#lando fluff

[landoslog]

On Call | Two of Two

Pairing: Lando Norris x EX!Personal Assistant!Reader

Description: You're Lando Norris's former personal assistant—fired eighteen months ago after he told you he loved you in a Qatar hotel room, then panicked. Now he's a World Champion with a new girlfriend and a mess of an assistant, and he needs you back. Just for two weeks of training, he says. Except Lando's never been good at keeping things professional, and some feelings don't stay buried.

Genre: second chance romance, forced proximity, angst with a happy ending, workplace-adjacent tension, emotional groveling, he's down BAD

WC: 21k

Note: Firstly, I want to apologize for how long this took to put out. I really struggled with finding the ending that felt right. And the paragraphs may feel overwhelming in length—I hit the 1,000 block limit like 40 times and had to condense everything. I proofread, stopped, then proofread again because it didn't feel good enough, and the cycle continued. So, about half is proofread and half isn't, which means there could be errors. Thank you for your patience and your kind words. I want to wish you Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and I'll continue doing my best with this little hobby of mine.

Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.

Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.

The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.

Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.

Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.

You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.

You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.

And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.

There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.

Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.

"What can I get you?"

"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.

The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"

"Not really," you lie.

"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."

"Yeah. I heard."

"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."

You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.

"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.

He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.

I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.

Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.

He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.

It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.

You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.

Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.

You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.

So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."

"You don't have a spare key."

"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."

"Excuse me?"

"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"

"What are you doing here, Lando."

"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"

"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."

Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."

"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."

"My pattern."

"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."

"Get out."

"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."

You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."

"And?"

"And I need you to train her."

The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"

"No. Why would I be insane?"

"You fired me."

"I know. I was there."

"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."

"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."

"Get out of my apartment."

"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."

"Something happened?"

You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."

"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."

"Have we."

"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."

"Lando."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out."

"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."

"The answer is no."

"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."

He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?

You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.

The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.

When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.

You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.

The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.

The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.

"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.

"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"

He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.

"You knew I'd come," you say.

"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"

"Forty-seven minutes."

"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."

"I count everything now."

"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.

"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.

"I told you. I know things."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."

"I didn't say yes."

"You're here, aren't you?"

He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"You fired me."

"I remember."

"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."

Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."

"So?"

"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"

"I don't know, have we?"

"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."

"You literally asked me to."

"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."

You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"

"Because no one else knows how I work."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."

"Emma could learn."

"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."

Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."

"Why not?"

"Because being me got me fired."

"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."

"After you decided you were done with me."

"I never said I was done with you."

"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."

"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."

You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.

"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."

"And after two weeks?"

"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.

"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.

"Done."

"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."

"Fine."

"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."

"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.

Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.

"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"

"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.

"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."

"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.

You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.

"It's good to see you," he says quietly.

You pull your hand back. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."

"What am I making it into?"

"You know what."

He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.

You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.

The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.

Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.

This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.

Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.

The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."

The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.

Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."

"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.

"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"

"Emma."

She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"

"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."

"I'm really not."

"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"

"That was fifteen minutes."

"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."

You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."

Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.

Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"

"Give me an example."

"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."

You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."

"Marcus?"

"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"

"I tried. Marcus was pissed."

"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"

Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"

"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."

"That feels like lying."

"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"

She straightens up. "Yes."

"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.

You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.

You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"

"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.

"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"

"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."

"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"

"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."

Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.

"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."

"You're already interrupting."

"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."

You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"

"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"

"Right. So Lando needs—"

"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."

You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."

"Unless it's important," Lando adds.

"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."

"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."

"Abu Dhabi 2023."

He sits up straighter. "That was different."

"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."

"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."

"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."

You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.

"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."

"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.

"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."

"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.

You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."

"That's you."

"I'm not his primary contact anymore."

"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."

The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.

You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.

"Change it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't work for you anymore."

"You're working for me right now."

"I'm consulting. It's temporary."

"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."

"That's what we agreed."

"Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."

"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.

"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."

"I said she wasn't you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"

"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."

"I don't make her cry."

"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."

"It was a stupid mistake."

"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."

"That was different."

"Why? Because you were fucking me?"

The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.

"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."

"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.

Lando catches them before they close.

"Move," you say.

"No."

"Lando, I swear to fucking god."

He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.

"About what?"

"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"

"You're comparing her to me."

"Yeah."

"Then stop."

"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."

"That's not my problem."

"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."

"I care about her. Not about you."

"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.

"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.

"Away from you."

"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.

"What do you want from me?" you ask.

"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."

"Then stop acting like one."

"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."

"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."

"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.

"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."

"What if I want those things?"

"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.

When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.

At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."

"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.

"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.

Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.

You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."

"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."

"I don't want a fucking explanation."

"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."

You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.

"No," you say.

"No?"

"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."

"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."

"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."

"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."

You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."

"It wasn't just about reputation."

"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."

"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."

"Then why—"

"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."

You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."

"You're making excuses."

"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"

"No, I want you to understand!"

"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"

"Everything except you."

The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.

"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"

"You're with Magui—"

"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."

"How nice for you both."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying."

"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."

"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."

"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."

"I came because you manipulated me—"

"I asked. You chose."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"

Your breath catches. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"

"I want to hit you."

"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"And you're still an asshole."

"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."

"Past tense."

"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."

You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"Am I?"

"Magui—"

"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."

"That's not—you can't just—"

"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."

"Lando."

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."

It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you that."

His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"

"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."

"I'm explaining now."

"It's too late."

"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."

"Lando, don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"

"That's creepy."

"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."

You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.

This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."

"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.

"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."

"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."

"You fired me."

"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."

You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"We'll ruin everything. Again."

"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."

"You don't know that."

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.

"It might be Emma—"

"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.

"This was a mistake," you say.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."

"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."

"This is different."

"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."

"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."

"If that's what you need to tell yourself."

You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."

"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.

Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.

You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.

Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"

"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.

Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."

"So Lando hates him."

"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."

Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."

"Exactly."

Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."

"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."

Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.

"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."

"That's kind of dark."

"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.

"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.

"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."

"I'm consulting."

There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"

"It's temporary."

"Babe. Consulting for who?"

You close your eyes. "Lando."

Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."

"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."

"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"

"I wasn't in love with him."

"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."

"That's not—that's different."

"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."

"Very altruistic."

"It is altruistic."

"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.

"Nothing's happened," you lie.

"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."

"I'm not going to fall apart."

"Promise me."

"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.

You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.

Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"

"Emma. Breathe."

"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."

Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"

"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"

"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.

"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."

You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."

You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"

Emma lights up. "You remembered!"

"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."

You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.

"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."

"I'm not mean," you say.

"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"

"We?"

"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."

The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."

"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.

"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."

"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.

You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I had food poisoning."

"You were jet-lagged."

"I was dyyyyying."

"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.

"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."

At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

"All good?" Emma asks brightly.

"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"

"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."

"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."

Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"

"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."

He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.

"What's the work thing?" you ask.

"There is no work thing."

"Then why—"

"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."

"Lando—"

"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"

"That's not, we can't do this here."

"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"

"Yes."

"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."

"You were in London."

"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."

Your breath catches. "What did you say?"

"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."

"Did they ask about Magui?"

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And I told them we were taking a break."

The world tilts. "You what?"

"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."

"Lando, you can't just do this."

"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"

"That's not fair to her."

"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."

"We're not doing anything—"

"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"You're being crazy."

"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."

You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.

"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.

"Why?"

"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"

"Because you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."

"Then why are you pushing this?"

"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.

"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."

"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."

"Lando."

"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."

"I know the one."

"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."

He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.

Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."

"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You and Lando. You have history, right?"

You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."

"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."

She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.

He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.

"Don't gloat."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.

"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.

"I can order my own wine."

"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."

You do. You desperately do. "Red."

He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"

"At what?"

"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."

"It's been five minutes."

"And?"

"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."

He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."

The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.

"She is. Thanks to you."

"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."

"Unlike me?"

"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."

"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."

"You texted her once."

"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."

"Impressive. Want a gold star?"

"I want you to admit I'm trying."

"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."

"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."

"We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."

"Why not?"

"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."

"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."

Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."

"I was."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"

"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."

"I'm not scared of anything."

"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."

"You're so fucking arrogant."

"And you're deflecting."

"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."

"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"

"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."

"It's been two days."

"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."

Your chest aches. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"

"Just what?"

"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"

"Clearly not, since you still did it."

"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"

"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."

"Liar."

"Stop calling me that."

"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."

"You're delusional."

"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.

"That's—I'm not—"

"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."

"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.

You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—

The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.

"Someone could—"

"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."

"Lando."

"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."

You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.

"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.

"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.

"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."

"We're in a restaurant bathroom."

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."

"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."

"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."

His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."

"You're insane."

"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."

"Not your girl."

"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"

"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"

"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."

"Go to hell."

He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.

"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"

"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.

"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."

You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.

"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."

Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"

"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."

"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"

"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."

"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."

"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."

You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.

"I know."

"And it doesn't mean we're back together."

"Okay."

"And I still think you're an asshole."

"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."

"We're absolutely hopeless."

"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.

"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."

"I won't fuck it up."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."

You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No."

"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."

The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.

"Good?" he asks.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."

"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."

"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."

"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.

"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,

"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.

"It's cold."

"It's twelve minutes."

"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."

Your stomach flips. "Lando."

"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."

"It might be a mistake."

"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."

You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.

"So," he says.

"So."

"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."

"Is it?"

"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."

"Those are my only two options?"

"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."

You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.

"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.

His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."

"Then why did you offer?"

"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."

"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."

"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."

"One coffee," he agrees.

You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.

Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.

"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"

"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."

"You said it was sad last time you were here."

"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"

"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."

"I'm a very philosophical guy."

"Since when?"

"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."

"You weren't alone. You had Magui."

"I told you. That was—"

"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"

"She said she saw it coming."

You turn to look at him. "She did?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."

"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."

"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."

"And you're here."

"I'm here," he confirms.

The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.

"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."

He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"

"That would be nice."

"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."

"Which is?"

"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."

The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.

"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"

"Really? That's your question?"

"It's a relevant question."

He sighs. "Charlotte."

"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"

"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."

"I'm going to kill her."

"She was trying to help."

"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"

"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"

"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"

"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"

"I'm not punishing myself—"

"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."

"I don't need your permission."

"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."

You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.

"This is going to end badly," you whisper.

"Probably."

"You're going to break my heart again."

"I'm going to try really hard not to."

"That's not good enough."

"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."

You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.

"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.

"You sure?"

"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he says, hovering over you.

"Hi yourself."

"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."

"Lando."

"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."

"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"

"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."

"It's already complicated."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.

"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.

"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."

"Annoyingly persistent."

"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."

"You saw me three days ago."

"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."

You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.

Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.

Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.

"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."

"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."

"Emergency toothbrush."

"You have clothes in my closet."

"Just in case."

"Lando."

"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."

"You stayed here six nights in a row."

"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."

You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.

Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."

"Practice. Lots of practice."

"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"

Your stomach flips. "Different how?"

"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."

"Good weird?"

"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"That depends on the question."

"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"It's complicated."

"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.

Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.

"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."

"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."

"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"

"Of course."

"Even stupid questions?"

"Especially stupid questions."

Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"So. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," you confirm.

"Emma's going to be fine."

"She is."

"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."

"Lando, you don't have to—"

"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.

"This is too much."

"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."

"I did tell you to fuck off."

"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."

"Is it?"

"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."

"What about us?"

There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.

"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"

"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."

"Lando."

"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"

"No."

"No?"

"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"

"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."

"That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."

"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."

"Things are already hard. We're still here."

"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."

Your chest aches. "I need to go."

"Where?"

"Home. My home. I need space to think."

"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lando."

"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.

"I'll text you," you say finally.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.

Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.

You said no.

"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."

"They'd love you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."

He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."

He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.

The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. Quiet."

"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."

"She asked about me?"

"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."

You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."

"I know. She texted me."

"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."

"Lando."

"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."

"You're not losing me."

"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."

"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."

"I am giving us a chance."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."

"Lando."

"Please. Just open it."

You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."

You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.

You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."

Your vision blurs. "Lando."

"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."

You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"

You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"Shut up and let me have this."

He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."

You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.

"I'm still scared," you admit.

"Me too."

"But I want this. I want us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."

"You make me sound like a psychopath."

"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."

"Yeah?"

"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."

