Perfect to me- Lando Norris
Summary- Being adopted by the Leclerc family when you were younger is always the biggest blessing in your life however when the online noise gets a little too loud you try to disappear from the f1 world… but 1 driver notices you more than anything!!
Notes- love this one so much! Does include sensitive topics tho so please be cautious when reading. Hope yous love it as much as me!!!
The photo was perfect. You'd captured Charles mid-celebration, arms raised in triumph after securing P2 in qualifying. The Monaco sun caught the red of his Ferrari suit just right, and your caption was simple: _"Always proud of you, Charlie. Forza Ferrari! 🇲🇨❤️"_
You hit post without thinking twice. Why would you? You'd been doing this for years—supporting your brothers from the paddock, sharing in their victories and defeats, being part of the Leclerc family story that had unfolded across racetracks around the world.
The first few comments were normal. Heart emojis from family friends, supportive messages from Tifosi, a joke from Arthur about how you'd caught Charles's "good side" (as if he had a bad one). You smiled at your phone, curled up in your apartment in Monaco, the Mediterranean breeze drifting through your open balcony doors.
Then the tone shifted.
_"Not even a real Leclerc lmao why is she always there"_
You scrolled past it. Just a troll. They were everywhere in F1 social media.
_"Adopted doesn't count. She's not actually family."_
Your thumb hesitated over the screen.
_"Imagine pretending to be a Leclerc for clout. Embarrassing."_
_"She's literally just leeching off Charles's fame. Not even blood related."_
_"Why does she act like she belongs in the paddock? You're not really one of them, sweetie."_
The words blurred together, each comment a small cut that somehow hurt more than it should. You'd been a Leclerc since you were four years old. You barely remembered your life before Pascale and Hervé had brought you into their home, before Charles had declared you his little sister with all the seriousness a seven-year-old could muster, before Arthur had started following you around like a devoted puppy.
You were a Leclerc. You _were_.
But as you scrolled through comment after comment questioning that fundamental truth, something cold settled in your chest. Your Monegasque accent—the one Lando always teased you about, with its soft French-Italian inflection that made your vowels round and your Rs delicate—felt suddenly like evidence. You didn't sound quite like Charles. You didn't have the Leclerc eyes, the Leclerc smile that photographers loved.
You locked your phone and set it face-down on your coffee table.
It was fine. Just internet trolls. It didn't mean anything.
(But you didn't pick your phone back up for the rest of the night.)
***
The next race weekend, you almost didn't go.
"You're coming to Imola, right?" Charles had asked during your weekly family dinner at Maman's house, his tone casual as he reached for more pasta. "Arthur's bringing his new girlfriend. It'll be fun."
You'd opened your mouth to say yes—of course yes, you never missed a race if you could help it—but something stopped you. The memory of those comments, which had only multiplied over the past week. New posts brought new hate. _Fake Leclerc. Clout chaser. Not really family._
"I... I have some work things," you'd said instead, pushing your food around your plate. "Might not make it."
Charles had looked up, surprised. "Work things? Since when do you prioritize work over racing?"
"Since I became an adult with responsibilities?" You'd tried to make it sound teasing, but it came out wrong. Defensive.
Lorenzo had frowned from across the table. "Everything okay, ma chérie?"
"Fine," you'd said quickly. Too quickly. "Just busy. You know how it is."
You'd felt their eyes on you—Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, even Maman—but you'd kept your gaze on your plate until the moment passed and conversation moved on.
You'd gone to Imola in the end, unable to fully stay away, but you'd kept to the background. Fewer photos. Fewer posts. You'd watched qualifying from the garage instead of the paddock, where cameras were less likely to find you. Where people were less likely to notice you and remember that you weren't _really_ a Leclerc.
The comments continued anyway.
***
"You're being weird."
Lando's voice cut through your thoughts as you stood in the McLaren hospitality area, coffee cup warming your hands. The Spanish Grand Prix was in full swing around you—mechanics rushing past, engineers huddled over data, the distant scream of engines on track.
You looked up at your best friend, at his familiar face with those eyes that always seemed to see too much. "I'm not being weird."
"You are absolutely being weird." He leaned against the counter beside you, close enough that you could smell his race day cologne—something crisp and expensive that his sponsors probably sent him. "You've been quiet all weekend. And you—" He poked your shoulder. "—are never quiet."
"Maybe I'm just tired."
"Tired," he repeated, disbelieving. "You. The girl who once stayed up for thirty-six hours straight during a triple-header because you were too excited to sleep. Tired."
Despite everything, you felt your lips twitch. Lando had that effect—he could always make you want to smile, even when you felt like you were drowning. You'd been friends since his early days in F1, when he was still a nervous rookie and you were the shy Leclerc sister who'd rather hide in the garage than face the cameras. Somehow, you'd gravitated toward each other. The anxious ones. The ones who covered their nerves with humor and deflection.
Except Lando had grown into his confidence over the years, becoming the charismatic, playful driver who could charm anyone. And you'd stayed... you. Quiet. Background. Not quite belonging.
"I'm fine, Lando," you said, taking a sip of your coffee. It was too hot and burned your tongue, but you welcomed the distraction.
He studied you for a long moment, and you could feel the weight of his attention. It was different from how your brothers looked at you—they saw their little sister, someone to protect but not necessarily understand. Lando looked at you like he was trying to read a language he'd almost mastered but kept finding new words in.
"Okay," he said finally, but his tone suggested he didn't believe you at all. "But when you're ready to tell me what's actually wrong, I'm here. Yeah?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He pushed off the counter, then paused. "Oh, and by the way—I heard you talking to your mum earlier. Your accent is extra strong today." He grinned, slipping into an exaggerated imitation of your voice: "_Oui, Maman, je suis bien_—you sound like you're auditioning for a French film."
"I do not sound like that!" You swatted at him, but he danced away, laughing.
"You absolutely do. Very—" He made a gesture with his hand, like he was painting something delicate in the air. "—very _Monegasque princess_. It's cute."
"It's my _accent_, you absolute muppet. Not everyone can sound like they're from the Queen's English textbook."
