“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
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!”
Request from @sassytrailnymph - Could I request where lando is having protective sex with his girlfriend, and in the middle of having sex, he convinces his girlfriend to remove the condom and spills in her for the first time
Themes/warnings: Smut (protected then not - seriously though wrap it and keep it wrapped unless you're really trying then...good luck ig?)
Word count: 1.1k
Lando is big on protection when it comes to sex. But it's y/n who insisted on condoms and he thought it would just be till she was comfortable, but somehow 2 months into daily sex, usually more than once a day. Lando's putting more money into condoms than anything else right now.
He can't help but want to remove that barrier.
He wants to feel her, he wants nothing between them and while it's never mattered to him before. For some reason the thought of filling her with his cum and watch it leak out of her.
That thought unlocks some sort of feral animal in him that's been dormant.
He can't help it.
And now he's rolling yet another condom down his length, lust-filled eyes gliding over to y/n where she's lying, swollen lips, hickeys across her chest. He's already got her in a heat.
Admittedly teasing her the whole dinner and whispering filth in her ear at every opportunity got her exactly as riled up as he was aiming for.
"Ready for me baby?" Lando asks already knowing the answer, he can see her dripping in a wet patch on the sheets.
He loves when she gets too needy to form words that are anything less than begging. Her whimper and positioning herself from kneeling on her knees to dropping back onto her back with her legs spread, a true offering of herself open to him.
"Oh baby." Lando chuckles moving over her, not wasting time with anymore foreplay. He slides into her with only the tightness of him not having been inside her in the past 12 hours enveloping him as a form of making it harder to fuck her.
Their moans fill the air and Lando pulls her towards himself, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. Y/n moans and whines at him, his name reverbing off the walls before he whispers more filth into her ear. Promises of wrecking her, making her scream, leaving a permanent mark in her.
He builds himself up just as much as she does.
"Baby, I want to feel you. Properly." Lando states making her look at him, eyes already teary from the stimulation. "Fuck. Baby, I need to feel you. Let me take it off. It'll feel so good. So so good."
Y/n whines bucking her hips into his, one hand moving from gripping the sheets to his bicep and for a moment he thinks that's her stopping him from daring to take it off.
"Please. I wanna feel you." Y/n whimpers, nails cutting into his skin. Her actions betraying her words.
"You'll love this, baby." Lando promises, leaning down, kissing her neck as he slips out of her.
"Lando." Y/n huffs from the loss as he reaches down almost grimacing from the speed he pulls the condom off and tosses it aside without thought. He'll pick it up later.
He takes a couple heavy breaths, excitement of this moment making the air prickle with electricity that makes her breath hitch before he slides back into her, and while he's aware that it's more about what he feels that what she feels. But y/n shudders at the feeling.
Y/n can feel more of him, the veins, every ridge of his dick no longer smoothed by latex brushing through her walls making her moan, bearing down to try and feel more of him.
"Fuck. You feel incredible, baby. How have I waited this long?" Lando grunts not feeling like any word describes how y/n feels wrapped around him. "You were made for me. This pussy was made for me."
Y/n twitches around him, her orgasm nearing more.
"You going to let me fill you up, baby? Going to let me make you mine once and for all? No going back after this." Lando states since he's pretty sure hitting it raw is an addiction.
It's like heroin, one hit and he's already hooked on the feeling. He'll chase this high for the rest of his life and he'll keep getting his hits every time she lets him feel her pussy around him.
Y/n's orgasm hits with no more warning than that first twitch, she yanks him down onto her legs wrapping around him like she can't get enough of him. Lando spills into her without any control.
He actually gets dizzy feeling like he's never came so hard or so much in his life.
"Lando?" Y/n whispers making Lando blink a time. "Are you with me?"
"I think I might've died in your pussy and gone to heaven." Lando croaks then frowning. "Did I pass out?"
"Yeah...a bit." Y/n laughs then gently pushing back his sweaty head, her own face glittering with her. "I'll take it as a compliment...Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. I think I might just put blood into you from how hard I came."
"That's ok." Y/n giggles before kissing him. "We can stay like this a bit longer."