"You should've."

"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."

"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."

"Easter's months away."

"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."

You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.

Eight Months Later

The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.

"Nervous?" you ask.

"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.

"You've read the same page five times."

He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."

"Lando—"

"Close your eyes. Trust me."

You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"

"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."

"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."

"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.

"Are we at the beach?"

"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."

You untie the blindfold, let it fall.

You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.

"Where are we?" you breathe.

"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."

You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.

"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."

You're crying already. God, what is happening?

"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"

"Yes," you interrupt.

He blinks. "What?"

"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."

"I had a whole speech prepared—"

"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."

He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes."

He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"

"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."

"Forever, then."

"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."

Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"

"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."

"That's insane."

"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.

"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.

"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.

"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.

"Too much," you gasp.

"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"

"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.

"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."

"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."

He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."

You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.

"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"

"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"

"Yes—please—Lando—"

"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.

"Holy shit," you manage eventually.

"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"

"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."

"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.

"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."

"Romantic as fuck."

"Insane as fuck."

"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."

"Very confident."

"Very in love." He pulls you closer. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up properly in a few hours." You fall asleep like that—engaged, thoroughly fucked, in Greece with Lando already planning tomorrow. It's him. It's always been him. And finally, you're both brave enough to admit it.

[yourlittlebunnyy]

NOT PR SAFE

all the times Lando and Yn have been unhinged on each other’s socials

FC43’s version

landonorris just posted

liked by ynusername, mclaren, oscarpiastri and 346.201 others

landonorris summer 25’☀️🕶️

see comments

user1 look at that tannnn

user2 oh he looks good

user3 where is yn?

ynusername my fingers are tired

landonorris guess i’ll have to do the work then

ynusername fuck yes

georgerussell fuck, no. what am i even reading here.

user1 yn and lando traumatizing the paddock here we go again ladies! 😭😭

ynusername the last pic just gave me an idea

landonorris yeah?

ynusername the next time the helmet stays on.

oscarpiastri honestly, yn, seek god

LN4_NATION just posted

liked by ynusername and 12.783 others

LN4_NATION lando’s jaw. that’s it. that’s the post.

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user4 yn in the likes lmaoo

ynusername i’m wet

landonorris should we take care of that now shouldn’t we?

user5 must have been the wind…

ynusername all 10 fingers

landonorris make it 20 xx

user5 why is no one saying anything this is insane

user6 you’re new here aren’t you? this is pretty normal, you’ll get used to it💜

mclaren zak just required a talk with you🥰

ynusername that ain’t stopping me babe

user6 he looks toooo good

Ynswife just posted.

liked by landonorris and 42.893 others

Ynswife yn facecard is just insane

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landonorris my wife

landonorris oh my god she’s perfect

landonorris and suddenly my phone is… on my left hand?

user7 what the hell

Ynswife oh!

landonorris facecard so lethal that backshots turn into frontshots💔

oscarpiastri lando you seriously need to get a grip

carlossainz what have you become…

danielricciardo well i guess little lando norris isn’t so little anymore

user8 her facecard shoul be studied frfr

user9 she’s so hot

landonorris and all mine, actually. but yeah, she’s hot asf

ynusername just posted.

liked by landonorris, ynbff and 528.892 others

ynusername my new album “manchild” out NOW!!! enjoy babes🤍🤍

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user10 lando already in the likes lol

landonorris gender is NOT the same as sex. gender is what you identify as, while sex is what i'll be having with YN YLN tonight. stay informed.

user11 LMAOOO LANDO WHAT IS THIS ☠️

oscarpiastri hey haha pls die i hate you haha

McLaren wow.

danielricciardo why the fuck you just keep getting even more creative with this shit

landonorris im on my knees for you

ynusername good😊 show me what that pretty tongue can do now

carlossainz i give up atp

user12 may this type of love FUCK ME

just some random tweets🎀

gonna make a part 2 SOON bc these are so fun to makeee

[moonlightproblems]

“HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR BOYFRIEND?” — A QUADRANT SPECIAL

Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader

Synopsis: Landos girlfriend reluctantly takes part in Quadrants new video “how well do you know your boyfriend” - with running commentary from Max Fewtrell

Patreon - Exclusive Content

ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡

The Quadrant studio is buzzing in that familiar, chaotic way — lights half‑set up, someone’s left a half‑eaten packet of crisps on the main table, and Max Fewtrell is already narrating everything like he’s David Attenborough observing a rare species.

“Here we have,” Max says dramatically, pointing the camera at you as you walk in, “the long‑suffering girlfriend of Lando Norris. She has survived years of his nonsense. Truly, a national treasure.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Morning to you too, Max.”

Lando pops his head out from behind a lighting rig, curls messy, hoodie half‑zipped, grin bright enough to power the entire set. “Hi, love.”

He crosses the room in three long strides and wraps his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground. He smells like his usual mix of cologne and whatever shampoo he stole from you this week.

“You ready to lose?” he murmurs into your hair.

“You’re adorable,” you say, patting his cheek, “but you’re absolutely going to embarrass yourself today.”

Max gasps loudly. “Conflict. Drama. Romance. This is better than Netflix.”

---

🎬 THE SETUP

The Quadrant crew finally gets everything in place — two chairs, a small table with whiteboards and markers, and a camera pointed directly at you and Lando. Max insists on being the off‑screen host, which everyone agrees to mostly because it’s easier than arguing.

Lando pulls your chair closer to his, knees bumping yours. He’s already smiling at you like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists.

“Stop looking at her like that,” Max groans. “We get it. You’re in love. Disgusting.”

Lando flips him off without breaking eye contact with you.

The camera starts rolling.

---

🎥 TAKE ONE

“Welcome back to Quadrant,” Max announces in his best presenter voice. “Today we have Lando Norris and his childhood sweetheart, the only person who’s known him longer than his hairdresser.”

Lando snorts. “That’s not true.”

“Is it not?” Max asks. “Because I’ve seen the photos. The bowl cut era was dark.”

You laugh, leaning into Lando’s shoulder. “I was there for that.”

“Trauma bonding,” Max says. “Beautiful.”

Lando squeezes your hand under the table. “Okay, first question,” he says, trying to take control. “Let’s go.”

Max clears his throat. “What is your partner’s go‑to comfort food?”

You immediately start writing. Lando stares at his blank board like it’s a complex physics equation.

“Don’t overthink it,” you tease.

“I’m not,” he lies.

Max leans over his shoulder. “He’s absolutely overthinking it.”

You finish your answer and hold your board close to your chest. Lando finally scribbles something down.

“Three, two, one — reveal!”

You flip your boards.

You: Pasta. Always pasta.

Lando: Her mum’s pasta.

Your heart does a little flip.

“Aww,” Max says. “That’s actually cute. Gross, but cute.”

Lando beams. “See? I know things.”

“You know one thing,” you correct.

He nudges your knee with his. “It’s the important thing.”

---

🎥 TAKE TWO — THE CHAOS BEGINS

Max reads the next question. “What is your partner’s biggest fear?”

Lando immediately writes something down, smirking.

You narrow your eyes. “If you write something stupid—”

“I would never,” he says, which is the biggest lie he’s ever told.

You write your answer carefully. Lando finishes his in two seconds and sits back, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Reveal!”

You flip your boards.

You: Losing the people I love.

Lando: Spiders. And Max’s cooking.

Max gasps. “My cooking is incredible.”

“Your cooking is a war crime,” Lando says.

You elbow him. “I meant emotionally.”

Lando’s expression softens instantly. He reaches over, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Yeah. I know. I just… didn’t want to make it heavy.”

You smile at him, and he smiles back, and Max groans loudly.

“Can you two stop having a moment? This is a YouTube video, not a wedding.”

---

🎥 TAKE THREE — THE CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART ROUND

Max grins like he’s been waiting for this. “Since you two have known each other since you were tiny, let’s test your memory. What was your first impression of each other?”

You laugh. “Oh no.”

Lando’s already writing, shaking his head.

You write yours slowly, remembering the moment — the awkward, shy, adorable little boy with messy hair and big dreams.

“Reveal!”

You flip your boards.

You: Thought he was cute but painfully shy.

Lando: Thought she was way too pretty to ever talk to me.

Your breath catches. “Lan…”

He shrugs, cheeks pink. “It’s true.”

Max clutches his chest. “I’m going to be sick.”

Lando ignores him completely. “I remember it so clearly. You were wearing that little blue jumper and you smiled at me and I swear I forgot how to speak.”

“You still forget how to speak,” Max mutters.

Lando throws a marker at him.

---

🎥 TAKE FOUR — THE SPICY ROUND

Max wiggles his eyebrows. “What is your partner’s most annoying habit?”

Lando immediately points at you. “She steals my hoodies.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You literally give them to me.”

“That’s not the point.”

You write your answer, biting back a smile.

“Reveal!”

You: He leaves wet towels everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

Lando: She steals my hoodies.

Max bursts out laughing. “Domestic life with Lando Norris. Riveting.”

Lando groans. “Okay, fine, I leave towels around. But you look cute in my hoodies.”

You grin. “So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

---

🎥 TAKE FIVE — THE HEART MELTER

Max clears his throat dramatically. “Last question. What is the moment you knew you were in love?”

Lando freezes.

You freeze.

The room goes quiet.

You start writing slowly, heart thudding. Lando stares at his board for a long moment before writing something down with surprising seriousness.

“Reveal,” Max says softly.

You flip your boards.

You: When he held my hand at his first karting race because he was nervous.

Lando: When she held my hand at my first karting race because I was nervous.

You blink.

He blinks.

Max whispers, “Oh my god.”

Lando reaches for your hand across the table. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“Of course I remember,” you say, voice soft. “You were shaking.”

“You squeezed my hand,” he says. “And I thought… if she’s here, I’ll be okay.”

Your eyes sting a little.

Max fans himself dramatically. “This is too much. I’m going to combust.”

Lando leans over and kisses your cheek, lingering there for a moment. “I love you,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only you hear it.

You squeeze his hand. “I love you too.”

---

🎬 AFTER THE CAMERAS STOP

The moment the camera cuts, Max throws himself onto the table.

“You two are unbearable,” he groans. “I’m editing this and I’m adding clown music over every romantic moment.”

Lando flips him off again. “Do that and I’ll replace all your voiceovers with a kazoo.”

You laugh, standing up and stretching. Lando immediately wraps his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“You were amazing,” he says softly.

“You were adorable.”

He kisses your cheek again. “We should do more videos together.”

Max groans. “Absolutely not.”

Lando ignores him. “Maybe a cooking challenge.”

“You’d lose,” you say.

He gasps. “Rude.”

“True,” Max adds.

Lando throws another marker at him.

---

🎥 THE FINAL MOMENT

As you’re packing up, Lando grabs your hand and pulls you back toward him.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

You smile. “Anytime.”

He leans in, kissing you properly this time — slow, warm, familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home.

Max walks by, covering his eyes. “I’m blind. I’m actually blind.”

Lando breaks the kiss just long enough to shout, “Shut up, Max!”

Then he kisses you again.

And honestly? It’s perfect.

[dreamauri]

— ᨳଓ . SIGNS OF YOU 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc ) ⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.

WARNINGS: ⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?

REQUESTED! ⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here

( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )

The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.

He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.

You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.

Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.

His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?

The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.

“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.

Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.

He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.

“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”

Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.

Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.

Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.

He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.

“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.

You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.

He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.

You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.

In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.

But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.

Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.

That is . . . until he heard it.

Your voice.

Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.

His head shot up. And there you were.

Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.

Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.

By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.

“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.

You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.

He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”

“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.

Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.

“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”

You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”

“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”

You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”

“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”

You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.

You paused, turning to him.

“I should—”

“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”

He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.

He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”

“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.

“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.

And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.

Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself, 

Definitely fate.

The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.

You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.

He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.

He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).

But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.

It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.

The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.

Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”

You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.

Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”

You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.

He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.

You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.

Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”

You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.

A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.

“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”

He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.

Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”

Lando blinked. “Until now what?”

Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”

“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”

Max squinted. “Sign language.”

Lando tilted his head. “Why?”

Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.

“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.

“Wait. What?”

Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”

You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.

Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”

Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”

Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”

“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”

You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.

“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.

“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”

You do now, you signed back.

And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.

“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”

Max coughed. “Too late.”

Lando flipped him off without even looking.

After that café day, something shifted in Lando.