"I'm from Bristol, thank you very much. We have character." He was still grinning, clearly pleased he'd gotten a rise out of you. "See you later, princess. Try not to be so mysterious and brooding. It's unsettling."
He disappeared into the crowd before you could respond, leaving you with your too-hot coffee and a feeling you couldn't quite name. Something warm and uncomfortable at the same time.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Against your better judgment, you checked it.
A new comment on your latest post—a simple photo of the Barcelona sunset: _"Why is she even at races anymore? Not like she's actually part of the F1 family."_
You locked your phone and threw your coffee away, suddenly nauseous.
***
You stopped going to as many races after that.
It wasn't a conscious decision at first. You just... found reasons. Work deadlines that didn't really exist. A friend's birthday party you'd already declined. A headache that felt real enough in the moment. Charles and Arthur would text you photos from the paddock, and you'd respond with enthusiastic emojis that felt increasingly hollow.
"You missed a good race," Charles said during one of your now-less-frequent family dinners. "Max and I had a proper battle for the lead."
"I saw," you said quietly. You had watched, alone in your apartment, with your phone turned off so you wouldn't be tempted to post about it. "You drove brilliantly."
"Would've been better if you were there." He said it casually, already turning to respond to something Arthur was saying, and you didn't think he noticed how you flinched.
Would it have been better? Or would your presence have just invited more comments, more reminders that you weren't really supposed to be there?
You'd started scrolling through the hate comments late at night, a form of self-torture you couldn't seem to stop. They'd multiplied, grown more creative in their cruelty. People picked apart your appearance, your accent, your right to use the Leclerc name. Someone had made a whole thread about how you were "obviously just using Charles for fame and money." Never mind that you had your own job, your own life. Never mind that you'd been part of this family since before Charles was even in F1.
The worst part was that your family didn't notice. Charles was busy with Ferrari's championship push. Arthur was focused on his own racing career, trying to make a name for himself beyond being "Charles Leclerc's brother." Lorenzo had his own business ventures. Maman was proud and supportive as always, but she didn't live on social media. She didn't see what you saw every time you opened your phone.
You felt like you were disappearing, and no one noticed you were gone.
Except Lando.
"Okay, that's it," he said one evening, appearing at your apartment door without warning. You'd been in Monaco for a rare weekend off, and you'd made the mistake of posting an Instagram story of your coffee. Apparently, that was enough for him to track you down. "We're having a movie night."
You blinked at him, confused. "What?"
"Movie night. You, me, my place. I've got that new sci-fi film you wanted to see, and I ordered way too much Thai food because I couldn't decide what I wanted." He said it all matter-of-factly, like this was a normal occurrence and not something he'd clearly planned to ambush you with.
"Lando, I—"
"Nope." He held up a hand. "No excuses. You've been weird for weeks now, you're barely coming to races, and Charles told me you've been quiet at family dinners. So we're doing this. Come on."
He was already walking back toward the elevator, clearly expecting you to follow. And because you didn't have the energy to argue, and because the thought of spending another night alone with your thoughts sounded unbearable, you grabbed your keys and followed him.
***
Lando's apartment was exactly what you'd expect from a young F1 driver with more money than sense and a love of gaming. Sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Monaco harbor, but cluttered with racing memorabilia, gaming equipment, and a truly impressive collection of hoodies draped over various pieces of furniture.
"Make yourself at home," he said, already unpacking containers of Thai food on his coffee table. "I got you the Pad Thai because I know you're boring and always order the same thing."
"I'm not boring, I just know what I like," you protested, but you were already settling onto his ridiculously comfortable sofa, tucking your legs under you.
"Boring," he repeated, grinning. He handed you a container and chopsticks. "But that's okay. Someone has to balance out my sparkling personality."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. This was familiar. Easy. Lando had always been like this—teasing and warm, making you feel like you could breathe properly for the first time in days.
The movie was good, some space adventure with impressive special effects and a plot that was just complex enough to keep you interested. Lando provided running commentary, making fun of the scientific inaccuracies and predicting plot twists with varying degrees of success. You found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks, the knot in your chest slowly loosening.
"See?" Lando said during a particularly quiet moment in the film. "This is nice. You should do this more often."
"What, watch movies?"
"Be yourself." He said it simply, not looking at you, his eyes still on the screen. "You've been... I don't know. Smaller lately. Like you're trying not to take up space."
Your throat tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yeah, you do." He finally looked at you, and his expression was softer than usual. Serious in a way Lando rarely was. "But you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Just... be here. Be you. The you who argues with me about racing lines and makes fun of my streaming setup and laughs at my terrible jokes."
"Your jokes are terrible," you agreed quietly.
"The worst," he confirmed, and just like that, the moment passed. He turned back to the movie, and you did too, but something had shifted. The air felt different. Charged.
You weren't sure when you started drifting. The combination of a full stomach, the comfortable sofa, and the first real relaxation you'd felt in weeks pulled you under gradually. Your head grew heavy, and without really thinking about it, you let it drop onto Lando's shoulder.
He stiffened for just a moment—you felt it, even in your half-asleep state—but then he relaxed. Adjusted slightly so you were more comfortable. His shoulder was warm and solid, and he smelled like his cologne mixed with something else. Something that was just _him_.
"You falling asleep on me?" he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
"Mm-mm," you mumbled, which was obviously a lie.
"Liar."
You meant to respond, to sit up and prove you were awake, but sleep pulled you under before you could. The last thing you were aware of was Lando's quiet laugh and the feeling of safety you hadn't felt in months.
***
Lando looked down at you and felt his heart do something complicated in his chest.
You were fully asleep now, your breathing deep and even, your face relaxed in a way it hadn't been all evening. All month, really. He'd noticed the changes in you—how could he not? You were his best friend, the person he texted stupid memes to at 3 AM, the one who understood the pressure of this life because you'd grown up in it.
But lately, you'd been distant. Quiet. And you were never quiet, not really. You were shy with strangers, sure, but with him? You were all sharp wit and terrible puns and passionate rants about racing strategy. Seeing you withdraw had been like watching a light dim, and it had been driving him crazy trying to figure out why.
