᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛᴜᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴋᴏɴɪɴɢ
ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴏᴡꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ
ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴏ
ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴀxɪᴍᴜᴍ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇ, ᴘʟᴀʏ “ᴍᴜʟᴛᴏ” ʙʏ ᴄᴜᴘ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴏᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ. ʏᴇꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟʏʀɪᴄꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ.
There was once a time when the world seemed so simple to Lando Norris. A time when all he thought about was racing, winning, and the electric rush of the track beneath him. But that time had also been colored by another constant: (Y/n).
She had been a light in his life, soft, warm, grounding him when the fast lanes of Formula 1 blurred the world around him. They met at a charity gala, her working as a PR assistant for one of the event sponsors. What started as casual conversations, and coffees bloomed into a relationship neither had anticipated, nor could resist.
For two years, they had been inseparable when life allowed. Racing calendars were demanding, travel exhausting, media relentless, but somehow they made it work. In between races, in hotel rooms, in quiet mornings when the paddock was still asleep, they found moments that belonged to only them.
But love, as life, is not always enough.
Lando had been younger then. At the height of his career, he had been restless, driven to achieve more, not just for himself, but for the team, the sponsors, the fans who watched his every move. And in that whirlwind, doubts crept in. He started to feel guilt when he couldn’t be fully present for (Y/n), when video calls weren’t enough, when long-distance wore thin. He feared he was holding her back from her own dreams, from a life of stability.
And so, one evening after the Monaco Grand Prix, he made the hardest decision of his life.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he had said softly, voice thick with unshed tears. “You deserve more than this… more than me, more than this life.”
(Y/n) had stood there, trembling, blinking back tears but somehow understanding. She didn’t fight, didn’t beg, though her heart shattered in silence. Perhaps she had known deep down. Racing wasn’t just his career, it was his life, and it would always come first.
They parted with an embrace, the kind that lingers in your bones long after it ends.
Years passed. The world turned. Life moved on.
Or so it seemed.
By 2026, Lando was no longer the promising young driver, he was one of the most celebrated racers on the grid. Multiple wins under his belt, podiums aplenty, fans worldwide. But with success came wear. The sport demanded everything, body, mind, spirit.
That fateful weekend at Spa-Francorchamps was supposed to be another ordinary race. He had qualified P3. The car was solid. The weather, unpredictable as always, promised drama.
And drama came, but not the kind anyone wanted.
On lap 23, pushing hard out of Eau Rouge, the car lost grip. Whether it was a mechanical fault or sheer bad luck, no one could tell in those frantic moments. The McLaren slammed into the barriers at terrifying speed. The world watched in horror.
Marshals rushed in. Medical crews worked urgently.
Lando was airlifted to hospital, unconscious, breathing shallowly.
The news spread fast: Lando Norris, critical condition, medically induced coma.
For weeks, the paddock held its breath. Fellow drivers sent messages. Teams posted tributes. Fans lit candles around the world.
But in a small chapel in London, far from cameras and circuits, a lone figure knelt in prayer. (Y/n).
Though they had not spoken in years, the news had reached her swiftly. The man she once loved now clung to life, and though the pain of their parting had long been buried, her heart broke anew.
Day after day, she returned to the chapel. Every morning before work. Every evening after. Her prayers grew desperate.
"Please, God… bring him back. I will give anything. Just let him live."
And somewhere in that endless vigil, she made a promise.
"If he wakes… if he lives… I will dedicate my life to You. I will serve. I will let go of what once was."
Months later, the miracle came.
Lando woke.
It was slow at first, eyes fluttering open, disoriented. Muscles weak, speech slurred. But in time, against all odds, he healed. The coma had lasted six weeks. The recovery, long and grueling.
Yet Lando was not the same.
Something had shifted inside him. He remembered the blur of the crash, the darkness that followed. And something else, an overwhelming sense of peace, of presence. He didn’t speak of it much, not to the press, not even to his closest friends. But in quiet moments, he found himself drawn to places he had long ignored, churches, chapels, places of stillness.