It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.

It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.

And so, Lando started to learn.

First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.

But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.

French Sign Language.

He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.

He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.

Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.

“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.

“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”

Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”

But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.

And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.

It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.

He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.

“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.

Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.

Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:

I wanted to try something.

You blinked.

His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.

I’ve been learning French Sign Language.

You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.

Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”

And then—he signed again.

I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.

When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”

Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.

You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.

Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You mean everything, he signed back.

And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.

© 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐈

. . . ( need to do a part two of this where reader goes to the paddock + public reaction )

[weoris]

𝒇 ━━ GOOD LUCK CHARM ⦂ LANDO NORRIS

✦ lando’s fans believe his camera-shy girlfriend is his good luck charm or all he wants to do is show off his girl, and doesn’t even bother to be subtle about it.

𝒂𝗏𝖾́𝖼 · fem!reader smau ‘private, not secret’ no face claim ‎ 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲. reblogs are appreciated≧ᗜ≦

📍 austin, texas

liked by lando, louisvuitton, pietra.pilao and others ynln charlie loves @/louisvuitton more than he loves me view comments

louisvuitton 🐶🤎 liked by creator

lando hi baby ! oh and hi yn ynln 😀

user1 YN IN AUSTIN DOES THAT MEAN WE ARE SEEING HER IN THE PADDOCK user2 is that lando in the 3rd pic omggg user3 omg does that mean we get to see charlie on the paddock for the first time 🥹

📍 mexico city

liked by rebeccadonaldson, lilymhe and others ynln vamos a bailar view comments

rebeccadonaldson billiards pro liked by creator ynln not without the best game partner <3

user4 Gorgeous 😍 user5 carlando wag reunion someone pinch me user6 yn pls don’t edge us and tell me you’re gonna be at the paddock this time 😔

user7 no like from lando? after going on a separate flight? I don’t wanna jump to conclusions but please don’t confirm the rumours 😭 user8 tbh after she was seen having dinner with other guys in austin DURING the usa gp, I wouldn’t be surprised. travelling to the races and not even showing up was high key petty user9 yn literally works with clarins, who had an event during the race weekend in austin?

📍 mexico city

liked by maxfewtrell, carlossainz55 and others lando merch for the mrs view comments

user10 THE MRS?? WHAT ARE U SAYIN

user11 literally said let me shut up those rumours rq liked by creator user11 OMG HI LAN

user12 our championship leader 😭🫶🏻 user13 the lanyn crumbs we’re getting recently im gaggeddd

📍 yas marina circuit, abu dhabi

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux and others ynln last day for luck 🧡 view comments

user14 AT THE PADDOCKKKKK

user15 YN’S FIRST APPEARANCE IN PAPAYA COLOURS >>> liked by creator

user16 yn pls don’t use anymore of your luck today 🙏🏻 user17 LOL TEA

liked by ynln, mclarenf1 and others lando WORLD CHAMPPP view comments

ynln who is that sexy girl in the last photo liked by creator lando future wife user18 OH MY GOD!!!???? user19 YN LUCK IS REALLLL

oscarpiastri Congratulations mclarenf1 PROUD 🧡 georgerussell63 Congrats mate!!!

liked by ynln, oscarpiastri and others lando won a bet, won gf bragging rights @ ynln ❤️ view comments

maxfewtrell Mate you legit just won the championships 10 minutes ago lando been keeping this in the drafts for a while

ynln ❤️ liked by creator

ynln we look pretty good together liked by creator lando what i’ve been sayinggg baby

user20 THE HARD LAUNCH WE’VE BEEN WAITING FORRR user21 THIS IS SO CUTE HELP user22 parents 🥹

carlossainz55 First you steal my girlfriend, now you steal my lando ynln boyyyy

신 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗗𝗘. first f1 post ahh kinda nervous 😳 taglist .

[chocolans]

𝓹ut your records on ౨ৎ "i ate and trained like lando norris for 24 hours" — or the one where the internet gets a glimpse into the off-season life of lando norris: part time f1 driver, full-time twitch streamer, supercar fanatic and your lovely dork of a boyfriend. ｡ ｡ 

wc⠀4.3k───lando norris x fem! reader ⠀ ➷ ⠀ est. relationship fluff a few tiny suggestive implications :3 reader is a fashion designer but that's not very relevant lol. radio so, this is possibly the last fic i'll release this year! if you guys have any requests, my asks are always open. till then~ masterlist

Exhaustion sits deep in your bones, brain and ears both stuffed with cotton—one of those being metaphorical. Still, you have your limbs intact and sanity too, more or less, so you count the launch of a new collection that you got to work on for the Vivienne Westwood an overall success.

The hardest part is dragging yourself through the security procedures of an airport that resembles a hornet's nest close to midnight. But the point is that you're finally back in the French riviera, only half an hour away from freedom of flinging yourself in bed.

Your phone buzzes with a text notification. There is a smile on your face before you even open it.

[23:37] lan🐸: did you land yettt?

[23:37] you: yessir! the shuttle just took off

[23:38] you: what about the guys? are they here?

[23:38] lan🐸: mhm. standing by gate 15

[23:39] lan🐸: don't take too long, c u soon 💗

[23:40] you: go 2 sleep babe. i'll be there when u wake up 😏

[23:40] lan🐸: how romantic of u (and no, i want all the tea NOW. get here soon x)

You lug your carry-on off the bus when it finally halts on the other end of Terminal 2. Nice Côte d'Azur is a sprawling mess of overlapping broadcasts on the PA system and muffled buzz of conversation, but nowhere near as overwhelming as Heathrow on any given day of the year.

It's also rather easy to spot a small group of people waving with their hands over their head. With a newfound spring in your step and a grin, you reach them in record time. “Fancy seeing you lot on our side of the world.”

“A very humbling experience,” Morgan jokes, shaking your hand. “Nice to see you in higher resolution.”

“Blame that on the shitty wi-fi,” you snark, making him chuckle while you pull Ethan into a side hug. “Good to see you again. The flight was okay, yeah?”

“Peachy. Ginge was clapping after touchdown,” he replies, earning an eye roll from the streamer.

“I do not take chances with the universe, mate! Bad karma and all that. Still got to fly myself home in a couple days.”

“Well, I for one am exhausted,” you start, sparing a sheepish look at the taxi driver who is not being discreet with tapping his foot on the floor. “Let's take this party to the car. You guys need a hand with that?”

Matt, one of the cameramen for Quadrant, refuses with a smile as he begins hauling a giant kit of filming equipment. “Yours look full already. Where were you for the past… decade, it seems?"

You roll your eyes as the unit starts moving towards the exit, stale aircon air melting into the cloudless night. “Try bringing a million sketches to Fashion Week in case your boss finds every last finished piece hideous. I think a few years got shaved off my life with all the stress.”

“That's hustle culture for ya,” Morgan quips.

Only when the heavy bags are stuffed in the boot and you've found yourself in the passenger seat with full control over the aux does the conversation resume.

“So, what's there to do in Monaco actually?” Ethan asks, rubbing his hands.

“Depends on what you want to do. Monte Carlo is always glorious at night, and close to the hotel you'll be at. If either of you think you have a shot at gambling against loaded professionals,” the rest goes unsaid.

“I think we'll pass,” Morgan says, incredulous. “Is that all there is to it, then, a bunch of show offs by the Mediterranean?”

You shake your head immediately. “See, that's just the shiny surface. Everything here is freakishly polished and does get a bit boring over a long time but, look around, the buildings are a work of art. You can visit the museums or the few palaces we've got laying about. Or sunbath by the ports if that's more your thing,” you tease.

Matt jumps in like an overexcited puppy, “Does Lando have a yatch?”

That makes you chuckle. “Not as far as I'm aware, no. Sorry to disappoint,” you add at his miffed look but he's back to smiling again. “Tell you what, I can send you the location of our favorite junk food place. Head down there for dinner if you fancy a good burger. Tell her my name and she'll know the exact way I like it.”

“Look at that! A proper mob boss in the making,” Morgan whistles.

“Ah shit, you've blown my cover. I need to kill you now, I'm afraid.”

You part ways at the boulevard of the hotel that has been set up for them with the promise of meeting nice and early the next day. Fontvieille is another ten minutes away, but that's enough time for you to feel the drowsiness creep in. You keep yourself awake chasing the bright lights from the yacht basin nearby.

The housing society you're part of is lulled into silence by the night and each thud of your suitcase or clicking of trainers against the carpeted floor resounds ten times louder. Stifling a yawn, you punch in the code for the front door lock of the flat, spilling into the dim hallway.

There is a faint whirring noise that can only be Lando's sim rig running in the studio. You're no better than a zombie trudging through the apartment, shedding your bags, jumper, shoes and socks, before peeking in through the half-opened door.

Your boyfriend is perched on the simulator as you expected, hands on the steering and laser focused on the screen. He looks comfortable drowning in an oversized hoodie despite his pinched brows. The sunny weather of Baku City Circuit washes him in a bright light that cannot be easy on the eyes considering the otherwise pitch black room.

“Hey, you.”

Apparently the sound in his headphones is not cranked up to maximum, so Lando whips his head towards the doorway immediately, almost beaming. He fiddles with a few buttons till the ‘game paused’ window pops up. “Hello to you, too, baby. Come here.”

You're happy to oblige, melting into him as he pulls you on his lap, fingers tangling in his curls. “I smell like airport.”

Lando rolls his eyes, “Good thing I have nose blindness or whatever for that exact thing.”

You open your mouth to reply only to be shushed by a kiss. And you are but a weak woman to his charms, giving in with a content sigh.

He pulls back just barely, big warm hands running up and down your sides, working away your fatigue. “Did you have dinner already? And none of the instant noodle bullshit.”

“No, I'm starving,” you grumble. "They had carrot sandwich, but it smelled gross so I tossed it.”

Lando shakes his head. “How does it keep happening to you every time? I think you can apply for a Guinness world record for bad luck at this point.”

Toying with the strings of his hoodie, you peck his cheek, “Don't underestimate me, I will do it.”

As you cradle his face carefully, Lando looks down at you with an amused smile. Even after a good few years of being in a relationship, you still have moments when you just want to sit down and ruminate in the surrealism of it all. Instead, you squish his cheeks, forcing him into a pufferfish pout.

“Are you having cuteness aggression?” He asks, slurring. “Is that what this is?”

Giggling, you drop your head onto his shoulder. “Calling yourself cute must be the first line in A Narcissist's Rulebook one-oh-one. Now can we order something, please?”

Lando huffs dramatically. “I went out with Carlos for lunch. Got some leftover pasta if you want something quick?” The mere thought has your stomach rumbling and he smirks as your face warms. “Go freshen up while I heat up the food.”

“Care to join me, good sir?” You wriggle your eyebrows and it must look ridiculous because he chokes.

“You drive a hard bargain, darling, but I need to feed you first. Then we can go to bed and you can tell me all about that shitty Head of Design.”

The smile that takes over your expression is sickeningly dopey, fueled by the fuzzy warmth in your stomach. You lean in once again to kiss him slowly, and with all the gratitude that surges through you, “You’re the absolute best.”

The morning arrives in a headrush of anticipation that writhes beneath skin. Still unused to the differing timezones, your body probably thinks it's pulling an all-nighter, refusing to let you enjoy the warmth of a familiar body enveloping yours or the ridiculously soft blankets you have piled up on the bed. So, you decide to be productive.

That is precisely how Lando finds you sometime after seven in the morning—perched on the kitchen island, going to town on whatever fruit you have in the fridge, throwing them in the blender with your eyes glued to the laptop screen showing Donna and Sam arguing over an ABBA classic.

“Oh my god!” You startle, knife thankfully cluttering to the counter when Lando wraps his arms around you. You glare at him, “Do you have any self preservation instincts? I could have taken your eye out!”

“Would've could've should've,” he hums, smiling against your shoulder. “Your hair is still very wet.”

You try to shimmy yourself out of his octopus-like grip to no avail. “I know. It's too early for the hairdryer, though. Blueberry?”

He accepts the fruit you press to his lips and wanders off after squeezing you against his chest one last time. You try to focus on the movie again, thinking he has gone back to bed, only for him to walk into the kitchen with a towel.

You smile at him when he gestures for you to turn around and bring your knees to your chest. The towel is fresh off the dryer, soothing, as he dries your hair more gently than you have the patience for.