Now, with you asleep on his shoulder, you looked peaceful. Younger, somehow. Vulnerable in a way that made him want to protect you from whatever had been hurting you.
The movie continued playing, but Lando wasn't watching anymore. He was too aware of your weight against him, the soft sound of your breathing, the way your hand had curled loosely against his arm. He should wake you. Send you home to your own bed. That would be the sensible thing to do.
But he didn't want to.
The realization settled over him slowly, like he was discovering something that had been there all along, just waiting for him to notice. He didn't want you to leave. He wanted you here, in his space, close enough that he could make sure you were okay. He wanted to figure out what had been bothering you and fix it. He wanted—
He wanted a lot of things, apparently, and that was terrifying.
"Shit," he muttered quietly, careful not to disturb you.
This was not good. This was the opposite of good. You were Charles's little sister. His best friend. He wasn't supposed to be noticing how perfectly you fit against his side or how your hair smelled like something floral and sweet. He definitely wasn't supposed to be feeling this protective, possessive surge of emotion that made him want to keep you here where nothing could hurt you.
But he was feeling all of that, and more, and there was no putting that particular genie back in the bottle.
The movie ended. Credits rolled. You didn't stir.
Lando carefully extracted his phone from his pocket, trying not to move too much. It was past midnight. He should really wake you. But you looked so peaceful, and he knew you hadn't been sleeping well—he'd seen the dark circles under your eyes, the way you'd been rubbing your temples like you had a constant headache.
Decision made, he slowly, carefully shifted on the sofa. You made a small sound of protest, and his heart clenched, but you didn't wake. Moving with the kind of precision he usually reserved for racing, he managed to stand up and slide his arms under you—one under your knees, one supporting your back.
You were lighter than he expected, or maybe adrenaline was giving him strength. Either way, he managed to lift you without too much difficulty, and you immediately curled into his chest, seeking warmth. Your hand fisted in his shirt, and Lando had to pause for a moment, just breathing, trying to get his racing heart under control.
This was fine. This was normal. He was just being a good friend, letting you sleep somewhere comfortable instead of waking you up and sending you home in the middle of the night.
(It didn't feel like just friendship, though. It felt like something much more dangerous.)
His bedroom was dark and cool, exactly how he liked it for sleeping. He'd left the bed unmade this morning—not expecting company—but it didn't matter. As gently as he could, he laid you down on top of the covers, on the side he didn't usually sleep on. You immediately rolled onto your side, pulling a pillow against your chest, and Lando had to take a moment to just... look at you.
You were beautiful. He'd always known that, objectively, but right now, in his bed, with your hair spread across his pillow and your face soft with sleep, you were devastating.
"You're going to be the death of me," he whispered, so quietly he barely heard himself.
He grabbed a spare blanket from his closet and draped it over you, then stood there for a long moment, trying to figure out what to do with himself. The sofa, probably. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. Give you his bed and take the sofa.
But he was tired too, and the bed was huge, and you were completely dead to the world. He could just... sleep on the other side. Keep his distance. Make sure you were okay if you woke up confused.
(He was making excuses, and he knew it, but he was too tired to care.)
Lando grabbed a pillow and settled on top of the covers on his side of the bed, as far from you as he could get while still technically sharing the same piece of furniture. He set an alarm on his phone—early enough that he could wake up before you and make this seem less weird than it was.
He closed his eyes, certain he wouldn't be able to sleep with you so close, but exhaustion pulled him under within minutes.
His last conscious thought was that you looked like you belonged there.
***
You woke up confused.
The light was wrong. Too bright, coming from the wrong direction. And the bed was too comfortable, the sheets too soft, the pillow smelling like—
Your eyes flew open.
This was not your apartment. This was not your bed. This was—
You sat up too quickly, head spinning, and took in your surroundings. Sleek modern furniture. Racing posters on the walls. A gaming setup in the corner that probably cost more than your car. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Monaco harbor, early morning sun streaming through.
Lando's apartment. Lando's bedroom.
Oh God.
"Morning, sleepyhead."
You nearly jumped out of your skin. Lando was leaning against the doorframe, holding two mugs of coffee, looking completely at ease. He was wearing different clothes than last night—soft joggers and a worn McLaren shirt—and his hair was damp like he'd just showered.
"I—what—how did I—" You couldn't seem to form a complete sentence. Your heart was racing, panic rising in your chest. You'd fallen asleep at his place. In his bed. What had happened? Why couldn't you remember?
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Lando must have seen the panic on your face because he immediately crossed the room, setting the coffee mugs on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. Not too close, giving you space. "Nothing happened. You fell asleep during the movie, and you looked so peaceful I didn't want to wake you. So I just... put you in here. I slept on the other side, on top of the covers. I swear."
You looked down and realized you were still fully dressed in yesterday's clothes—jeans, your favorite soft sweater, even your socks. The blanket over you was one you recognized from Lando's living room, not his actual bedding.
"I'm sorry," you said immediately, embarrassment flooding through you. "I didn't mean to—I should have gone home. I'm so sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?" Lando looked genuinely confused. "You were tired. You fell asleep. It's not a big deal."
"I invaded your space. I—" You ran a hand through your hair, which was probably a disaster. "This is so embarrassing."
"It's really not." He picked up one of the coffee mugs and held it out to you. "Here. Coffee. Made it how you like it—too much milk, not enough actual coffee."
"That's not—" But you took the mug anyway, grateful for something to do with your hands. He had made it exactly how you liked it, the color a light caramel. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He settled more comfortably on the bed, his own mug cradled in his hands. "For what it's worth, you're a very polite sleeper. No snoring, no sleep-talking. Though you do this cute thing where you curl up like a cat."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. Very—" He made a curling gesture with his hand. "—very small and compact. It's adorable."
You felt your face heat. "Stop."
"Can't. It's too easy to make you blush." He was grinning now, back to his usual teasing self, and some of your panic started to fade. This was just Lando. Your best friend. Who had let you sleep in his bed because you'd been too exhausted to wake up. It was fine. It was normal.
(It didn't feel normal, though. It felt like something had shifted, like you'd crossed some invisible line and couldn't quite find your way back.)
"I should go," you said, starting to push the blanket off. "Let you have your space back."