"Baby, we can stay like this forever. I'll quit F1 for good if you let me live with you pussy like this around me."
"I think we might wither away and die if I do that. We have to eat...and I'll have to pee at some point-and so will you. Cumming inside is one thing, if you piss in me I'll chop your dick off." Y/n warns playfully, though he thinks that she'd fully follow through on it. Her giggling with his dick still inside her short circuits his head though and he has to hide his face in her neck, shuddering as pleasure ripples through him.
"Fuck, baby. Don't do that unless you really want to kill me." Lando groans rutting into her despite being soft at this point and feeling her leaking out around him. "I'm going to clean you up. I promise. Just give me a bit more time."
"Take as long as you need. I'm enjoying this."
"Good. Because I'm burning any condoms in the vicinity. Never fucking you any other way but raw from here forward." Lando declares earning a smile as y/n sucks in a breath and holds him close. "I think your pussy has just changed my life in a way I didn't know what possible."
"You're welcome. If I knew it'd be so easy I never would've have you wear a condom in the first place."
She would've but he's too spent to argue and now he's taken off the condom, he is just grateful they both enjoyed the experience. Though he might need to make sure he's ok. Passing out after sex might not be the best sign of something.
Summary: A London graphic designer dates a charming, ordinary guy named Lando who claims to work in marketing. When she discovers through a friend that he's actually famous Formula 1 driver Lando Norris, she leaves him heartbroken over the lies. After a conversation with his best friend Max, she shows up at a Grand Prix to see him and decides whether to give him a second chance.
Warning: Lies by omission, emotional angst, reconciliation.
Words: 8K
LONDO IN AUTUMN WAS a symphony of grey skies, wet pavements, and the smell of roasted chestnuts from corner carts. You lived in a small flat in Battersea, within walking distance of the Thames, where you worked as a freelance graphic designer. Your life was quiet, predictable, and gloriously anonymous—and that's the way you liked it.
Until you meet Lando.
It was Thursday afternoon in a bookstore in Shoreditch.
The bookstore wasn't a trendy one. Instead was a tiny, cramped second-hand shop that smelled of old paper and dust, the kind tourists walked past without noticing. You were hunting for an out of print design book. He was hunched over a shelf of racing biographies, muttering to himself.
“You’re good?”
“Sorry?” He muttered, still staring at the bookshelf as if he'd been personally offended.
"You've been standing there for ten minutes," you said, without looking up from your own search. "Are you trying to read the entire shelf?"
He turned, and you saw him properly for the first time. Curly brown hair falling over a clear forehead, a smile that was ninety percent teeth and ten percent pure mischief. He was wearing a worn out hoodie and jeans with a small rip at the knee. He looked like every other twenty-something in London.
"Busted," he said, his voice a soft British drawl. "I'm trying to decide if this biography is actually interesting or just has a good cover."
"Which one?"
He held up a book with a photo of Ayrton Senna on the front. "Racing. Probably boring, right?"
"I wouldn't know." You shrugged. "I don't follow sports."
His eyes lit up. Not with recognition—with relief. "Me neither. Well, I mean, I work in sports. Kind of. Marketing. But watching it? Put me to sleep."
You laughed. "So you sell something you don't even like?"
"Someone has to pay the bills." He grinned, extending a hand. "I'm Lando."
You told him your name. His handshake was quick, almost shy. "So, Y/N, what do you do? Besides judging strangers in bookshops?"
"Graphic design. Freelance. I make other people's visions look good."
"Sounds stressful."
"Sounds like staring at a screen until my eyes bleed." You smiled. "But I love it."
He nodded like he understood completely. "The grind. I get it."
You talked for another twenty minutes—about books, about the best coffee in London (he insisted on a place in Soho you'd never heard of), about his irrational fear of pigeons ("they're just seagulls in suits," he said). He was funny, easy, and when he asked for your number, you gave it without hesitation.
He texted you that night: Since you don't know good coffee, I'm taking you to that place in Soho. Saturday. 10am. Don't be late.
You weren't.
The coffee date turned into a walk along the South Bank. The walk turned into dinner. Dinner turned into a pattern: weekends at galleries, weeknights at your flat watching terrible reality TV, lazy Sundays with takeaway and his head in your lap.