“Am I missing something or what?” You ask as he twists the ends of your hair into the cloth, wringing the water out. “You're being suspiciously sweet.”

Lando scoffs. “A simple ‘thank you’ would have been enough but I just can't win.” He tilts your head down to kiss the crown of it and you simply preen at the affection.

He looks like he wants to say something more but before he gets the chance, a cacophony of chirping canaries you'd jokingly set as your doorbell and stuck with echoes through the flat. Lando rolls his shoulders, “I think they're filming already. Are you okay with hanging out here?”

You grab one of his hands and squeeze his wrist, “I'm good. I'll try to stay out of the way.”

You give it a few minutes after Lando gets the door to wander towards the hallway. The guys are all standing around, setting up microphones and marveling at the sheer amount of trinkets you have in that awning alone.

It's a little shy of overbearing, the number of helmets, cars, mannequins and even art pieces—gifted by fans or commissioned personally—that take up most wall space. A huge MCL36 on one side, some of your own rendered designs on another, along with framed pictures of family and friends sprinkled into the mix. It’s a mosaic of everything you hold dear.

“Uhm... this is me,” Lando says, rubbing his hands. He looks every bit as awkward as you feel, this being the first time you've ever explicitly filmed your flat on this scale. You join him at his side, waving at the camera.

“Well, the dinner recommendation was phenomenal. Are we having some breakfast now?” Morgan asks.

You smile, “You are living like Mr. Norris over here. I'll let the master do his thing.”

“Come on, then,” he takes it in stride, leading the hoard into the kitchen. The sheet of his meal plan for the day is on the counter as he pulls open the fridge, “That is your breakfast, mate.”

Just out of frame, you have to consciously hold back laughter at the boys’ obvious disgust looking at the oatmeal. “That looks like someone ate breakfast and then threw up.”

“I just don't get why we're eating it cold,” Morgan laments, having yet to taste it.

“It's either that or mush. Trust me, I was the first victim to this lifestyle,” you sigh wistfully, emptying out the blender to make an açai bowl. “Do you want fruits on top of it?”

“Can't we have that instead? Whatever that is,” Ethan points to your food with his spoon.

“Afraid not. Do you see me doing that? Best you get is a couple berries over this,” Lando chimes in, eyebrows raised, making Ethan give up and accept the diced fruit you happily dole out.

From then on, the conversation pivots to fast food and workout routines. You remain in the periphery, not directly in the footage but enough to chime in when necessary.

“I was thinking we should start with a run, but maybe that's too much for you guys,” Lando explains, face impassive but he's clearly trying to take the piss out of them.

“Get in. I do five kilometers a week, actually. What’s your time?” Morgan fires back.

Lando says, “What, like one K a day?” at the same time as you blurting, “Since when is this a dick measuring competition?”

“Woah, there, alright!” Ethan cuts in, but he’s grinning. “Let's keep it PG thirteen, ma'am. YouTube is anal about monetization.”

You throw your hands up in mock exasperation, “What happened to this being a free country?”

By the time you finish up with the food and the team moves to set up in the gym room, you find your adrenaline crashing again. So you try to navigate your boyfriend in the chaos after changing into workout clothes.

“Lan? I'm going for a run.”

His eyes snap to his wristwatch, “Alright? But you should really sleep in today or finish the movie. You'll be dead after, baby.”

“That's the plan,” you slip past the weights, accepting a sideways hug. “If I nap now I'll fuck up my sleep schedule even more. Might as well stock up on groceries while I'm there.”

“Okay, have fun. By the way, where did we keep the workout bands again?”

You deadpan, “You're the one who drags those into the bedroom, love.” Lando smiles wryly, sauntering off to find them you assume, while Morgan and Ethan exchange a look equal parts confused and sly. You click your tongue, “Get your heads out the gutter, lads.”

Morgan shrugs, “Not the one who brought it up, ya weirdo.”

By the time you get home, the guys have already returned from cryotherapy. You shuffle into the flat, playfully saluting Matt who has his camera pointed at the other three. He gives you thumbs up in acknowledgement.

“Lunchtime already?” You asked, shuffling past the dining table where Lando is passing out the poke bowls. “You better have heated those, you heathen.”

“It makes zero difference,” he argues, but recollects them to shove them in the microwave anyway.

Morgan is smirking from his seat, arms crossed. “So, the missus rules the household, then?”

You snort, elbowing Lando who squints at you in faux warning, “Something like that. Think of it as compensation for him leaving me on my own for so long.”

“Must be wild though, right? With that much travelling, you're practically doing long-distance for half the year,” Ethan asks, face propped in his palms, oddly sympathetic. “And then getting papped like crazy for the other half. Sounds exhausting.”

Lando hands you the bowls as he sorts the takeout for the filming crew you'd brought, “Careful, they're steaming—Uh, it is, kind of. She comes to as many races as her schedule allows, but at the end of the day, it's my job. And she has her own stuff going on.”

“The timezones are the worst bit,” you add, passing around cutlery. “I always forget to update mine according to the race calendar and feel like shit after.”

“Not the media circus?” Morgan asks, looking genuinely surprised. “I'll be honest, if I got photographed every time I stepped outside, I'd be fuckin’ fuming and embarrassed.”

You catch Lando's eye and he cocks his head as you take your own seat. “I mean, it's not something you get used to easily, that's for sure. Hell, I still get pissed when people just pull their phones out like they're recording some zoo animal. But it’s worth it—he's worth it.”

“Aren’t you a flatterer,” Lando croons joking, eyes impossibly soft around the edges. His hand brushing your knee under the table makes you beam.

“I would say that's cringe but I respect it,” Ethan huffs before popping the lid of the meal. “Now, why the fuck is this so colourful?”

With lunch done, you all chat over a couple rounds of jenga, uno and even pop one of the million bottles of red wine sitting around. Soon after, the crew recedes to Lando's studio while you wander to your own, set on finishing some pattern mockups you'd randomly picked up.

The laughter and panicked screaming muffled by the drywalls makes you oddly content. There are not many athletes who readily open up about their personal lives—that's well within their rights, of course—and give an insight into the behind the scenes struggles which go into the performance they deliver on D-day.

So, the fact that Lando has taken the initiative to open up the world of Formula One to casual viewers, for them to get the slightest idea of what these people do on a daily basis to stand on the top steps, is absolutely one to be proud of.

A knock on the door pulls you away from your thoughts. Lando is at the doorway wearing a Fedora hat of all things, frowning, before he walks closer, both hands cupping your face. “Are you feeling okay?”

You nuzzle into his touch, eyes closing briefly, “Yeah, ‘course. Why the sudden curiosity? And why the hat?”

“It's fashion! I called you three times but you kept staring into nothingness." He pokes a finger into your skin, "That's what happens when you think sleep is overrated, you muppet.”

Ever the picture of maturity, you stick out your tongue. “What were you even saying?”

He brushes his thumb over your cheekbones, “I'm taking them to get some decent snacks before the surprise. Come with?”

“Oh, can we take them to that crêpe place? The one from my birthday?” You pull yourself up, shutting the lights off as you walk out. “The chocolate ones are, like, heavenly.”

You miss the simper on Lando’s face, as obvious as a sunny day, “You read my mind.”

Down in the underground garage, Lando gives a rapid-fire tour of most of his sprawling car collection. You stand off to the side watching them sit inside the AC Cobra and then the restomod Land Rover, wincing when he revs the cold engines to the moon.

“At the risk of damaging the bearing again, baby, please give it a rest,” you whine but the chokehold awe has on the group makes you smirk. Lando just laughs, sharp and bright. He's so obviously in his element, you can't help but reach over and ruffle his hair. Cuteness aggression, was it?

Later when he's getting the Urus ready, Morgan points at the vehicle closest to him, “Is this electric?”

You crane your neck to see why everyone's started guffawing and—oh. The streamer standing in front of the McLaren 765LT Spider. Otherwise known as the other woman in your relationship—but you're convinced that you are the side piece—an absolute custom beauty with an impressive twin-turbo V8 for guts. Lando is shell-shocked and rightfully so.

“What, it's plugged in!” Morgan defends his point half-heartedly.

You walk over with a somber expression, thumbing in your boyfriend's direction, “Never disrespect her in this household. She's his wife.”

“Alright, you're overdoing it now.” A pair of arms wrap around your waist, the raspberries blown against your neck making you squirm uncontrollably as he glances at you, fond. “That's a supercar, mate. They need to be plugged in so the battery doesn’t die. Now, might I suggest getting this show on the road?”

January in Monaco is nothing to write home about when compared to how bustling and full of life spring is in the riviera. But sitting in the passenger side as the car makes its way up a winding hillside road, you think the cloud-coated mountains and the cold breeze playing with your hair have their own irrefutable charm.

Lando has one of his many mood playlists blasting through the speakers but conversation triumphs over the melody in yelled sentences. You make some silly faces whenever the camera pans to you, devolving to laughter afterwards.

The café is tucked beside a viewpoint along the route to Tête de Chien. Usually the parking lot provides a stunning panorama of the entirety of Monaco but, just your luck, there is a dark, heavy set of condensation looming over everything today. Still you find yourself posing for some pictures, indulging Morgan as he claims this is “a once-in-a-lifetime experience”.

Ironically, he gets sidetracked by a stray pomeranian that basically lives with the owners. Morgan capitalizes on Lando being familiar with the puppy—given how often you find yourself there, it's really no surprise—to hold its attention, capturing an entire SD card worth of photos.

Ethan lingers by your side as you sneak some of your own pictures: Lando petting the dog's fur, both looking incredibly pleased, makes for great wallpaper material. “Why don't you two just adopt one?”

You peek over your shoulder with a wistful sigh, “Not the best flame to fan at the moment, buddy.”

“I mean, it would make sense, right? You have yourselves a nice flat, and after witnessing firsthand how you act around each other, this is it for both of you.” He leans back on the bannister, properly curious, “Unless you're into some weird belief of waiting till the wedding to get pets, isn’t that the best next step?”

There is definitely a noticeable blush creeping up to your ears now. You're thankful the camera is too far away to pick up this exchange. “Not with our careers, it's not.” You watch Ethan's mouth form a perfect ‘o’ and carry on, “We've talked about it obviously. But neither of us are in the headspace to manage the added responsibility of a living breathing creature. It just won’t be fair.”

The lady on the counter wanders outside to tell you the order is prepared. The pomeranian bolts out from under Lando's hand, running towards her with its tail wagging.

Ethan offers you a fistbump that you quickly return, joining the others. Right before you enter the sitting area however, Lando reaches for your hand, pulling it up to his lips. His eyes trace yours as if to question what is wrong and you can only answer with a reassuring smile.

Truthfully, you love the life the two of you have built together. The close knit sense of community and belonging to a place—even if it is among the pinnacle of luxury—and also the not-so-great parts that entail dating a man whose every day is a spectacle. And as much as it is you who chooses to love him despite those struggles, you also innately adore the kind of person he is.

How he takes home food regardless of you asking, keeping you with him in his heart and mind wherever he is around the world. How he takes care of the small mundane tasks for you, like drying your hair, being patient with you even when you cannot manage being gentle with yourself.

But most of all, you're irrevocably infatuated with how he never asks you to put yourself on the lower pedestal in favor of his whims. There is little else that trumps the satisfaction of knowing this life, with all its hard moments and the incredible ones, is for both of you to share in equal measure.

To your delight, the crêpes are an instant hit and everybody sings praises of your proficiency in picking out places to eat at. Lando goes a bit overboard with it and Ethan dares him to lick the plate to prove his point. Out of everyone there, you're the least phased when he goes through with it, your hands catching the rim of his bucket hat before it swipes the chocolate on his plate as he ducks down.

Then, it's time to say goodbye.

You hug each one of them individually, exchanging ‘good night's and polite pleasantries like ‘it was fun, let's do this again sometime’. It's at that point where Lando finally reveals the surprise set for them and you'd be lying if you say you don't find their flabbergasted state hilarious. The driver from the other day returns to drop them off at the local Helipad and you keep waving until their taxi disappears behind a sharp corner.

“That was something,” you muse, once you're situated inside the car again.

“Uh-huh,” Lando glances at you slyly, one arm extended to hold your headrest as he turns the car with the other. You don't even try anymore to hide how obviously you're ogling, chin on your palm and looking as smitten as you feel. “It's not like we have people crashing at ours every other week or something.”