"Or," Lando said slowly, "you could stay for breakfast. I was going to make pancakes. Well, attempt to make pancakes. The success rate is probably fifty-fifty, but it's the thought that counts."
You hesitated, mug halfway to your lips. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." He said it simply, meeting your eyes. "Stay. Please. We can watch something mindless on TV and eat probably-terrible pancakes and you can tell me why you've been so sad lately."
Your throat tightened. "I'm not sad."
"You are." His voice was gentle. "And you don't have to tell me why if you don't want to. But I'm here. Okay? Whatever it is, I'm here."
The kindness in his voice nearly broke you. You'd been holding everything in for so long, trying not to burden anyone, trying to deal with the hate and the doubt and the feeling of not belonging all on your own. And here was Lando, offering you pancakes and understanding and a safe place to fall apart if you needed to.
"Okay," you whispered. "Pancakes sound good."
His smile was like the sun coming out. "Brilliant. Fair warning though—I might need your help. Last time I tried this, I somehow set off the smoke alarm."
"How do you set off a smoke alarm making pancakes?"
"It's a gift." He stood up, offering you his hand. "Come on. And maybe change into something more comfortable? You slept in jeans, you absolute psychopath. I'll find you something."
Before you could protest, he was rummaging through his dresser, pulling out a soft McLaren t-shirt that had clearly been washed a hundred times. "Here. This'll be huge on you, but it's comfortable. Bathroom's through there if you want to wash your face or whatever it is people do in the morning."
He left before you could argue, closing the door behind him to give you privacy. You sat there for a moment, holding the shirt, trying to process everything. You'd slept in Lando's bed. He'd made you coffee. He was making you breakfast. And now you were going to wear his clothes.
This was... this was something. You weren't sure what, but it was definitely something.
The shirt smelled like his laundry detergent—something fresh and clean with a hint of that cologne he always wore. When you pulled it on, it was indeed huge, falling to mid-thigh, the sleeves past your elbows. You looked ridiculous.
But you also looked... soft. Comfortable. Like you belonged in Lando's clothes, in Lando's space.
You pushed that thought away and headed for the bathroom.
***
Lando was already in the kitchen when you emerged, ingredients spread across the counter in what looked like organized chaos. He looked up when you walked in, and something flickered across his face—too quick for you to identify, but it made your stomach flip.
"That's—" He cleared his throat. "That looks good. The shirt. It looks good on you."
You tugged self-consciously at the hem. "It's huge."
"Yeah, but..." He trailed off, then seemed to shake himself. "Right. Pancakes. You're on mixing duty because I can't be trusted with the batter. Last time it was lumpy."
You moved to stand beside him at the counter, and fell into an easy rhythm. He measured ingredients with questionable accuracy while you mixed, and you found yourself relaxing into the domesticity of it. This was nice. Normal. Just two friends making breakfast together.
(Except you were wearing his shirt, and you'd slept in his bed, and he kept looking at you like you were something precious.)
"So," Lando said as he attempted to flip a pancake and nearly sent it onto the floor, "are you going to tell me what's been going on? Or are we going to keep pretending everything's fine?"
You focused very hard on the batter you were mixing. "I don't know what you mean."
"You've missed the last three races. You barely post on social media anymore. Charles said you've been quiet at family dinners, and Arthur told me you canceled on his birthday drinks." He successfully flipped the next pancake, looking pleased with himself. "That's not like you."
"Maybe I'm just busy."
"Busy," he repeated, the same way he had weeks ago. Still not believing you. "Try again."
You set down the mixing bowl, your appetite suddenly gone. "It's nothing. Just... people online. Being people online."
"What people?" His tone sharpened. "What are they saying?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does if it's bothering you." He abandoned the stove entirely, turning to face you fully. "Talk to me."
And maybe it was because you were tired of carrying it alone, or because he was looking at you with such genuine concern, or because you were wearing his shirt and standing in his kitchen and everything felt safe and warm. Whatever the reason, you found yourself talking.
"They say I'm not a real Leclerc," you said quietly. "That I'm just... pretending. Using Charles for fame. That I don't belong in the paddock because I'm not actually family." You laughed, but it came out bitter. "And the thing is, they're not wrong. I'm not a real Leclerc. I'm adopted. I don't have the blood, the genes, the—"
"Stop." Lando's voice was sharp enough to cut through your spiral. "Stop right there. You are a real Leclerc. You've been part of that family since you were four years old. Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo—they're your brothers. Pascale is your mum. That's real. That's family."
"But—"
"No buts." He stepped closer, and you could see anger in his eyes. Not at you—for you. "Who's saying this shit? Show me."
"Lando—"
"Show me." He held out his hand for your phone, and after a moment's hesitation, you pulled it out and unlocked it. Opened Instagram. Handed it over.
You watched his face as he scrolled through the comments on your posts, watched his expression grow darker with each swipe. His jaw clenched. His grip on your phone tightened.
"This is—" He looked up at you, and you were startled by the fury in his eyes. "How long has this been going on?"
"A few months."
"A few months." He said it like he couldn't quite believe it. "And you didn't tell anyone? Not Charles? Not your mum?"
"They're busy. Charles is fighting for points, Arthur's trying to build his career, Lorenzo has his business. I didn't want to—" You wrapped your arms around yourself. "It seemed stupid. Like I was being too sensitive."
"It's not stupid." Lando set your phone down on the counter with careful precision, like he was afraid he might throw it otherwise. "These people are attacking you. Telling you that you don't belong in your own family. That's not nothing."
"They're just trolls."
"They're arseholes." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to calm himself down. "And they're wrong. So fucking wrong. You—" He gestured at you, almost helplessly. "You're the most Leclerc person I know besides Charles. You have the same passion for racing, the same loyalty, the same terrible habit of being too hard on yourselves. You belong in that family. You belong in the paddock. And anyone who says otherwise can fuck right off."
You felt tears prick at your eyes. "Lando—"
"I mean it." He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. "You're not alone in this. Not anymore. Okay?"
A tear escaped, rolling down your cheek, and Lando made a soft sound of distress. His thumb came up to brush it away, gentle and careful, and the tenderness of the gesture broke something in you. Suddenly you were crying in earnest, and Lando was pulling you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest.