He began attending services. At first in London. Then, when races resumed, in whatever city they landed in. He spoke simply when asked: “I’m giving thanks. For a second chance.”
It was nearly a year after his recovery when an opportunity arose, the team had a sponsorship event in Rome, and Lando quietly arranged a visit to Vatican City. There was a Mass scheduled in St. Peter’s Basilica. Something compelled him to go.
The grandeur of the place struck him. The soaring ceilings, the gilded altars, the air thick with incense. He slipped into a pew, head bowed. He didn’t expect anything except a moment of peace.
But then, movement at the altar.
A group of nuns, preparing for service. Among them, one figure caught his eye, familiar in ways the mind takes a moment to grasp.
(Y/n).
Clad in simple habit, veil framing her face, she moved with quiet grace, placing candles, arranging linens. The years fell away. His breath caught.
He had not dreamed of her in so long. And now, here?
His heart pounded. Part of him wanted to bolt, it felt intrusive. Another part, stronger, rose to his feet before he could think. He waited for the Mass to end, for the small crowd to drift away.
And then he saw her again, in one of the side gardens, sitting alone, hands folded on her lap, gazing at the serenity of the fountain.
He approached slowly, unsure.
Then, softly: “(Y/n)...”
She turned, startled. Recognition flared. Her eyes widened, lips parted — a breath, a gasp. And then, tears welled.
“Lando…” Her voice trembled.
Without thinking, he closed the space between them, gathering her into an embrace. She did not resist. She only clung to him, shaking with quiet sobs.
“Why…” His voice broke. “Why did you… how did this happen?”
(Y/n) drew back slightly, her eyes shimmering.
“When you were in the coma,” she whispered, “I prayed… every day, every night. I made a vow that if you came back… I would give my life to God. To service. It was the only way I knew to give thanks. To let go.”
Lando’s heart fractured. “I’m so sorry…” he choked. “If only… if only I hadn’t ended things, none of this—”
She cupped his cheeks, her touch gentle, steady.
“No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Don’t carry this. It’s not your fault. Right people… wrong timing.”
Fresh tears rolled down Lando’s face. He held her hands tightly.
“I want you to be happy,” (Y/n) whispered. “Live your life. Race. Love, truly this time.”
He nodded, broken and grateful all at once. “I will. I promise.”
And from that day forward, he kept that promise.
Three years later.
Rome again. A different season.
The motorsport world buzzed with news: Lando Norris, engaged. His fiancée, a brilliant engineer he met through the team — kind, passionate, steady.
They chose to wed at St. Peter’s Basilica, not for spectacle, but for meaning. For memory. So that one person in particular could witness it.
On the day of the ceremony, as sunlight streamed through ancient glass, (Y/n) stood quietly among the attending sisters. Her smile was small but radiant, tears shining in her eyes.
She watched as Lando, resplendent and joyful, took his vows. His eyes found hers briefly, a moment of shared understanding, of peace.
And as the bells rang out, echoing through the hallowed halls, (Y/n) whispered her own prayer of gratitude.
𝘙𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦… 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦… 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯.
📝 Note from the Author: Hi, my lovely Alarwynnites!
This is officially my first-ever one-shot *nervous laughter*, and I hope it moved you even just a little. It was inspired by the song “Multo” by Cup of Joe, and also by a real-life narrative I stumbled upon while scrolling through TikTok (yes, I was emotionally compromised). I did have to twist a few parts because it didn’t align perfectly with the format I had in mind, but the core of the story stayed with me. So… I wrote it. And now… I posted it HAHAHA.
Special thanks to Firefly Graphics for the beautiful borders, your work added so much heart to the presentation.
I’ll still be posting ongoing series too, don’t worry! I’m currently drafting a new one, and will be proofreading it soon, so please look forward to it.
More one-shots (and emotional damage) coming soon, hopefully 🫶 Thank you for reading, feeling, and dreaming with me.
With love, me 🧡