The sun has already started to set, cloudy canvas painted in diluted purple, magenta and gold. “Yeah, but never to film us for a whole day! I will say, it wasn't as bad as I thought. That, or we live like clowns daily so we didn't have to play it up.”

He laughs, hands steady on the steering wheel, drumming against it once you hit traffic in the main town square. “Thanks for being such a good sport about it. I know I asked too much anyway but—yeah, you're just amazing.”

“Oh, am I now?”

With a coy smile, you lean over the centre console to kiss him, putting on a good show for anyone who might be recording. Well, they shouldn't be peeping anyway.

Lando sighs when you sit back down, happy-pilled, repeating your own words from the night before, “The absolute best.”

© CHOCOLANS, 2025. do not copy, repost or modify my fics. this work is exclusively posted on tumblr.

[pitlanepeach]

Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

[islagalaxie]

FOOLISH ONE - LANDO NORRIS

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: A casual situationship between Y/N and Lando slowly spirals into something far more complicated than either of them ever expected. What began without clear intentions starts to blur into something emotionally charged and impossible to ignore. Between moments of closeness, distance that lingers too long and impulsive choices they can’t take back, they find themselves trapped in a cycle they don’t know how to break. As boundaries fade and feelings surface in ways they never planned for, both are forced to confront a connection that no longer fits the rules they once set for themselves.

WC: 10K

masterlist

“I’m not looking for a serious relationship right now — not with you, not with anyone. I only want something casual, and if that’s not something you’re comfortable with, then I think it’s best if we just stay friends.”

Hearing those words from Lando Norris shouldn’t have triggered any reaction in me, because from the very beginning of our “situationship,” I had known perfectly well that nothing serious could ever exist between us. Never.

So why did it feel like someone had shot me straight through the heart? Because I was an idiot, that was the harsh truth.

“Don’t worry, I’m fully aware of that.”

The small smile I gave him never reached my eyes.

Lando let out a quiet breath of relief before leaning in to kiss me, relieved that he could still keep me by his side with no conditions, no complaints, no labels. Completely willing to keep crawling back into his bed.

We were celebrating his twenty-sixth birthday at a club in Monaco. The next day, he had to leave for the United States to prepare for his race in Las Vegas. The championship was almost over, and Lando was the clear favorite to win it, so right now all of his energy was focused on that.

I excused myself to the bathroom because I couldn’t handle the pressure building in my chest anymore. The moment I walked in, all I could do was stare at myself in the mirror, thinking about how pathetic I was.

How could I've ever thought that someone like Lando would want a serious relationship with me? He had never given me false hope. I was the one who built those fantasies in my head, so there was no one to blame but myself.

I took a few deep breaths while staring at my anxiety-ridden reflection in the mirror. At no point had I imagined things would end up like this when, almost ten months ago, we’d ended up having sex in the backseat of his car.

We’d known each other for years. We weren’t friends — just acquaintances. Every now and then we’d have a conversation or two, but nothing particularly meaningful. Until that damned day when we both ended up at the same party, and the chemistry between us while we danced was so intense it practically sparked.

The most logical thing after that was to fuck like rabbits and keep doing it on a regular basis and somehow, that’s how we ended up here tonight.

With Lando making it painfully clear for the first time that he wanted absolutely nothing from me beyond sex — all because I hadn’t liked the way he openly let someone else flirt with him right in front of me.

I pulled myself together as best as I could and went back to where Lando and his friends were sitting.

“Let’s go home,” Lando whispered into my ear the second I sat down beside him.

His hand tightened slightly around my thigh. I already knew exactly what that meant. And like the idiot I was, all I could do was nod before following him out to his car.

(…)

Days passed, but that small thorn of dissatisfaction left behind by my conversation with Lando never really went away.

I tried to keep myself as busy as possible so I wouldn’t think about it, but eventually night would come, and once I was alone in my room, I couldn’t run from those thoughts anymore.

I felt like the most insignificant person in the world. How had I let myself get to the point where a man could treat me like this? Being in love was one thing, but I needed to face reality once and for all.

The problem was that every time I became determined to end things for good, Lando would come back with that smile and those beautiful eyes, and suddenly I’d find myself thinking: I’ll leave him next weekend.

I hated myself after every encounter, because I always ended up worse than before — desperate, with my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

It was Sunday night, and I was getting ready for bed when a message from him popped up on my phone.

LANDO: You awake?

ME: Kind of.

ME: How was your weekend?

LANDO: Terrible. We got disqualified from the race.

ME: What???

LANDO: Yeah. I'll call you in five minutes.

Immediately, I searched online to see what had happened. I'd completely disconnected from everything that weekend and hadn't paid much attention to Lando's race.

The first headline read: NORRIS AND PIASTRI DISQUALIFIED FROM THE LAS VEGAS GP AFTER MCLAREN CARS FAILED POST-RACE INSPECTION.

Shit.

My phone started ringing, and Lando's name appeared on the screen. My heart immediately began to race.

"Hello?"

"Y/N. It's good to hear your voice. We haven't talked much these past few days."

"Lando, I just saw what happened. I'm really sorry. I know you needed those points."

I tried to sound sympathetic, Lando let out a long sigh.

"Yeah. The gap between Verstappen and me isn't that big anymore. Hopefully the next race goes better."

"I know how badly you want to win the championship. I hope things improve."

"Yeah, me too. But I actually called to see how you're doing. We haven't talked much lately, and I know things might feel a little weird after our conversation that day, but..." He paused. "You matter to me. I don't want you to pull away."

My cheeks flushed, and I shifted uncomfortably against the mattress. Talking about that conversation was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. Like I told you that day, I understand where you stand on all of this, so you can relax."

Lando exhaled softly.

"I'm glad. Because, you're like a ray of sunshine in my life, and I don't want you to stop being part of it."

A couple of tears slipped down my cheeks. How could he say something like that after everything? Right now, I should have felt angry. Outraged, even. But for a pathetic girl hopelessly in love like me, all those words did was make my heart melt a little more.

"You looked good in the picture you posted today."

My cheeks warmed further.

"I wish you were here," he continued. "I miss having you around."

The pre-Lando's birthday version of me would have smiled at those insinuations, but now they only left a bitter taste in my mouth. Because after his birthday, I couldn't ignore reality anymore. Lando didn't miss me. He missed what I represented. The easy girl who was always willing to give him her love, her attention, and her company.

"I'm sure you do," I replied flatly.

Lando went quiet for a moment.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Yeah. Of course."

"You sound different. Your tone changed all of a sudden."

"I'm just tired."

"Okay..." Another pause. "Then I'll let you get some sleep."

Without waiting for my response, he hung up. It felt strange not immediately meeting Lando's emotional needs the moment he expressed them. For the first time since our little situationship started, I wasn't acting as his consolation prize.

And I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

From then on, our conversations followed the same pattern. Lando would text me expecting me to drop everything and devote all my attention and sympathy to him and his problems, only to run into a wall of excuses and clipped replies.

After a few days, he seemed to give up. As if he'd decided I was no longer worth the effort. It felt like a punch straight to my already wounded heart. It was the first time I'd felt distance from him. Or maybe it was because I was finally beginning to understand how easy it was for him to live without me.

A few weeks after that call, Lando was already preparing for Abu Dhabi.

The final race of the season. His chance to become World Champion. It was the most important weekend of his career, and everyone was going to be there.

His family, friends, the people who mattered the most to him.

I waited for an invitation. One that never came.

At first, I convinced myself he was simply too busy. Then I told myself I probably shouldn't have expected anything in the first place.

Soon, Instagram stories started appearing.

Our mutual friends looked happy, proud, excited for him and among all the people accompanying him was the girl who had flirted with him that night in Monaco. Of course she was there.

I had known something like this would happen the moment I stopped giving him my undivided, almost humiliating level of attention, he'd simply move on to the next person.

And of course it would be her, the girl I'd spent months trying not to be jealous of.

A knot formed in my stomach, I knew I had no right to feel that way.

Lando wasn't my boyfriend, he never had been. He had made that painfully clear. So why did it feel like rejection? Why did it feel like I had just received confirmation that I didn't belong—and never truly had belonged—in his life? Why did I feel so replaceable?

That Sunday, I watched the race from my apartment.

I watched him cross the finish line, lift the trophy and celebrate, surrounded by everyone he loved.

And I just couldn't feel happy for him.

Because as I watched that celebration unfold, reality hit me once again. If I disappeared from his life tomorrow, nothing would change for him.

But if he disappeared from mine, my entire world would fall apart.

And that was exactly what was happening.

(...)

The weeks after Abu Dhabi passed in a strange sort of haze.

I congratulated him on his victory, of course I did.

My heart was shattered, but he was still my friend. Beyond our complicated relationship, I knew I cared about him in a way that would never completely disappear.

Lando replied, happy and relieved, like whatever had been going on with me was finally over.

Or that's probably what he thought, because our communication slipped right back into place as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes Lando texted.

Sometimes he didn't.

Some nights he'd call me out of nowhere, and we'd spend an hour talking about absolutely nothing. Then he'd disappear for three days.

It was torture for both me and my sanity because every time I started feeling better, he'd come back with one of his random messages.

Every time I managed to move forward, he'd remind me why I couldn't.

I was trapped.

The worst part was knowing he wasn't doing it on purpose.

To him, this was normal.

To him, I was still there—available, waiting for him.

Whatever had happened between us during those past few weeks was probably nothing more than an emotional slump in his eyes. Something that had affected me more than it should have and made me act unlike myself.

Unlike the Y/N he knew.

One Friday night, my friend Saima finally got tired of listening to me talk about it.

"You're coming out with me."

"I don't want to," I refused immediately.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

So I went, because it was easier to remove Saima's head than one of her ideas.

I spent nearly two hours getting ready, trying to convince myself I was excited. Trying to convince myself I wasn't checking my phone every five minutes with the secret hope that Lando would text me.

By the time I was done, I looked beautiful. Saima let out a loud whistle the moment she saw me, and all I could do was laugh.

When we arrived at the club, it was packed. The music was deafening, and the heat was almost unbearable.

For the first hour, surprisingly, I managed to enjoy myself.

Dancing had always been therapeutic for me, it was the quickest way to flood my body with serotonin. I was having such a good time that I even forgot to check my phone for a while.

Then I saw him.

Dressed head to toe in black, standing by the bar with a few of his friends, laughing without a care in the world.

My heart leapt.

Warmth spread through my chest, and I took a step toward him when I finally noticed the rest of the scene. One of Lando's arms was wrapped around a blonde girl who was laughing hysterically beside him.

Her.

The girl.

My smile vanished instantly.

God, I was pathetic.

Such an idiot.

I didn't know why I kept placing my hopes on a man who had made it painfully clear that he didn't take me seriously.

A man who only saw me as temporary entertainment, as a shoulder to cry on. Someone he could use whenever he felt lonely, then toss aside the moment he no longer needed her—like a shirt thrown into a laundry basket, only to be picked up again whenever he felt miserable enough.

I decided not to stay and watch any longer. I'd had enough. My feelings were practically begging for mercy.

So I turned around and walked away, trying my best to forget the person I was leaving behind.

(...)

That night, I didn't sleep for a single minute.

After leaving the party, I returned to my apartment and sat on the edge of my bed for hours, staring blankly at a spot on the white wall.

Thinking about how ridiculous I felt, how stupid I'd been. It was obvious that Lando felt no responsibility to protect my feelings, he'd made that clear, maybe not through his words, but certainly through his actions.

I was exhausted from spending months trapped in the exact same cycle. A constant swing between extremes, one day I was happy because he'd called. The next three, I was miserable because he'd disappeared.

One week, I convinced myself that maybe he was beginning to feel something for me because of the way he treated me, because of how special he made me feel. The following week, I'd be trying to come to terms with the fact that he was probably sharing his bed with someone else.

I couldn't do it anymore.

For the first time, my mind and my heart were in complete agreement. Both of them were begging me to end this.

When the sun finally began to rise, I threw on a jacket and left my apartment.

I didn't even know where I was going. I just knew I needed to get out of there before I lost my mind. I needed to stop feeling like I was drowning.

I walked for almost two hours, mostly in circles. Monaco wasn't nearly large enough to wander aimlessly for that long, but I didn't care.

