Honeybee- Lando Norris
Summary- You and Lando have been together for 6 months and things couldn’t be going better however when comments online and your thoughts of him leaving you one day gets to a new extreme you can’t help but to break down causing a long awaited confession!
Notes- I love this one so much and if you can’t tell Olivia Rodrigo’s new album is my new writing inspiration! Hope you ove this one as much as me xxx
The thing about falling in love with Lando Norris is that it happens in increments so small you don't realize you're drowning until you're already under.
It starts with the little things. The way he insists on walking you home every single time, even when you tell him it's unnecessary, that you've walked these Monaco streets a hundred times before, that you'll be fine. He just shakes his head with that boyish smile and says, "I know you will be, but I want to." And then his hand finds yours in the dark, fingers lacing together like they were designed to fit that way, and suddenly the ten-minute walk becomes the best part of your night.
Or the pet names. God, the pet names. You'd never been one for them before—they always felt forced, saccharine, like something people did because they thought they were supposed to. But when Lando calls you "angel" in that soft voice of his, usually right before he kisses you goodbye, or "bee" when you're buzzing around his apartment tidying things he's left scattered about, or "pretty girl" whispered against your temple when he pulls you close—it doesn't feel forced at all. It feels like he's seeing something in you that you've never seen in yourself.
You've been together for a few months now. Not long enough that you've stopped feeling butterflies when his name lights up your phone. Long enough that you've started keeping a toothbrush at his place, that he knows how you take your coffee, that comfortable silences have become just as precious as conversation.
Long enough that you've fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him.
And that's the problem, isn't it? Because somewhere between the late-night walks and the way he absentmindedly plays with your fingers when you're watching movies and the sound of his laugh echoing through his apartment, you've given him the power to absolutely destroy you.
The thought sits in your chest like a stone, growing heavier each day.
You try not to think about it. You try to just be present, to enjoy what you have while you have it. But then you'll be scrolling through your phone and see another comment—‘She's cute but let's be real, how long will this one last?’ or ‘Another month, maybe two. He gets bored easily’ or worse, the ones that pick apart your appearance, your ordinariness, the way you're so obviously not model-gorgeous or Instagram-perfect or whatever it is they think Lando Norris should be dating.
You know you shouldn't read them. Lando's told you as much, has cupped your face in his hands and said, "They don't know you, angel. They don't know us." But the words burrow under your skin anyway, feeding the fear that's already there.
Because what if they're right? What if one day he wakes up and realizes he could have anyone—someone more exciting, more beautiful, and you're just the girl he dated for a few months before he figured that out?
The thought makes you feel sick.
Tonight, you're at his place for dinner. Nothing fancy—he'd ordered from that Italian place you both love, the one that makes the carbonara he's obsessed with. The Monaco sun is setting through his floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold, and Lando is sitting across from you at his dining table, gesturing animatedly as he tells you a story about Oscar.
"—and I swear, he just looked at me with that completely straight face and said, 'Mate, that's a bin, not a toilet,' and I was like, 'I know that, I'm not an idiot,' but honestly, bee, I was so tired I genuinely wasn't sure for a second—"
You should be laughing. It's a funny story, and he's doing his Oscar impression, which is always terrible and always makes you giggle. His eyes are bright with amusement, his hair still damp from the shower he'd taken before you arrived, wearing that soft grey hoodie you love because it makes him look cozy and touchable and yours.
Yours.
Except he's not, is he? Not really. Not in any permanent way. Not in any way that means he won't wake up one day and decide this has run its course.
The realization hits you like a physical blow—not a new thought, but the weight of it suddenly unbearable. If you lost him, if he left, if this ended, it would break you. Completely. Irreparably. You've never felt this way about anyone, never been so consumed by another person that the thought of their absence feels like losing a limb.
And he's sitting there, beautiful and bright and entirely unaware that you're falling apart, telling you about Oscar and the bin, and suddenly you can't breathe properly because how did you let this happen? How did you let yourself fall this hard for someone who could leave at any moment?
You feel it before you can stop it—the hot sting of tears, the way your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to force it back, but it's too late. A single tear spills over, tracking down your cheek.
Lando stops mid-sentence.
"Hey." His voice changes instantly, all the laughter draining out of it. "Hey, what's wrong?"