"I've got you," he murmured into your hair. "I've got you. It's okay."
You cried into his shirt—the same shirt he'd been wearing when you woke up, now probably covered in your tears and possibly some snot, but he didn't seem to care. He just held you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling your head, and let you fall apart.
"I'm sorry," you hiccupped eventually. "I'm getting your shirt all gross."
"Don't care." His arms tightened around you. "You can ruin all my shirts if you need to."
That made you laugh, watery and weak, but a laugh nonetheless. You pulled back slightly, wiping at your face. "Your pancakes are burning."
"Fuck the pancakes."
And he did let you go, moving to rescue the smoking pan from the stove. The pancake was indeed ruined, black around the edges, and Lando looked at it with such betrayal that you laughed again.
"See?" he said, gesturing at you with the spatula. "That's what I want. You laughing. Not crying over arseholes who don't know what they're talking about."
"They're not entirely wrong though—"
"They're entirely wrong." He pointed the spatula at you for emphasis. "And I'm going to prove it to you."
"How?"
His smile was sharp. Dangerous. "You'll see."
***
You didn't see, actually, because Lando was apparently very good at being sneaky when he wanted to be.
You stayed at his apartment for most of the day, eating salvaged pancakes (only slightly burnt) and watching terrible reality TV. He made you laugh with his running commentary, made you feel normal for the first time in months. When you finally went home that evening, wearing your own clothes again (though he'd tried to convince you to keep the shirt), you felt lighter. Not fixed, but better. Like maybe you could handle this after all.
You didn't check social media that night. Didn't scroll through comments or torture yourself with strangers' opinions. You just went to bed early, in your own bed this time, and slept better than you had in weeks.
When you woke up the next morning, your phone was exploding.
Texts from Charles: _"Have you seen what Lando posted??"_
From Arthur: _"HOLY SHIT"_
From Lorenzo: _"Call me when you wake up"_
From your mum: _"Je suis très fière de toi, ma chérie"_
And about fifty notifications from Instagram.
Heart pounding, you opened the app.
Lando had posted a photo from yesterday—you hadn't even realized he'd taken it. You were in his kitchen, wearing his McLaren shirt, laughing at something off-camera. Your hair was messy, your face free of makeup, and you looked... happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy.
The caption made your breath catch:
_"Since some people apparently need a reminder: this is my best friend. She's brilliant, kind, funny, and one of the most genuine people I know. She's been part of the Leclerc family since she was four years old, and she belongs there just as much as anyone. Family isn't just about blood—it's about love, loyalty, and showing up for each other. She's shown up for her brothers at every race, every victory, every defeat. She's a Leclerc in every way that matters._
_If you've got a problem with that, you've got a problem with me. And trust me, you don't want that._
_Also, she makes terrible coffee and has questionable taste in movies, but nobody's perfect. Love you, you absolute muppet. 🧡"_
The post had hundreds of thousands of likes already. The comments were overwhelmingly positive—fans defending you, other drivers chiming in with support. You scrolled through them with shaking hands, hardly able to believe what you were seeing.
_"Lando said what needed to be said 👏"_
_"She's literally been at races supporting Charles since forever, how is this even a question"_
_"The way he defends his friends 🥺"_
_"Okay but she looks adorable in his shirt"_
_"LANDO NORRIS SAID FAMILY IS CHOSEN"_
Your phone rang. Charles.
"Did you know he was going to do that?" were the first words out of your brother's mouth.
"No," you managed. "I had no idea."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Charles's voice cracked slightly. "About the comments. About what people were saying. I had no idea you were dealing with that."
"You were busy—"
"I'm never too busy for you." He sounded almost angry, but you knew it was directed at himself, not you. "You're my sister. My little sister. I should have noticed something was wrong."
"It's not your fault—"
"Lando called me last night," Charles interrupted. "After you left his place. He told me everything. Showed me the comments. I—" He took a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. I should have been paying attention. I should have seen that you were hurting."
"Charlie—" Your voice broke on his nickname.
"You are a Leclerc," he said fiercely. "You are my sister. You have been since the day Maman and Papa brought you home and you looked at me with those big eyes and asked if I wanted to play cars with you. You're family. You're _my_ family. And I'm sorry I let you forget that."
You were crying again, but this time it felt different. Cathartic. "I love you."
"I love you too. So much." You could hear him moving around, probably pacing like he did when he was emotional. "Arthur and I are posting too. And Lorenzo. We're going to make sure everyone knows exactly how much you belong."
"You don't have to—"
"We want to. We should have done it sooner." He paused. "Lando's a good friend. I'm glad you have him."
There was something in his tone you couldn't quite identify, but before you could question it, Arthur was stealing the phone, his voice loud and indignant.
"Why didn't you tell me people were being dickheads? I would have fought them!"
"You can't fight people on the internet, Arthur."
"Watch me. I'm posting a whole thread. With baby pictures. Everyone's going to see how you've literally always been part of this family."
Despite everything, you laughed. "Baby pictures? Really?"
"The one where you're wearing my racing helmet and it's too big so you can't see anything? Classic. The one where you and Charles fell asleep on the sofa watching a race? Iconic. The one where—"
"Okay, okay, I get it." But you were smiling. Really smiling. "Thank you. Both of you."
"That's what brothers are for," Arthur said. "Also, Lando's photo of you is really cute. You look happy."
"Arthur—"
"Just saying! Anyway, I have to go. I have trolls to destroy. Love you!"
He hung up before you could respond, leaving you staring at your phone in bewilderment.
Over the next few hours, your family mobilized. Charles posted a photo of the two of you from his first F1 podium, you caught mid-scream of excitement, with a caption about how you'd been his biggest supporter since day one. Arthur posted an entire thread of childhood photos with increasingly sappy captions. Lorenzo wrote a long, eloquent post about the meaning of family. Your mum posted a photo from your adoption day, all of you tiny and smiling, with a simple caption in French: _"Ma fille. Mon cœur. Toujours."_
The response was overwhelming. The hate comments were drowned out by support, by love, by people defending you and your place in the Leclerc family. Other drivers posted their own messages of support. Even some of the F1 teams' official accounts chimed in.