At that hour, the streets were quiet.

Monte Carlo was only beginning to wake up.

And then I saw it.

A church.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd stepped inside one.

I pushed the door open because it felt like something was calling me.

The interior was almost empty. There was no service and no one seemed to be inside. Just the faint scent of incense and the soft glow of burning candles. The kind of peace I hadn't felt in a very long time lingered in the air and that was enough to break me.

I sat down in one of the last pews and cried.

I cried in a way I hadn't cried in years.

I cried for everything.

For the ten months I'd spent waiting for something that was never going to happen. For every time I'd settled for crumbs because I was afraid of losing him. For every moment I'd pretended I was okay. For every night I'd stared at my phone waiting for a message. For every single time I'd felt like I wasn't enough.

I cried until I was exhausted.

As if something I'd been carrying inside me for far too long had finally been released.

I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my face in my hands.

"What am I doing?" I whispered.

My voice sounded strange in that place.

"What am I doing to myself?"

Because that was the real question.

Not what Lando was doing.

Not what he felt.

Not who he was with.

What was I doing? Why was I still allowing one person to define my happiness? Why was I still giving him the power to destroy me whenever he wanted? Why was I still expecting love from someone who had told me, clearly and honestly, that he couldn't give it to me?

The silence offered no answer.

So I continued my desperate plea.

"God, if you exist somewhere beyond all of this... if that man isn't meant for me, please help me get him out of my heart. Help me forget he exists. Give me the strength I need not to fall back into this."

I felt so small.

So foolish.

Yet a laugh escaped me as I looked up at the enormous stained-glass windows.

How could anyone claim to understand love if they'd never begged a higher power to help them stop feeling it?

After a few minutes, I finally pulled myself together. Mentally, I gave myself a few well-deserved slaps. I had to stop blaming other people for why I felt so miserable.

Lando wasn't a bad person. He had never lied to me, never promised me anything. His behavior could be morally questionable at times, sure. But at the end of the day, he had never forced me into anything.

I was the one who stayed.

I was the one who kept waiting.

I was the one who kept breaking myself apart piece by piece.

And if I wanted the suffering to end, then I had to be the one who walked away.

The realization was so simple it almost made me laugh. For months, I'd been searching for some complicated solution when the answer had always been the same.

I had to let him go. Not because I didn't love him but precisely because I loved him too much and I was losing myself in the process.

I remained there for several more minutes, sitting quietly.

The pain was still there, it would probably remain for a long time, but something had changed. Because for the first time, I wasn't thinking about how to make Lando choose me.

I was thinking about choosing myself.

And when I finally stood up to leave, I made a decision.

I wasn't going back.

It was over.

Truly over.

Even if it broke my heart.

Even if it took me months to move on.

Even if I still loved him.

It was over.

For the first time in a very long time, as I walked out of that church, I felt like I could finally breathe.

(...)

The first few days were easier than I expected.

Not because I didn't miss him, I missed him constantly. I missed him whenever my phone buzzed. Whenever I saw something funny that I normally would have sent him. Whenever I woke up in the middle of the night and had to fight the urge to text him.

But for the first time, all the pain had a purpose.

This time, I wasn't suffering to keep him, I was suffering to let him go and there was a world of difference between the two.

Three days after that morning in the church, Lando called me.

I stared at the glowing screen for several seconds. Normally, I would have answered before the second ring.

This time, I let it ring until it stopped.

A minute later, a message came through.

LANDO: Everything okay?

I stared at the words.

A simple question. Nothing extraordinary.

And yet, I felt like crying.

Because for months I had been waiting for something like this. Something that showed I occupied space in his mind too. Unfortunately, now that I finally had it, it wasn't enough anymore.

ME: Yeah. Everything's fine.

His reply came almost instantly.

LANDO: You sure?

ME: Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?

After that, he didn't text again.

Strangely enough, I was the one who sat there staring at the conversation, waiting for more.

But nothing came.

Because that's how it had always been.

Lando appeared.

Lando disappeared.

And for ten months, I had allowed my happiness to depend on that.

Not anymore.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.

Stay strong, you'll get through this.

A week later, he called again.

I didn't answer.

Two days after that, he texted.

I didn't reply.

Then he sent a meme.

Then a picture of a dog.

Then a screenshot of something ridiculous he'd found online. As if he was testing the waters, trying to find a door back in.

I replied hours later. Sometimes the next day. Sometimes I didn't reply at all.

And I started to notice he seemed uncomfortable. Because dynamics change quickly when one person stops chasing.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked during a call I eventually accepted one evening.

"No." I delivered the answer in the calmest, most relaxed tone I could manage.

"Then you're acting weird," he concluded.

I closed my eyes.

Before, I would have rushed to reassure him. I would have explained myself. I would have done everything possible to convince him that everything was fine. But I no longer felt like putting that kind of effort into someone who had never been willing to do the same for me.

"Maybe I'm just busy."

The silence on the other end lasted several seconds.

"You were never too busy for me."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. I knew it immediately and so did he.

You were never too busy for me.

As if I belonged to him. As if my availability had become such a natural constant in his life that he'd never even noticed it until it was gone.

"Goodnight, Lando."

I hung up.

That night was the first time I cried without wanting to go back. The first time I cried and still felt proud of myself.

Because every day away from him still hurt, but it hurt a little less.

And that meant something, that was progress.

A small victory that earned myself a quiet pat on the back.

(...)

Lando started noticing the change even harder.

He noticed when I stopped being the first person to view his stories. He noticed when I started going out more. He noticed when our friends mentioned my name and he no longer knew what I was doing. He noticed when he stopped being the center of my world.

And he didn't like it one bit.

"Where were you last night?" he asked during a phone call.

I frowned.

"Excuse me?"

"I saw that you went out."

"Yeah." I didn't deny it because, honestly, why the hell did he care?

"With who?"

The question made me freeze.

For months, I'd wanted to be someone who had the right to ask things like that and he'd reminded me over and over again that I wasn't.

"Friends."

"What friends?" he pressed, trying to squeeze every piece of information he could out of me.

"Why do you care?"

The silence was immediate.

"Just asking."

Bullshit.

We both knew it.

After hanging up, I stared at my screen for several seconds, trying to make sense of this new feeling that had appeared amid all the chaos.

Confusion.

Because something was changing.

And it wasn't me.

It was him.

The following weeks were strange.

Lando started showing up everywhere.

At one point I genuinely wondered if I needed to go back to that church and repeat my prayer because apparently my request hadn't been clear enough.

He commented on my posts. Replied to stories he normally would've ignored. Started conversations over the most ridiculous excuses.

A video.

A meme.

A random news article.

Anything.

Every time I took too long to answer, he'd push a little harder, trying to get a response out of me one way or another. He wasn't aggressive but he was starting to seem desperate. Like someone trying to hold water between their fingers.

Meanwhile, I kept moving forward.

Slowly.

With setbacks.

With difficult nights.

But forward nonetheless.

Then one afternoon, I received a text from him.

One that felt completely different from the casual, almost indifferent messages he'd been sending before.

LANDO: Can we meet?

My heart stumbled.

For months, I'd dreamed of receiving that text.

For months, I would've dropped everything and run to him.

But I was trying not to be that person anymore.

ME: What for?

His response took several minutes.

LANDO: I just want to talk.

Lies or at least a half-truth. Because Lando had never been the kind of person who wanted to talk. Lando always wanted to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

And yet, I still agreed to meet him.

Maybe because a part of me needed to find out if I was really capable of doing it. If I was truly capable of saying no.

(...)

We met at a small café.

It was beautiful, discreet, and quiet.

I arrived first, as always, and during the ten minutes I spent waiting, I seriously considered getting up and leaving.

Then he arrived and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Because it was Lando.

And because despite all my efforts, he still had exactly the same effect on me.

A smile spread across his face the moment he saw me.

"Hi."

"Hi," I replied.

He sat down across from me, the silence between us felt uncomfortable.

Almost suffocating.

Lando looked nervous. So nervous that it caught me off guard, I'd never seen Lando nervous around me. In fact, one of the things he'd always liked about being with me was that there was no pressure and no expectations.

"So..." he began. "What's going on?"

I blinked.

"What's going on with me?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah."

A small, disbelieving laugh escaped me.

"You asked me to meet you so you could ask me that?"

"I've spent weeks trying to figure out what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Yes, there is."

His answer came immediately.

"You barely reply to my messages anymore."

"Because I'm busy," I said, as if it were obvious.

"You were busy before, too."

"Before was different." The words escaped before I could stop them.

We both heard them and we both understood exactly what they meant.

Lando's expression tightened.

"Is this still about my birthday?"

Something inside me cracked. For him, it had been one conversation. For me, it had been the beginning of the end. A humiliation I was still recovering from.

"No," I said quietly. "This is about the last ten months."

Lando fell silent.

"I can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" The question made me stare at him.

It seems like he genuinely didn't understand.

"Waiting for you."

For the first time, he had no answer ready.

"I never asked you to wait for me."

The words landed between us—heavy, painful, casually cruel.

Exactly the kind of thing Lando said when he was being completely honest. I nodded slowly, feeling like someone had just put a bullet through my chest.

"I know."

And that was the problem, he had never asked anything of me. I had given everything willingly.

My time.

My heart.

My dignity, sometimes.

Everything.

"Then I don't understand."

"Because you never had to."

Frustration finally appeared on his face.

"Then explain it to me."

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself, I didn't want to cry. I just wanted this conversation to end so I could go back to rebuilding my life.

"I love you, Lando."

The silence was absolute.

"And I'm tired of it."

I said it so casually that his eyes widened instantly.

Like the confession had caught him completely off guard.

"I can't keep seeing you because every single time I do, I end up hoping for something that is never going to happen."

Lando still didn't speak.

"So this is it."

"What does that mean?" He asked.

"It means it's over."

Not once did my voice shake. I mentally congratulated myself for that.

Lando's expression changed immediately.

"No."

The answer came so fast that I was left in a little shock.

"No?"

"No, you can't just..."

He stopped, frowning as he searched for the right words.

"Just what?"

"Disappear."

My heart stumbled.

For months, I had been the only one terrified of losing him and now, it seemed like he was feeling a fraction of that fear.

"I'm not disappearing."

"That's exactly what it feels like."

I looked at him carefully, he seem genuinely upset.

Not heartbroken.

Not devastated.

Upset.

Like someone who had just lost something he'd always taken for granted.

"I'm sorry." I didn't know what else to say.

"I don't want you to do this." The plea in his voice was so faint it was almost nonexistent.

Almost.

But it was there and that was exactly what made it hurt more. For months, I would've given anything to hear him say those words.

Now they had arrived far too late.

"Goodbye, Lando."

I stood up.

This time, I was the one who walked away.

I didn't look back.

Not because I was strong. But because I knew that if I did, I might not have the courage to keep walking.

(...)

During the first few days after my disastrous confession, nothing happened. No messages, no calls, no memes, not even a reaction to my stories.

Nothing.

At first, I felt relieved because it was what I wanted, wasn't it? I had fought for months to get to this point. I had prayed for this. I had cried for this.

So why did I feel such an unbearable emptiness?

The first few days, I kept myself busy. I went out with Saima, worked more hours than necessary, read books, watched shows. I even became one of those insufferable people who go running in the mornings.

I did anything that could keep my mind occupied, but there were moments that were impossible to avoid. Like finding a funny video and automatically opening Instagram to send it to him. Or reading a Formula 1 article and immediately thinking of him. Or waking up in the middle of the night and reaching for my phone before remembering there was no longer anyone waiting for me on the other side.

It was humiliating how, after everything that had happened, my brain was still looking for him while he was already gone.

Two weeks passed.

Then three.

Then a month.

A whole month without hearing anything from Lando.

Little by little, I began to understand that forgetting him was so difficult because I had turned him into a habit. I wasn't just trying to forget a person—I was trying to break an addiction.

One that was almost impossible to recover from, because Lando was everywhere.

In my routine.

In my thoughts.

In my reflexes.

In the empty spaces of my day.

And even though it hurt a little less each week, it still hurt.

One night, I even found myself scrolling through his profile. His latest post had been uploaded three days earlier. It had thousands of comments and thousands of likes from girls.

And there I was, staring at a screen like an idiot.

I closed Instagram immediately because I knew myself too well, and I knew that if I kept looking, I would never manage to leave.