It was easy, simple, and peaceful.
He never stayed over at his place. "Roommates," he said, waving a hand. "Thin walls. You don't want to hear them."
You accepted that. London was expensive. Everyone had roommates. So you just stop asking.
He travelled a lot. "Work trips," he explained. "Meetings. Conferences. The marketing grind never sleeps."
You accepted that too. He always brought you back something small—a keychain from Bahrain, a magnet from Melbourne, a ridiculous hat from Miami. He was thoughtful. Present. When he was with you, his phone stayed in his pocket, his eyes stayed on your face, and his laugh filled your small flat like sunlight.
"You're really bad at talking about your job," you teased one night, curled up on your sofa. "Every time I ask, you say 'meetings.' That's it. Just meetings."
"Boring meetings," he said, not looking up from your laptop screen where he was losing spectacularly at a game of digital chess. "Trust me, you'd fall asleep."
"Try me."
He paused. Just for a second. Then he smiled—that easy, disarming smile. "Okay. Last week, I had a meeting about vertical integration of cross-platform synergies."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing. It's so real I fell asleep in it. Twice."
You threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing, and pulled you into his arms. "See? Boring. Now let me focus. I'm about to lose my queen."
You let it go. Why wouldn't you? He was just a normal guy. A normal, charming, slightly mysterious guy who worked a boring marketing job and had terrible taste in chess moves.
You loved him. You hadn't said it yet, but you did. And he loved you—you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.
The lie, when it came, didn't arrive through a laptop screen.
It arrived through a mutual friend.
Chloe. You'd known her since university—a loud, lovely woman who worked in event planning and had a habit of accidentally gatecrashing the most exclusive parties in London. She didn't know Lando well. She'd met him twice, briefly, and remembered him as "your cute, vaguely mysterious boyfriend."
One Friday night, she called you, breathless.
"Y/N. Y/N, you are not going to believe this."
"I'm in the middle of a deadline, Chloe. Make it quick."
"I was at this thing tonight. A private event. Corporate. Really fancy—like, champagne fountains fancy." She was talking so fast the words tripped over each other. "And I saw him. Your Lando."
You frowned, still staring at your design software. "He's on a work trip. He said he was in—"
"He's not on a work trip, love." Chloe's voice went soft, almost apologetic. "He was on a stage. In a fireside chat. With a moderator. Talking about his season."
"His season?"
"Formula 1, Y/N. Your boyfriend is Lando Norris. The McLaren driver. He was sitting there in a team polo, talking about tyre degradation and championship points, and I nearly choked on my canapé."
You stopped breathing.
"That's not—" Your voice sounded strange. "He's in marketing. He told me—"
"Babe." Chloe's voice was gentle now. Heartbreakingly gentle. "I Googled him on the way home. Just to be sure. There are billboards. Sponsorships. Interviews. He's not in marketing. He's one of the most famous drivers in the world."
You hung up. Then you Googled him.
The results came back in 0.4 seconds.
Lando Norris. Age 26. McLaren Formula 1 driver. Winner of multiple Grands Prix. Net worth: millions. Endorsements: everything from watches to energy drinks. And there, in photo after photo, was his face. The same face that had fallen asleep on your shoulder last night. The same hands that had made you tea this morning.
But the smile was different. Sharper. More polished. A product.
You scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
There was no marketing job. There never had been. There were only race weekends, simulator sessions, media obligations, and a life so far from "normal" that you felt dizzy just looking at it.
He wasn't just lying. He'd constructed an entire alternate identity. And you had believed every word.
You called him. It went to voicemail. You texted: Come over. Now.
He arrived an hour later, still in his "work trip" clothes—a hoodie and joggers, like always. He was smiling, holding a bag of your favourite Thai food.
"Hey. Sorry, I was in a—" He stopped. Saw your face. The smile faltered. "Y/N? What 's wrong?"
You were sitting on the sofa, your phone in your lap, the Google results still glowing on the screen.
"Chloe saw you tonight," you said quietly. "At a corporate event. She said you were on a stage. Talking about your season."