You sat in your apartment, scrolling through it all, crying and laughing in equal measure. You'd spent months feeling like you didn't belong, like you were an imposter in your own family. And now the whole world was telling you that you did belong. That you always had.
But it was Lando's post you kept coming back to. Lando's words. Lando's defense of you.
_Love you, you absolute muppet._
Your phone buzzed with a text from the man himself: _"So... did I overstep? I probably should have asked first. But I was angry and you're my best friend and I couldn't just let people say that shit about you."_
You typed back: _"You didn't overstep. Thank you. For everything."_
His response was immediate: _"Always. That's what best friends are for, right?"_
_Right,_ you sent back.
But as you stared at his post, at the photo of you in his kitchen wearing his shirt, looking happier than you'd been in months, you wondered if "best friends" was still the right term for what you were.
***
The next race weekend, you went to the paddock.
You almost didn't. The anxiety was still there, the fear that people would judge you, that you didn't belong. But Charles had texted you seventeen times asking if you were coming, Arthur had sent you a selfie of him pouting with the caption _"it's not the same without you,"_ and Lando had simply sent: _"I'll be disappointed if you're not there. Who else is going to make fun of my quali performance?"_
So you went.
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Fans stopped you for photos, telling you how much they loved your family's posts, how glad they were to see you back. Other drivers' girlfriends and family members sought you out, offering support and solidarity. Even some of the team principals nodded at you with what looked like approval.
You felt like you could breathe again.
"There she is!" Lando's voice cut through the paddock noise, and suddenly he was there, grinning at you like you'd hung the moon. "I was starting to think you'd chickened out."
"I don't chicken out," you said, falling into step beside him.
"No, you just disappear for months and make everyone worry about you." But his tone was teasing, affectionate. "Come on. I want to show you something."
He led you through the paddock, past the garages and hospitality areas, to a quieter spot behind the McLaren motorhome. Then he pulled out his phone and showed you his Instagram.
"Look at the comments on that post," he said.
You'd seen them already, had read through hundreds of supportive messages. But you looked again, and this time you noticed what he was pointing at. Comments from other drivers. From team members. From people in the F1 world who you'd always assumed barely knew you existed.
_"She's always been lovely to everyone in the paddock"_ - from a Ferrari mechanic.
_"One of the kindest people I've met in this sport"_ - from another driver's girlfriend.
_"The Leclercs are lucky to have her"_ - from a team principal.
"See?" Lando said softly. "Everyone knows you belong here. The only person who didn't know was you."
You looked up at him, this man who'd become so important to you, who'd defended you without hesitation, who'd made you feel safe when you were falling apart. "Thank you," you said. "For everything. For seeing that I was struggling. For caring enough to do something about it."
"Of course I care." He said it like it was obvious. Like there was no world in which he wouldn't care. "You're my best friend. You're—" He stopped, something flickering across his face. "You're important to me."
There was weight to those words, something unspoken but present. You felt it in the air between you, in the way he was looking at you, in the sudden awareness of how close you were standing.
"Lando—" you started, not sure what you were going to say.
"There you are!" Charles's voice interrupted whatever moment you were having. Your brother appeared around the corner, already in his Ferrari race suit, looking relieved. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Come on, I want you in the garage for quali."
You let Charles pull you away, but you looked back at Lando. He was watching you go, his expression unreadable, and something in your chest ached.
***
The shift happened gradually after that, so slowly you almost didn't notice it at first.
Lando started texting you more. Not just memes and racing talk, but real conversations. Asking how you were feeling. Telling you about his day. Sending you photos of things that reminded him of you—a sunset over the track, a ridiculous coffee order, a cat that looked judgmental.
You found yourself at his apartment more often. Movie nights became a regular thing, though you were careful not to fall asleep on him again. (Even though part of you wanted to. Even though you remembered how safe you'd felt, how right it had seemed.)
He kept teasing you about your accent, but it felt different now. Softer. Almost... affectionate.
"Say 'croissant,'" he demanded one evening, the two of you sprawled on his sofa with takeout containers scattered around you.
"I'm not saying croissant."
"Please? You do the thing with the R. It's cute."
"The thing with the R is called proper French pronunciation, you muppet."
"See, even your insults sound adorable with that accent." He grinned at you. "Come on. One croissant. For me."
You rolled your eyes but obliged. "Croissant."
"There it is!" He looked delighted. "The little rolled R. I love it."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're adorable when you're annoyed." He said it casually, like it was a fact, but something in your stomach flipped.
This kept happening. Little moments where the air would shift, where you'd catch him looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite name, where his teasing would feel like something more. You'd be laughing at something stupid, and suddenly you'd be aware of how close you were sitting. He'd hand you something, and his fingers would brush yours, and the contact would feel electric.
You were falling for your best friend, and you had no idea what to do about it.
***
It came to a head three weeks later, at another movie night.
You'd been more careful since the last time, making sure to stay awake, to maintain some distance. But Lando's sofa was comfortable, and you'd had a long day, and the movie was one of those slow-paced dramas that was more atmospheric than engaging.
You felt yourself starting to drift and forced your eyes open. "Maybe I should go," you said, starting to sit up. "Before I fall asleep on you again."
"Don't." Lando's hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm. "Stay."
"Lando—"
"I mean it. Stay." He was looking at you with that expression again, the one that made your heart race. "I like having you here. And honestly? I didn't mind last time. When you fell asleep on me."
"You didn't?"
"No." He said it quietly. "I liked it. You looked peaceful. Happy. And I—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with something. "I liked that you felt safe enough with me to let your guard down like that."
Your heart was pounding now. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He laughed, but it sounded nervous. "Look, I'm just going to say this, because I'm apparently incapable of keeping my mouth shut around you. If you want to fall asleep, fall asleep. I'll make sure you're comfortable. I'll let you have the bed again. I'll—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'll take care of you. Okay?"
There was something in his voice, in his eyes, that made you brave. "What if I don't want you to sleep a million miles away this time?"
He went very still. "What?"