You shake your head, swiping quickly at your face. "Nothing, I'm fine. Sorry, keep going—"
But he's already moving, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes back from the table. In two strides he's beside you, and then he's kneeling—actually kneeling on the floor beside your chair—and his hands are reaching for yours.
"Angel." His voice is so soft it makes your chest ache. "Talk to me. What happened?"
His thumbs are stroking over your knuckles, and you can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne—something clean and cedar-like that you've come to associate with safety. You can't look at him. If you look at him, you'll completely fall apart.
"It's stupid," you manage, your voice thick.
"If it's making you cry, it's not stupid." He squeezes your hands gently. "Come on, honey. Tell me."
There's something about the way he says it—patient and concerned and so genuinely worried—that cracks something open inside you. You take a shaky breath, then another, trying to find the words.
"I just—" Your voice breaks. You try again. "I was listening to you talk, and you were so happy, and I just... I realized that if I ever lost you, I don't know what I'd do."
His hands tighten on yours. "Lost me? What do you mean?"
"I mean when you—" You have to stop, swallow hard against the lump in your throat. "When you get bored. When you realize you could do better. When this ends."
"When this—" He sounds genuinely confused. "Why would you think this is going to end?"
And that's when it all comes spilling out, messy and incoherent and probably pathetic, but you can't stop it now that it's started.
"Because it always does, doesn't it? And I know what people say online, I know I shouldn't read it but I do, and they're always talking about how I'm just another girlfriend, how you'll move on eventually, and maybe they're right because look at you—" You finally meet his eyes, and the concern in them almost undoes you completely. "Look at you, Lando. You're you. And I'm just... me. And I like you so much—I think I might even be more, and that terrifies me because what happens when you wake up one day and realize I'm not special enough or interesting enough or pretty enough—"
"Stop." His voice is firm, but not harsh. He releases one of your hands to cup your face, his thumb catching the tears still falling. "Stop, please."
You try to look away but he won't let you, his hand gentle but insistent on your jaw.
"Is that really what you think?" he asks quietly. "That I'm going to leave you?"
You can't speak, so you just nod.
Something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration, or both. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.
"Come here."
He stands, gently pulling you up with him, and then his arms are around you and he's holding you so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and he just holds you like that for a long moment, letting you cry into his hoodie.
"I'm sorry," you mumble against his chest. "I'm sorry, this is so stupid—"
"It's not stupid." His voice rumbles through his chest. "If you've been feeling like this, it's not stupid at all. I just—" He pulls back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hand moving to cup your face again. His eyes are so green in the fading light, searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I hate that you've been scared. I hate that I didn't realize."
"It's not your fault—"
"Let me finish." His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, so tender it makes you want to cry all over again. "Those people online? They don't know anything about us. About you. They see what they want to see, and they make up stories because that's what people do. But they're wrong."
"Lando—"
"They're wrong," he repeats, more firmly. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And you're not just 'another girlfriend.' You're—" He stops, seeming to struggle for words, and you can see something shift in his expression. A decision being made. "You're everything."
Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.
"I've never felt like this about anyone," he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Never. And it scares me too, if I'm being honest, because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, but it doesn't. It just keeps getting better. You keep getting better. Every day I learn something new about you and it just makes me—"
He stops again, and this time when he looks at you, there's something raw and vulnerable in his eyes that you've never seen before.
"I love you."
The world stops.
You forget how to breathe.
"What?"
"I love you," he says again, and his voice is steady now, sure. "I'm in love with you. I have been for weeks, probably, but I didn't want to scare you off by saying it too soon. But if you're sitting here thinking I'm going to leave, thinking you're not enough—" His other hand comes up so he's cradling your face in both palms, and his eyes are so intense you feel pinned in place. "Then I need you to know. I love you. Not just like you, not just care about you—I'm completely, stupidly in love with you."
You can't speak. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at him as his words sink in, rearranging everything you thought you knew.
"You love me?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"So much it's actually kind of terrifying," he admits with a shaky laugh. "I think about you constantly. When I'm at the track, when I'm doing media stuff, when I'm supposed to be focusing on literally anything else. I see something funny and my first thought is 'I need to tell her about this.' I can't sleep properly when you're not here. And those walks home?" His thumb brushes across your lips, so gentle it's almost reverent. "I insist on them because it means I get ten more minutes with you. Because I'm not ready to say goodnight yet. Because holding your hand in the dark is genuinely one of my favorite things."