The weeks kept passing.

And then something started happening that, at that point, I never thought would happen. At first, it was so subtle that I thought it was a coincidence.

One morning, I posted a picture of my coffee.

Two minutes later, I got a notification.

He had liked it.

I stared at the screen, trying to convince myself it didn't mean anything, because it probably didn't mean anything.

But the next day it happened again.

And the day after that too.

Then he started appearing in my stories and liking every single one of them.

He didn't reply.

He didn't text.

He didn't start conversations.

He was simply there, watching every one of them like a shadow, like someone standing on the other side of a closed door. Every time it happened, I would stare at the screen for several seconds, something in my chest telling me that it wasn't a coincidence.

Because I knew Lando.

Lando had never been a persistent man. If something drifted away from him, he usually let it go.

But now he was doing the opposite.

He wasn't trying to come back in.

Not yet.

He was making sure I knew he was still there.

The feeling followed me all week, it was as if I could feel him slowly getting closer, without a rush, with no pressure and without saying a single word.

But making one thing very clear: He hadn't disappeared.

And he wasn't willing to let me disappear so easily either.

(...)

Almost six weeks had passed since our conversation at the café.

Since I said goodbye.

And since my life had become a constant battle between missing him and convincing myself that I was better off without him.

It didn't always work, but at least I was still moving forward. Until Saima ruined everything.

"No."

I refused immediately.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

She insisted again, crossing her arms.

I looked at her from the couch.

"I don't want to go."

"Perfect. Because I wasn't asking."

I hated when she went into dictator mode.

"Saima..."

I sighed.

"You've spent a month emotionally locking yourself inside your apartment. You're coming."

"I go out every day."

"Buying groceries doesn't count."

"I go running."

"That's the number one sign that you need to get out more."

I hated her.

I hated her so much.

And unfortunately, she was also right.

That's how I ended up getting ready that night, because surrendering was easier than arguing with her for two hours.

The plan seemed harmless, a gathering between friends, just drinks, music, and familiar faces. Exactly the kind of situation where nobody could get hurt.

I was so wrong.

Because the moment I stepped through the penthouse door, I saw him.

Apparently the universe still enjoyed making fun of me.

His back was turned toward me while he talked to Max and Oscar. He was wearing a simple black shirt and white pants, nothing special, nothing extraordinary.

And yet my body reacted like I had seen a ghost.

"Shit."

Saima shot me a look.

"Don't tell me..."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well."

"Well?"

"At least you look amazing."

I wanted to strangle her.

I tried to stay away.

I talked to other people.

Avoided looking in his direction.

Avoided even hearing his voice.

But it was impossible, because the harder I tried to ignore him, the more aware I became of him.

His laughter.

His movements.

His presence.

And the way he always seemed to know exactly where I was.

It was ridiculous. Every time I looked up, I ended up catching him staring at me.

Not for long, not enough for anyone else to notice.

Just one second, maybe two. Then he'd look away as if nothing had happened, as if it had all been my imagination.

The first person from his circle who approached me was Oscar.

"Hey."

I smiled.

"Hey."

"Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah."

My voice was barely above a whisper.

"Lando's unbearable."

I laughed.

"What did he do now?"

"Exist."

I laughed again, and Oscar joined me. I'd always liked talking to him. He was calm, observant, and far too intelligent to miss details.

Which was exactly why I got nervous when he tilted his head slightly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Liar." He narrowed his eyes.

I sighed.

"Oscar..."

"I'm not going to ask." He raised his hands in surrender.

"Thank you." I breathed out in relief.

"But you should know he doesn't seem to be doing great either."

My heart made an unpleasant leap.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Then I won't."

And he kept his word. But the comment stayed in my head for the rest of the night.

Later, I ended up sitting next to Max.

It was impossible not to like Max, he had that irresponsible older-brother energy that made everyone feel comfortable.

"You disappeared."

It was the first thing out of his mouth.

"Me?"

I played dumb.

"Yeah, you."

"I think everyone disappears sometimes." I tried to sound casual.

"Not as much as you."

He watched me for a few seconds and smiled.

"But I probably understand why."

Damn it. Did everyone know something I didn't?

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Max."

He shrugged, trying to play it off, but the little smile on his lips said otherwise.

"Nothing."

I didn't push it. Instead, I went to grab another drink and as I turned a corner, I almost collided with someone.

With him.

My footsteps froze.

So did his.

For a few seconds, nobody said anything. Because suddenly there were no conversations, no music, no people, just us.

And I hated discovering that I still felt exactly the same.

"Hey."

His voice was soft.

"Hey."

Lando studied me for a few moments, as if checking something, as if making sure I was really there.

"You look good."

Damn it.

"Thanks."

"Much better than the last time."

My breath faltered, we both knew what the last time had been.

The café, the goodbye, the ending or what was supposed to be the ending.

"I'm glad it looks that way." My voice gave away nothing.

Still, a small smile appeared at the corner of his lips. But he didn't look happy, he looked tense.

And that confused me, because, again, Lando never showed that side around me.

"I've missed you."

My heart dropped without warning.

Those words weren't a romantic declaration nor a confession. But they sounded sincere.

I swallowed hard.

"Lando..."

"I'm not trying to argue."

He interrupted me before I could finish.

"Okay."

"Or convince you of anything."

I didn't believe him. Because we both knew he wasn't trying to convince me with words, he was doing it with his presence. With the subtle way he kept appearing, with the likes, the glances and everything he never said out loud.

"I just wanted you to know..."

I looked at him, feeling something strange in the pit of my stomach. Something that told me what I hadn't wanted to admit for days, Lando wasn't going to let me go.

Not because he was in love, certainly not because he wanted a relationship, but because I had become an important part of his life.

A constant safe place and now that he was losing it, he was fighting against it.

In his own way.

Without admitting it, without even fully understanding it himself.

But he was fighting, and that was exactly what made him so dangerous for me. Because part of me still wanted to stay, I still wanted to believe, I still wanted to run back to him.

When I finally managed to walk away from that conversation, I found Saima watching me from across the room with a worried expression and I couldn't hide the devastation on my face from her.

Leaving Lando behind had been difficult when he was indifferent. But it was going to be so much worse now that he had decided to stay close.

Now that he seemed incapable of accepting my absence.

Now that every time I took a step forward... he took one right behind me.

(...)

Everything started going to hell again. Naturally. Because my life didn't seem to speak any language other than chaos.

It was a party at a villa near the harbor, nothing particularly formal. Just friends enjoying music and alcohol, along with a handful of rich people pretending they weren't rich. Saima had dragged me there once again, and I'd agreed because, lately, I'd actually been... happy.

Lando had spent nearly two hours by my side, talking, joking, doing exactly what he'd been doing for the past months. Like nothing had change.

Then she arrived and it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

I recognized her immediately. The girl from Abu Dhabi, the same girl who had appeared in all those Instagram Stories, the one who had unknowingly spent months haunting me. She walked in with part of Lando's friend group, as if she belonged there.

The worst part was watching the way she greeted him—with so much familiarity, so much confidence. I tried to ignore it, I really did. I tried to be mature and remind myself that I had no claim over him.

But it was impossible.

A few minutes later, she ended up beside me and smiled.

"You're Y/N, right?"

My stomach tightened.

"Yeah."

"I've finally met you."

Something in her tone made me uncomfortable.

"Finally?"

"Lando talks about you a lot."

My heart stumbled for a fraction of a second.

Until she smiled again and then I understood.

That smile wasn't kind, it was victorious.

"Honestly, I've always been curious."

"About what?"

"About you."

She picked up a glass of champagne.

"For a long time, I thought the two of you were together."

The blood drained from my face.

"No."

"I know." Her smile widened. "I figured that out later."

Something inside me began to burn.

"Although I can understand why people get confused."

She continued as casually as if she were discussing the weather.

"You were always there. Birthdays, races, gatherings, vacations..."

She took a sip, longer this time.

"But, well... some people just weren't meant to be the first choice."

I don't remember what my brain did after that, I only remember the noise, the humiliation and the embarrassment.

I walked away before she could see me cry and went looking for Saima.

"I need alcohol."

"What happened?"

"Alcohol. Now."

An hour later, I was completely drunk.

And so was Saima.

Which was never a good combination.

Ever.

"I hate him."

"I hate him too."

"You don't even know who I'm talking about."

"Doesn't matter. I hate him anyway."

I laughed.

Then I cried.

Then I laughed again.

An absolute disaster.

That's when I noticed someone nearby. He hadn't taken his eyes off me since I'd sat down.

He was one of Lando's friends. We'd crossed paths a few times before, he was kind,handsome and most importantly... He wasn't Lando.

We talked and danced for a while, we kept drinking.

The guy was so sweet that the feeling of inadequacy I'd been carrying around slowly transformed into something else entirely. Desire.

When he kissed me, it happened fast, impulsive, incredibly stupid. A moment fueled by alcohol, hurt feelings, and a desperate need to feel wanted by someone. For a few seconds, I kissed him back. Because I wanted to forget, I wanted to stop feeling like I was the only one suffering. That's when I heard a voice behind us. A very familiar one.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

My blood froze. I knew that voice and I knew that tone.

When I pulled away from the guy, Lando was standing there. Watching us with his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists.

The silence was immediate and painfully uncomfortable.

I wasn't sure how much he'd seen, maybe only the last few seconds. My head was spinning from the alcohol and the embarrassment.

Of all the people who could've found me like that, it had to be him. The guy who had broken my heart, the same guy who had told me he didn't want anything serious, the same guy who was now acting like he'd just caught his girlfriend kissing another man.

My companion took a step back.

Confused.

"Uh..."

Lando didn't even look at him, his eyes remained fixed on me.

I knew that look, but I'd never imagined it would one day be directed at me.

"What are you doing?" he repeated.

My disbelief was so overwhelming that I let out a laugh. A completely unhinged one.

"Excuse me?" The words came out slurred.

"You're drunk."

"Very observant."

"Y/N."

"No." I shook my head "Don't talk to me like that."

Something shifted in his expression, as if he wasn't used to being challenged.

"Come with me."

"No."

"We need to talk."

"No."

"Y/N."

"Oh, now you want to talk?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

The silence that followed was answer enough, we both knew this had nothing to do with talking. It was about something else, something neither of us was willing to name.

My companion finally decided to intervene.

"I think I should go."

Wise man.

Because at that moment, Lando looked capable of ripping his head off.

"Yeah. You should."

"Lando."

"I'm not talking to you."

God, he was doing it again.

That tone.

That ridiculous possessiveness that surfaced every time he felt like he was losing something.

The funniest part was that he didn't even seem aware of it.

The guy wisely left, leaving us alone.

"You had no right to do that." The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Lando blinked.

"Do what?"

"Interrupt."

"Interrupt?"

"Yes."

His jaw tightened.

"You were kissing one of my friends."

The response made me laugh again, because it was so absurd it was almost funny.

"And?"

He fell silent. Because he had no answer.

"And what, Lando?"

His gaze dropped to mine.

"Don't do this."

"Don't do what?"

"This."

"This?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

No.

The truth was that I didn't. I'd spent months trying to understand him and I'd never managed to.

"You don't want to be with me."

"..."

"But you don't want me with anyone else either."

Lando remained silent.

"That's not fair."

He didn't deny it. He simply looked away, as if he was fighting with himself, trying to find an explanation he didn't even understand.

I felt ridiculous. Part of me still wanted to hear the right words, I still wanted to hear:

Because I'm in love with you.

Because I made a mistake.

Because I want you.

But they never came.

"Let's go home."

"No."

"You're drunk."

"And you're being an asshole."

"Y/N."

"Do you know what she said to me?"

His expression changed instantly.

"Who?"

"The blonde."

His face hardened.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing important."

"Y/N."

"She just confirmed something I already knew."

"What?"

I looked at him, for a moment, I forgot my pride.

My dignity.

"That I was never enough."

Pain appeared in his eyes instantly.

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because it's not true." His voice came out sharp.

"Really? Then explain to me why I'm always the one left behind."

The silence returned. Lando still didn't know what to say, hidn't know how to fix it nor what he wanted from me. The only thing he knew was that he didn't want to lose me and for me, that wasn't enough anymore.

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt his thumb brush against my cheek, wiping away a tear. Such a gentle gesture that it only made me cry harder.