"Last time. You said you slept on the other side of the bed. On top of the covers." You were blushing furiously now, but you pushed on. "What if I don't want that? What if I want—" You couldn't quite finish the sentence.
"What do you want?" His voice was rough.
"I don't know," you admitted. "I just know that I feel safe with you. That I'm happier when you're around. That I can't stop thinking about—" You gestured helplessly between you. "This. Whatever this is."
Lando was quiet for a long moment, and you started to panic. You'd misread this. You'd ruined everything. Your best friend was going to—
"Come here," he said softly.
"What?"
"Come here." He shifted on the sofa, opening his arms. "If you're going to fall asleep, at least be comfortable about it."
You hesitated for only a moment before moving closer, letting him pull you against his side. His arm came around your shoulders, and you felt him relax, like this was something he'd been wanting to do for a while.
"This okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah," you breathed. "This is okay."
You felt his lips brush against your hair, so light you might have imagined it. "Good."
The movie continued playing, but neither of you were watching anymore. You were too focused on the feeling of being in his arms, of his thumb drawing absent circles on your shoulder, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
"I meant what I said," Lando said quietly. "In that post. You're one of the most genuine people I know. And you're beautiful, and funny, and you make me want to be better. You make me—" He stopped. "You make me feel things I probably shouldn't feel for my best friend."
Your breath caught. "Lando—"
"I know. I know it's complicated. You're Charles's sister. And I'm—I'm me. I'm not exactly known for being serious or responsible. But with you, I want to be. I want—" He laughed, self-deprecating. "I want a lot of things I probably shouldn't want."
You pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark, vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before. "What if I want those things too?"
"Do you?" He searched your face. "Because I need you to be sure. I can't—if we do this, if we cross this line, I can't go back to just being friends. I don't think I could handle that."
"I'm sure," you whispered. "I've been sure for weeks now. I just didn't think you—"
You didn't get to finish because Lando was kissing you.
It was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid you might pull away. But when you made a small sound and pressed closer, his hand came up to cup your face, and the kiss deepened. He tasted like the chocolate you'd been sharing, and he kissed like he raced—focused, intense, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.
"I've wanted to do that for so long," he admitted.
"Yeah?"
"Since that first night. When you fell asleep on me and I carried you to bed and you looked so perfect there." He laughed. "I was so fucked. I knew it right then."
"You could have said something."
"And risk ruining our friendship? Risk you not feeling the same way?" He shook his head. "I was terrified."
"I was terrified too," you admitted. "I still am, a little. What if this doesn't work? What if we—"
"Hey." He tilted your chin up, making you meet his eyes. "We'll figure it out. Together. Okay?"
"Okay," you whispered.
He kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "So. Do you want to stay tonight? For real this time?"
"I don't have any clothes."
"You can wear my shirt again. You looked fucking adorable in it last time." His grin turned mischievous. "Actually, I'm going to insist you wear my shirt. It's not optional."
"Lando—"
"Nope. Already decided. You're wearing my shirt, and you're staying in my bed, and this time I'm not sleeping on top of the covers like some kind of gentleman." He stood up, pulling you with him. "Come on."
You let him lead you to his bedroom, your heart racing. This was happening. This was really happening.
Lando found you the same shirt as last time—soft and worn and smelling like him. "I'll be right back," he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Get comfortable."
You changed quickly, hyperaware of being in Lando's bedroom, about to share his bed for real this time. When you climbed under the covers, they were cool and soft, and you felt a flutter of nerves.
Lando returned a few minutes later, having changed into joggers and a t-shirt. He stopped in the doorway when he saw you, and his expression went soft.
"You're killing me," he said. "You know that, right? You in my shirt, in my bed, looking at me like that. I'm a dead man."
"Stop being dramatic and come here."
He grinned and crossed the room, sliding into bed beside you. For a moment, you both just looked at each other, the reality of the situation settling in.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Is this weird? This feels like it should be weird, but it's not."
"It's not weird," you agreed. "It feels... right."
"Yeah." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "It really does."
You shifted closer, and he immediately pulled you against him, your head on his chest, his arms around you. It felt like coming home.
"Thank you," you murmured. "For everything. For defending me. For seeing me when I felt invisible. For this."
"You never have to thank me for caring about you." His lips brushed your forehead. "It's the easiest thing in the world."
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in Lando's arms, feeling safer and more wanted than you had in months. And when you woke up in the morning, he was still there, watching you with soft eyes and a smile that made your heart skip.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmured.
"Morning." You stretched, catlike, and his eyes darkened.
"You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
"Probably." You grinned. "Think you can handle it?"
"Oh, I'm definitely going to try."
He kissed you then, morning breath and all, and it was perfect.
***
The next few weeks were a blur of stolen moments and secret smiles. You and Lando were... something. Not officially together—you hadn't had that conversation yet—but definitely more than friends. You spent most of your free time at his apartment, wearing his clothes, falling asleep in his arms. He kissed you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it, and you were pretty sure you were falling in love with him.
But you hadn't told anyone. Not Charles, not Arthur, not your mum. It felt too new, too precious to share. And if you were being honest, you were terrified of how your brothers would react.
"You're thinking too loud," Lando murmured one evening. You were curled up on his sofa, your legs across his lap, his hand absently stroking your ankle.
"Sorry."
"What's going on in that head of yours?"
You bit your lip. "We should probably talk. About... this. What we're doing."
"Okay." He shifted to face you more fully. "What do you want to talk about?"
"What are we?" The question came out smaller than you intended. "I mean, I know we're... something. But I don't know what to call it. And I don't know if we're telling people, or keeping it quiet, or—"
"Hey." He took your hand, lacing your fingers together. "What do you want?"
"I want—" You took a breath. "I want this to be real. I want to be able to call you my boyfriend and not have to hide it. But I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of Charles and Arthur's reaction. Of what happens if this doesn't work out. Of—" You laughed, but it sounded shaky. "Of a lot of things."
Lando was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "I want this to be real too," he said finally. "I want to be your boyfriend. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours. And yeah, your brothers might be weird about it at first, but they love you. They want you to be happy. And I—" He met your eyes. "I make you happy, don't I?"