A sob catches in your throat, but this time it's not from fear.
"I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner," he continues. "I'm sorry I let you doubt this, doubt us. But I need you to understand something, okay?" He waits until you nod before continuing. "I'm not going anywhere. This isn't temporary for me. You're not temporary for me. And I know I can't control what people say online, but I can promise you that they're wrong. You're not just enough—you're everything I didn't know I was looking for."
"Lando." His name comes out broken, and then you're crying again, but it's different this time. Relief and joy and overwhelming love all tangled together.
"I love you too," you manage. "I love you so much."
His smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You laugh through your tears. "I was so scared to say it. So scared that if I admitted it out loud, it would make it real, and then it would hurt more when—"
"When nothing," he interrupts gently. "There's no when. There's just us, okay? For as long as you'll have me."
"That might be a really long time," you warn him, and he grins.
"Good. I'm counting on it."
And then he's kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting like salt from your tears, and you're kissing him back with everything you have. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair the way you know he likes.
When you finally break apart, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.
"No more doubting," he murmurs. "No more being scared. If you ever feel like that again, you tell me immediately, okay? Because I can't fix it if I don't know."
"Okay," you whisper.
"And for the record?" He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes soft. "You are special. You're interesting. And you're so beautiful it actually distracts me sometimes, which is really inconvenient when I'm trying to do important things like drive at 200 miles per hour."
You laugh, swatting his chest. "Now you're just being ridiculous."
"I'm being honest." He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I love your laugh. I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. I love that you always steal my hoodies and then pretend you didn't. I love how you remember little things I tell you, like how I don't like mushrooms or how I'm superstitious about my left sock going on first. I love—" He stops, shaking his head with a smile. "I could keep going but we'll be here all night."
"I wouldn't mind that," you say softly.
"No?" His smile turns playful. "Not even though our dinner's probably cold now?"
You glance over at the table, at the forgotten pasta and the wine you'd barely touched. "We can reheat it."
"Or," he says, his arms tightening around your waist, "we could order something else later. Much later."
"What did you have in mind for now?"
Instead of answering, he just kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself believe it. That he loves you. That he's not going anywhere. That this beautiful, bright, wonderful person has chosen you, and keeps choosing you, and will continue choosing you.
When he eventually pulls back, he's smiling that soft smile that's just for you, the one that makes him look younger and impossibly sweet.
"I really do love you, you know," he says quietly. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was pretty clear," you assure him, your own smile so wide it almost hurts. "But I wouldn't mind hearing it again."
"I love you, angel."
"I love you too."
He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again, quick and playful. "Come on. Let's go reheat dinner and you can tell me all the other things you've been worried about so I can systematically prove them all wrong."
"That might take a while."
"Like I said—" He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together the way he always does, and leads you toward the kitchen. "I've got time. All the time in the world."
And looking at him, at the way he's smiling at you like you hung the moon, at the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand, you finally let yourself believe it. This isn't temporary. This isn't something that's going to end the moment you let your guard down.
This is real.
Later, after you've reheated the pasta and eaten it curled up together on his couch, after he's told you he loves you approximately seventeen more times like he's making up for lost time, after you've kissed him until you're both dizzy with it—you find yourself tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest.
"Hey, bee?" he says softly, his fingers playing with your hair.
"Mm?"
"Thank you for telling me. About being scared. I know that couldn't have been easy."
You tilt your head to look up at him. "Thank you for... everything else. For saying what you said. For meaning it."
"Always going to mean it," he promises. "You're stuck with me now."
"Good," you whisper, settling back against his chest. "That's exactly where I want to be."
His arms tighten around you, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "Me too, pretty girl. Me too."
And for the first time in months, the fear that's been sitting in your chest like a stone finally dissolves. Because he loves you. He actually loves you. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to believe in.
No—not maybe.
Definitely.
Outside, Monaco glitters in the darkness, the same streets you've walked together dozens of times. Tomorrow, he'll probably insist on walking you home again, even though you're likely going to end up staying the night. He'll hold your hand in the dark and call you angel and kiss you goodnight like you're something precious.
And you'll let him, because you finally understand what you have.
Something rare. Something special.
Something worth holding onto with both hands and never letting go.