use me!!!!!!!!! | LN4
lando norris x reader
synopsis: lando's been pulling away, and you don't know why.
genre: angst (i comfort you at the end don't worry)
word count: 1.8k
aria yaps: ah, one for the newest champion on the grid. i hope you enjoy because i enjoy hurting you guys too.
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the night sits quiet — soft, dim, like it’s holding its breath. everything feels still except your mind, because that won’t shut up. it keeps spinning, picking at wounds that weren’t open before, making problems out of shadows. thinking things you wish you could unthink.
you started feeling the distance the day he came home with the trophy. the one you should’ve been there to see him win. since then, his touch has changed — or vanished. it’s not even about sex. it’s the way he used to brush his hand across your back when he reached past you, or steady his fingers on your hip when he walked by. lazy affection. unconscious intimacy. the kind that says i’m here. i choose you. i see you.
now, it’s nothing. like his body forgot yours.
his voice changed too. clipped. tired. formal in a way that makes your name sound like a stranger’s. no nickname, no softness — just your name, then silence.
and every time, you wonder what part of you started slipping first.
maybe you haven’t been supportive enough. maybe missing that race mattered more than you thought. maybe his life was getting bigger and you stayed small. maybe you just… stopped being someone worth coming home to.
you tried. god, you tried. but sometimes trying still isn’t enough.
the front door clicks open — that quiet, routine sound that used to make your stomach warm. now it makes your spine tense.
you don’t turn. if you meet his eyes, you’ll cry, and you’re not giving yourself permission to fall apart in front of him. not tonight.
“i’m home.”
lando’s voice is tired — not the good kind, not the earned kind. the drained kind. the kind that makes you wonder if being with you is work.
he calls your name and you look up a little too fast. his expression changes — surprise? confusion? maybe disappointment.
“what’s wrong?” he asks, voice low, careful.
you shake your head. nothing. always nothing. it’s safer that way.
but he studies you, eyes slow and soft, “you look like you’ve been crying.”
your fingers won’t stop moving — twisting, untwisting, betraying every lie you’re trying to make believable.
“i haven’t,” you whisper.
and he almost smiles. not because it’s funny — because he knows you. knew you.
“you’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, “just tell me.”
you look at him — really look — and suddenly your throat feels too tight, too full. you don’t even know where the starting point is in all of this.
the missed race? the coldness? the way you feel like you’re loving someone who’s halfway out the door? or the quiet fear that he already left — just not physically.
“i… i think i'm just feeling under the weather.”
your voice cracks, and that alone makes his hand reach for you.
you flinch.
and that — that tells him more than anything you could say.
his whole face shifts, softer, sadder, worried. but he doesn’t push. instead, he gets up and disappears for a second, returning with painkillers and water.
“here,” he says gently.
you take them because it’s something to do. something to avoid the ache in your chest that medicine can’t touch.
he sits beside you again, voice quieter this time, “is that really what’s going on?”
you nod, because lying feels easier than truth, “you should sleep. long day.”
it comes out too flat, too rehearsed.
you try to stand, but his fingers wrap lightly around your wrist — and this time, the touch feels foreign. hesitant. almost unfamiliar.
“you’ve been pulling away,” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp — just steady, “what’s going on? i’m only asking one more time.”
your mouth opens — but nothing comes out.
because how do you tell someone that the thing hurting you is them? how do you say you stopped choosing me and i don’t know when it happened without sounding dramatic or broken or clingy?
so instead, you slip your wrist out of his hand. gently, but final.
“i’m fine,” you lie, “just tired.”
his eyes flicker with hurt — quick, but real — and then he nods, stands, and walks to the bedroom without another word.
the house goes quiet again.
too quiet.
and you sit there, staring at nothing, feeling everything.
and all you know is: you’re losing him.
and you don’t know how to stop it.
you’re feel alone again. even with people around you. it doesn’t even sting the way it used to— it just feels expected. routine. either he’s working, or laughing somewhere with people who aren’t you, and you’re here pretending that silence isn’t starting to sound like abandonment.
you could ask him to stay home. to spend time with you. to talk. but the words never make it past your teeth. because somewhere deep down, beneath every excuse and soft denial, you’ve convinced yourself this is your fault.
you must’ve done something wrong.
or maybe it’s everything you didn’t do. the things you forgot to say. the moments you let slip instead of fighting for them. the fear you let grow until it built walls between you both.
you shove the thoughts away — you don’t have time to fall apart. you have work to finish. responsibilities to meet. you tell yourself that matters more.
the walk home feels longer than usual. too quiet. the kind of quiet that presses against your ribs and whispers all the thoughts you’ve been avoiding. you wrap your coat tighter even though you’re not cold.