"Yes," you whispered. "So happy."
"Then that's what matters." He pulled you closer, until you were practically in his lap. "I'm not saying we have to tell everyone right now. If you want to wait, we can wait. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this. Completely."
"Even if Charles tries to murder you?"
"Even then." He grinned. "Though I'm pretty sure I can take him. I'm younger and faster."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
And the thing was, you did. You loved his confidence, his humor, the way he made everything feel possible. You loved how he looked at you like you were the most important person in the world. You loved—
Oh.
Oh no.
You loved him.
The realization must have shown on your face because Lando's expression shifted. "What?" he asked softly.
"I—" You couldn't say it. Not yet. It was too soon, too much. "Nothing. Just... thank you. For being patient with me."
He studied you for a long moment, and you had the feeling he knew exactly what you'd been about to say. But he just smiled and kissed you softly. "Always."
***
The decision to tell your brothers was taken out of your hands two weeks later.
You and Lando had been careful. No public displays of affection, no suspicious social media posts. But you'd gotten comfortable, maybe too comfortable, and you'd forgotten that the paddock was full of people with cameras and opinions.
Someone had taken a photo of you and Lando between the motorhomes at the last race. You were laughing at something he'd said, and he was looking at you with an expression that could only be described as besotted. His hand was on your lower back, and you were standing close enough that there was no mistaking the intimacy between you.
The photo went viral.
Your phone started blowing up during qualifying. Messages from friends, from acquaintances, from people you barely knew. And then, inevitably, from Charles.
_"We need to talk. After quali."_
Your stomach dropped. "Shit."
Lando looked over from where he was getting ready for his session. "What's wrong?"
You showed him your phone—the photo, the messages, Charles's text.
"Ah." He didn't look particularly concerned. "Well, I guess we're telling them now."
"Lando, this isn't funny. Charles is going to kill you."
"He's not going to kill me." He crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. "He might threaten to kill me, but he won't actually do it. Probably."
"That's not reassuring."
"Look at me." He waited until you met his eyes. "I don't care if Charles is upset. I don't care if Arthur is weird about it. I care about you. And I'm not going to hide how I feel about you just because it might be uncomfortable for other people."
"But—"
"No buts." He kissed you, quick and firm. "We're together. We're happy. That's what matters. And if your brothers can't see that, then that's their problem, not ours."
"When did you get so brave?"
"When I realized I was in love with you."
The words hung in the air between you. Lando's eyes widened slightly, like he hadn't meant to say that out loud, but he didn't take it back.
"You—" Your voice cracked. "You love me?"
"Yeah." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I love you. I have for a while now. And I know it's fast, and maybe I shouldn't have said it like this, but—"
You kissed him. Poured everything you'd been feeling into it—all the fear and hope and overwhelming emotion. When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I was so scared to say it, but I do. I love you."
His smile was blinding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then." He kissed you again, softer this time. "Fuck what anyone else thinks. We've got this."
***
Facing Charles after qualifying was one of the hardest things you'd ever done.
He'd finished P3, which should have made him happy, but his expression was stormy as he found you in the Ferrari garage. "My driver's room. Now."
You followed him, feeling like you were walking to your execution. Arthur was already there, looking confused, and Lorenzo appeared moments later, clearly having been summoned as well.
"So," Charles said, crossing his arms. "You and Lando."
There was no point in denying it. "Yes."
"How long?"
"A few weeks. Officially." You twisted your hands together. "But we've been... something... for longer than that."
"And you didn't think to tell us?" Arthur looked more hurt than angry. "We're your brothers."
"I know. I just—" You took a breath. "I was scared. Of how you'd react. Of what it would mean if things didn't work out. Of—"
"Of us not approving," Charles finished. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not going to lie. This is weird. Lando's my friend. You're my little sister. The idea of you two together is... it's going to take some getting used to."
"But?" you prompted, hearing the unspoken word.
"But," he continued, "I saw how he defended you. When all that shit was happening online. He didn't hesitate. He put himself out there for you without thinking twice." Charles's expression softened. "And I've seen how you've been lately. Happier. More like yourself. If that's because of him, then... I can't be mad about that."
"Really?" You hardly dared to hope.
"Really." He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. "I just want you to be happy. And if Lando makes you happy, then I'm okay with it. But—" He pulled back, his expression turning stern. "If he hurts you, I'm going to crash into him at every race for the rest of the season."
"Charles—"
"I mean it. I don't care if it costs me the championship. He hurts you, I hurt him."
"That's fair," Arthur chimed in. "I'll help. We can take him out together."
"You're all ridiculous," you said, but you were smiling. Crying a little too. "Thank you. For understanding."
"Of course." Lorenzo, who'd been quiet until now, spoke up. "You're our sister. We love you. And we trust your judgment. If you love him, then he must be worth it."
"I do love him," you admitted. "So much."
"Then that's all that matters." Charles kissed your forehead. "Now go tell him he has our blessing. And that if he ever makes you cry, he's a dead man."
You laughed and hugged each of your brothers in turn, feeling lighter than you had in weeks. This was your family. They had your back, always.
***
You found Lando in the McLaren garage, pretending to review data but clearly just anxiously waiting. When he saw you, he immediately stood up.
"So?" he asked. "Am I a dead man?"
"Not yet." You couldn't help but smile. "They're okay with it. Well, Charles threatened to crash into you if you hurt me, and Arthur offered to help, but overall, they're okay with it."
"They threatened to crash into me?" He looked almost impressed. "That's actually kind of sweet. In a terrifying, potentially career-ending way."
"They love me."
"I love you too." He pulled you close, not caring who saw. "And I'm not going to hurt you. Ever. I promise."
"I know." You reached up to cup his face. "I trust you."
"Good." He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you heard someone whistle from across the garage. Lando pulled back just enough to flip them off without looking, making you laugh.
"So," he said, grinning. "Does this mean I can post couple photos now? Because I have about fifty pictures of you in my shirt that I've been dying to share."
"Lando!"
"What? You look cute! The world deserves to know how cute you are!"
"You're impossible."
"And you love me anyway."
"I really do," you said softly.
His expression melted into something tender. "I really love you too."