Those were exactly the kinds of things that had kept me trapped for months.

"Don't cry."

I closed my eyes.

Damn it.

For one second, I felt hope again.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed something behind him.

Saima and she wasn't alone, Oscar was there too, watching us from a distance. The way he was looking at Lando made it seem like he was watching a bomb seconds away from exploding. I had the feeling he understood exactly what was happening. Long before either of us did.

Because Lando still believed he was fighting for a friendship when in reality, he was starting to act like a man in love and he still wasn't ready to admit it.

"Don't cry," he repeated.

I still hated him for everything he'd made me feel over the past few months and yet, a single touch from him was enough to break through every defense I had left. That's why I stepped away, if I stayed there one second longer, I was going to fall again and I already knew how that story ended.

"I need to leave."

Lando's hand slowly dropped.

"Y/N..."

"No." I shook my head "Please."

For once in his life, he listened.

Saima drove me home. The entire ride, she didn't mention Lando once, which was concerning. Because when Saima stayed quiet, it meant she was saving up far too many things to say later.

"Want me to tell you what I think?" she asked when we reached my apartment.

"No."

"Perfect. Because I'm doing it anyway."

I groaned.

"He's jealous."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Y/N."

"Saima."

"Y/N."

"Saima." She threw a pillow directly at my face.

"I don't care," I lied. Because in reality I did. Far more than I wanted to admit.

"Of course you care."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"And who said it meant anything?"

I looked at her, confused.

"Jealousy doesn't mean love. Jealousy means fear."

She paused.

"And that man looks absolutely terrified."

I stared at Saima for a long moment, the words hanging in the air like smoke I couldn’t breathe out.

“He’s not terrified,” I muttered eventually, turning my face away. “He’s just… possessive, I guess.”

Saima made a sound somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“Sure,” she said. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t want to give that thought any more space than it already had.

(...)

The next day I went out to clear my head with some friends. Saima’s words had lodged themselves so deep inside me that they wouldn’t leave me alone for a single second.

That night I came back home very late and drunk. I tried to fall asleep immediately, but that was the last thing I could do—not because I was still thinking about everything, but because my phone wouldn’t stop lighting up on the nightstand like it had a pulse of its own.

I ignored it at first.

Then it rang. Again and again, until I finally sat up, grabbed it, and saw the caller ID.

LANDO.

My stomach tightened instantly.

I answered without thinking.

“Hello?”

Silence answered me. Then, after a few seconds, his voice—low, controlled… but strange, tense in a way I immediately recognized.

“Where are you?”

I frowned.

“At home. Why?”

Pause.

“You posted something.”

My mind tried to connect the dots.

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

The truth was I had absolutely no idea.

I opened Instagram, and there it was—a stupid, harmless story. A group photo from dinner that night: Saima, me, and some friends at a terrace restaurant. Someone had tagged me laughing, a glass in my hand, my head slightly turned toward—one guy. A friend of a friend. Nothing more. He was laughing, leaning toward the group like everyone else.

It meant nothing. But I could already feel the storm forming on the other side of the line.

“Lando,” I exhaled. “It’s literally just a photo.”

His laugh was dry.

“‘Just a photo.’”

“Yes.”

“And why are you like that with him?”

I closed my eyes.

“We’re sitting at a table. I’m not ‘like that’ with anyone.”

Another pause. Heavier this time. His breathing sharper.

“You didn’t reply to my messages for three hours.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It is when I see that.”

My chest tightened.

“Are you calling me because of an Instagram story?”

“I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to talk to you all night and you’re out there—” he stopped, like he was forcing himself to swallow whatever he was about to say. “Whatever.”

“No, it’s not whatever,” I said more firmly. “Say it.”

Silence again.

That was the problem with Lando. He always brushed against the truth… and pulled away right before crossing it.

“You’re not my boyfriend,” I reminded him.

“I know,” he said.

But his voice clearly didn’t.

“Then why are you acting like this?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was softer.

“Because I don’t like it.”

I let out a humorless laugh.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

There it was again. Lando, refusing to name anything, refusing to define anything… but acting as if I belonged to a place he never dared to claim.

I exhaled slowly.

“I’m going to sleep,” I said.

“Don’t hang up.”

I stayed still. The silence between us stretched.

“Good night, Lando.”

And I hung up.

I thought that would be the end of it.

Just another absurd episode he would drop and leave unresolved. But it wasn’t. Because that night wasn’t a full stop—it was a starting point, and Lando was treating it like he had suddenly woken up inside something he no longer understood.

Two days later, he called me again. I answered not because I wanted to, but because not answering was becoming harder than picking up.

“Can we meet?” he said without preamble.

I sat up slightly in bed.

“What for?”

Pause.

“I want to talk.”

I almost laughed.

“That’s not really your thing.”

“I know.”

He sounded honest. Not confident. Not comfortable. Just… lost. And that disarmed me more than I wanted to admit.

“Okay,” I said finally.

We met at a small, quiet café, tucked away from everything.

I arrived first, as always. And during the minutes I waited, I had plenty of time to regret it. Then he walked in, and the air shifted immediately.

Because it was Lando. And even though I’d tried to convince myself otherwise for weeks… he still affected me.

He sat down without fully smiling, without jokes, without that ease of his that usually filled the silences.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck—something unusual for him. Nervous. That was new.

“About the other day…” he started.

I cut him off.

“Nothing happened.”

He looked at me.

“Yes, it did.”

I exhaled.

“Lando…”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me talk.”

I stayed still. That was new too.

“I didn’t like it,” he said bluntly.

I rolled my eyes.

“You already said that on the phone.”

“No, it’s not that,” he added more quietly. “It’s not just that.”

A short, humorless laugh slipped out of him.

“I spent the whole night thinking about it.”

I went silent. Because that… wasn’t him.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” he continued. “But when I saw you with him… I felt—”

He stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out.

He swallowed.

“I felt something I didn’t like.”

My chest tightened.

“Lando…”

“And before you say it,” he looked at me, “no, I’m not your boyfriend. I don’t have the right. I know that.”

He said it like it was a rule he was trying to obey… and failing at.

“Then I don’t understand why you’re here,” I said quietly.

“Because I don’t like the idea of losing you.”

The world didn’t stop.

But it almost did.

“That’s not the same as loving me,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. For the first time, he had no escape.

It was just him, sitting in front of me, unable to turn what he felt into something he could hold.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this,” he finally admitted.

It hurt to hear it, because it wasn’t a lack of feeling—it was a lack of direction.

And I had already spent too long living inside that confusion.

“Then don’t do it with me,” I said softly.

His gaze tightened.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“But you don’t know how to choose me either.”

Lando only stayed silent and in that silence, I understood something with brutal clarity: he wasn’t playing games, but he also wasn’t ready.

I stood up first.

“I think this conversation is over.”

He didn’t stop me. As I walked out, I felt his eyes on my back the entire way. I didn’t turn around to check.

For the next week, he was unbearable.

Not loud, not aggressive—consistent.

He didn’t let it go.

Every conversation circled back to it in some subtle, irritating way. Every time I posted something, he reacted within minutes. Every time I didn’t reply, he doubled down the next day, like he was trying to prove I still existed in his system.

Until one afternoon, Saima arrived at my apartment holding two coffees and an expression I didn’t trust.

“What now?” I asked immediately.

She smiled too sweetly.

“I have news.”

“That’s never good.”

“You’re going on vacation.”

I blinked.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I literally have work.”

“No, you don’t. I checked.”

I stared at her.

“You checked?”

“Un-important details, don’t focus on that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Saima.”

She sighed dramatically.

“It’s a group trip. Everyone’s going. Max, Oscar, some friends. It’s a break from the season.” I shook my head immediately.

“I’m not going.”

She leaned against the counter.

“Lando is going.”

That did it, I hated how fast my body reacted to that information.

“I don’t care,” I said too quickly.

Saima raised an eyebrow.

“Sure.”

“I don’t.”

“Then say no properly.”

I opened my mouth and losed it again. Because the truth was inconvenient. I could say no but I already knew I wouldn’t.

Two days later, I was on a plane and the moment I stepped off it, I realized something was wrong. Everything was too suspiciously well-planned for someone like Saima. When we arrived at the villa, she handed me my bag with a grin.

“Where is everyone?” I asked slowly.

“Oh, they arrived earlier,” she said casually “And they’re already settled.” Something in her tone made my stomach drop.

“Saima.”

She smiled.

“Have fun.”

Then she walked away. I stood there for a full ten seconds before I turned the corner toward the back of the house— And stopped, because there was no “everyone.”

Just Max, who waved at me and Oscar, who looked deeply unbothered and Lando, standing by the pool, already looking at me like he’d been waiting. My throat tightened instantly. I turned around but it was too late. Saima was gone.

I exhaled slowly.

“This is insane,” I muttered to myself.

“Yeah,” Max called out. “It kind of is.”

Oscar added, without looking up from his drink: “Wasn’t my idea.”

Lando didn’t say anything, he just watched me, like he already knew I wasn’t leaving.

When night fell, everything went completely silent.

I stepped outside without really thinking, just looking for air—something to loosen the tightness that had been sitting in my chest since the café conversation. The night was warm, the pool glowing with a soft blue light that made everything feel even more unreal than it already was.

And then I saw Lando, completely alone, leaning against the edge of the pool, staring into the water like he was trying to untangle something inside his own head.

He didn’t see me at first. Or maybe he did… and was just waiting for me to show up.

“I knew you’d come out,” he said without looking at me.

I stopped a few steps away.

“I’m not in the mood for another weird conversation.”

He let out a short laugh, no humor in it.

“I know.”

The water moved gently between us. I could leave right then. I should’ve. But I didn’t.

“I don’t understand what you want from me, Lando,” I said finally.

He lifted his gaze. This time he looked at me directly, and there was no arrogance in it.

“I’m in love with you,” he said.

So simple. So direct that my breathing stopped for a second.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s enough.”

He shook his head, frustrated with himself.

“I’m not saying it because it’s enough,” he replied. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

A heavy silence fell between us. There was no fake indifference in his voice. Only something raw and real.

Lando took a step closer.

“I spent months treating you like you were always going to be there,” he continued, quieter now. “And when you stopped being there… I realized how stupid I’ve been with you.”

My throat tightened.

“Lando…”

“No, let me finish,” his voice cracked just slightly, enough to hurt. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. And that’s the worst part… because you still did. And I just took it for granted.”

He lowered his gaze for a second, like it was hard to continue.

“I never knew how to love you properly,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I hurt you,” he said. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

The words I’m sorry had never sounded like that coming from him—so heavy, so human.

“I don’t want you to be someone who stays halfway with me,” he continued. “I don’t want to be that kind of person for you. But I also don’t want to lose you.”

His eyes finally met mine.

“Because I love you,” he said again, firmer this time. “And it’s not because I need you close. It’s because when you’re not here… everything feels wrong.”

The world shrank. It was just him and me. Alone in the moment I had both waited for and feared.

“You’re too late…”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“I know.”

“You broke me,” I whispered.

“I know.” This time he didn’t justify it. Didn’t try to fix it with pretty words. “But if there’s still something left…” he said softly, “if there’s still even a part of you that doesn’t hate me… I want to try properly. This time for real.”

I looked at him, and I didn’t see the Lando who played with the world. I saw the Lando who was afraid of losing it.

“This can’t be like before,” I said.

“I don’t want it to be,” he answered immediately.

“No more confusion.”

“No more.”

“No more disappearing.”

“No more.”

“No more empty promises.”

He shook his head.

“I swear.”

Silence.

Softer now.

Less painful.

“Then…” I whispered, “you’ll have to prove it.”

Something shifted in his expression, like he finally understood this wasn’t the easy part.

“I will,” he said.

I stayed looking at him for another second, and I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself in a long time.

Hope.

“Okay,” I said at last.

He blinked.

“Okay?”

I swallowed.

“I’ll give you a chance.”

The air between us changed completely, like the world had stopped holding its breath.

Lando didn’t smile. He didn’t celebrate. He just stepped a little closer, as if afraid to break the moment.

“I won’t waste it,” he said quietly.

I nodded slightly.

“You better not.”

This time I didn’t walk away. Because, when I looked at him, I didn’t only see the damage. I saw the possibility of something different.

And I chose to stay long enough to find out if it was real.