your phone buzzes.
lan 🧡: r u not home yet? me: not yet lan 🧡: when r u coming home? me: soon, i'm walking home now
you lock your phone quickly, like leaving the conversation unread will somehow make it feel fuller. your fingers tighten around your bag strap, grounding yourself.
you remember when he would’ve been beside you for this walk — warm hand tangled with yours, making stupid jokes, kissing your hairline at red lights, asking if you wanted takeout even though he already knew the answer.
now it’s just your footsteps. just your breath. just empty space where his presence used to live.
sometimes the fear creeps in — the quiet, ugly one — wondering if he ever thinks about losing you. if that thought scares him. if he’d fight for you the way you’d still fight for him.
you don’t know. you’re not even sure you want to know.
when you finally get home, you push the door open and call out, soft but hopeful, “i’m home.”
the words echo back at you.
he’s not here.
your heart drops because part of you — the foolish, loyal, painfully hopeful part — thought his texts meant he was waiting. thought maybe tonight would feel different. maybe something was shifting back toward what you used to be.
but the apartment is quiet.
cold.
empty.
your phone stays locked in your hand, thumb shaking as you check for another message.
nothing.
just your own last text staring back at you.
your throat burns, eyes stinging, breath uneven.
why do you keep doing this to yourself?
why are you still waiting for someone who stopped showing up?
the answer comes quietly — the one you hate the most.
because you still love him.
too much. too deeply. too stupidly.
you scroll.
headline after headline. photo after photo. speculation stacked like proof. and every word feels like it was written with the intention of hurting you specifically.
you thought maybe he was distant because he was tired. overwhelmed. unsure. maybe because he changed his mind about you. that alone already hurt.
but this?
this feels like someone reached into your chest and twisted.
you didn’t even hear it from him.
no text. no reassurance. no “don’t worry, baby, it’s bullshit”.
nothing.
like protecting you wasn’t the first thing on his mind. or the second. or maybe even on the list at all.
your knees are tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold together whatever pieces are left. the balcony air is cold, sharp enough to bite through your clothes, but you don’t move. you don’t go inside. the distant city noises feel like company — imperfect, but better than silence.
you don’t even cry anymore.
you just feel numb. hollow. like the feeling burned itself out.
maybe this is how relationships end — quietly. slowly. with distance and silence and unanswered questions until one day it just snaps.
maybe heartbreak isn’t dramatic — maybe it’s just sitting somewhere you once felt safe, realizing someone stopped choosing you.
the door opens.
your whole body tenses.
you turn to see him standing there — tired and guilty.
and somehow, the first words that spill out of you aren’t anger or questions or accusations.
they’re soft. defeated, “i’m sorry.”
you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for — existing? caring? hoping?
he doesn’t speak yet, so you do.
“are they true?” your voice is barely there.
he moves closer, dropping his phone and wallet without a thought, “no. but the fact that you had to see them at all is… awful.”
you nod, but it doesn’t soothe anything.
“then why didn’t you text me?” it comes out fragile. scared.
he sits beside you, arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you into warmth you’ve been missing.
“because i wanted to tell you in person,” he murmurs against your temple, “not over a screen. from me.”
his voice cracks a little, “you mean everything to me. i’d never do that to you.”
the dam breaks.
your tears fall hot, messy, silent at first — until they aren’t. he kisses them like they’re something sacred.
“you’ve been pulling away,” he whispers, “and i didn’t know why. i didn’t want this to be… the thing that broke us.”
you shake your head hard, “it’s not me, lan,” you choke out, “it’s you.”
your voice trembles.
“you stopped touching me. you don’t look at me the same. being around me feels like work to you," he tries to explain — something about stress, about sex — but you cut him off.
“it wasn’t about sex," your breath shakes, “it was the way your hand rested on my back when we walked through crowds. the little sleepy touches in the morning. the way you’d reach for me without thinking.”
your lip trembles, “you stopped… choosing me. even in the small ways.”
his forehead drops to yours, “i’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again, between soft kisses — your cheeks, your jaw, the corners of your mouth, your tears. every kiss feels like a promise and a plea.
“i was overwhelmed. and i shut down. i shouldn’t have made you feel unloved," his voice breaks for the first time, “i would never want to lose you.”
your sob catches in your chest and he pulls you fully into him — arms around you, warm palms sliding under your shirt to your skin because he knows that grounds you.
“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, “please don’t doubt that. not even for a second.”
you melt into him, crying into his shoulder — and for a moment, just one fragile, trembling moment — it feels like things might be okay again.
like maybe you’re not losing him after all.
like maybe he’s still yours.