Lando went pale. The bag of Thai food slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Y/N—"
"You're Lando Norris." Your voice cracked. "You're a Formula 1 driver. You've won races. You have millions of fans. And you told me you worked in marketing."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands were shaking.
"I was going to tell you," he whispered. "I was going to—"
"When?" You stood up, and he flinched like you'd struck him. "When were you going to tell me, Lando? After I moved in? After I said I loved you? After I built a whole life with a person who doesn't exist?"
"He exists." His voice was raw. "I exist. This—what we have—it's real. The job was the only lie. Everything else—"
"Everything else was built on that lie." Tears were streaming down your face now, hot and unstoppable. "Every time you said you were on a work trip, you were racing. Every time you said you had roommates, you were going home to your empty luxury apartment. Every time I asked about your day, you invented a fiction."
"I was scared." His voice broke. "I'm always scared. Everyone I meet wants something—money, access, photos. But you didn't. You just wanted me. And I couldn't—I couldn't risk losing that."
"That's not your choice to make!" You were shouting now, and you didn't care. "You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to protect me from the truth by lying to my face for six months."
He reached for you. You stepped back.
"Please." His eyes were wet. "Please don't go."
"I can't." You grabbed your coat from the hook by the door. "I can't look at you right now. I don't even know who you are."
"I'm the same person. I'm the same—"
"No, you're not." You opened the door. "The person I fell for wouldn't have lied to me every single day."
You walked out. Behind you, you heard him say your name once—soft, broken, desperate. You didn't look back.
If you had, you would have seen him sink to his knees on your floor, head in his hands, the Thai food growing cold beside him.
Four weeks passed.
You threw yourself into work. You redesigned a client's entire brand identity in three days. You went for runs along the Thames until your legs gave out. You deleted his number, blocked his social media, and told yourself you were fine.
You weren't fine.
Everywhere you looked, there he was. On bus stops. On billboards. On the news. Lando Norris finishes P2 in Brazil. Lando Norris involved in a first-lap collision in Las Vegas. Lando Norris is seen leaving London restaurant alone, looking "subdued."
How could you not have noticed before? How did it take you so long to realize the lie?
The world saw a driver. You saw the man who'd pretended to be allergic to cats because he was scared of them. Who'd let you win at Scrabble even though he definitely knew the word "xi." Who'd kissed your forehead every morning like it was a prayer.
Your friends were supportive but confused. "So he's famous? Isn't that, like, a win?" one asked.
"It's not about being famous," you said, staring at a cup of tea you had no intention of drinking. "It's about lying. How could I trust anything he ever said?"
They didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't spent six months falling in love with a ghost.
You were sitting on your fire escape one evening, watching the London lights blink on across the skyline, when your phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Y/N? It's Max. Max Fewtrell. Lando's best friend. Do you have five minutes?
You stared at the message. You'd heard Lando mention Max a hundred times—the same Max who was "always late." The one who'd introduced Lando to terrible reality TV. The one Lando called when he couldn't sleep.
Your thumb hovered over "delete." But something—curiosity, loneliness, a stubborn ember of care—made you type back: How did you get my number?
Lando. He's a wreck. But he'd never use it himself. Can we talk? Please? Just a call. No pressure.
You sighed. The night was cold, and you were tired of being angry alone.
Fine. One call.
His voice was softer than you expected. Max Fewtrell had a face made for grinning—you'd seen photos—but on the phone, he sounded like a man who'd been carrying something heavy for a long time.
"Thanks for picking up," he said. "I know you don't owe me anything."
"I don't owe him anything either."
"No. You don't." A pause. "Can I tell you a story?"
"Did you ask to talk to me to tell me a story?"
“Please?”
"I'm not promising I'll stay on the line."
"That 's fair." He took a breath. "When Lando was fifteen, he was just a kid from Glastonbury who was really, really fast in a go-kart. No one is famous. No one is special. He'd go to school, get bullied for being small, then go to the track and lap everyone. Racing was his escape."
You didn't say anything.
"When he started getting noticed, the attention was… intense. People didn't see him. They saw a helmet. A potential paycheck. A stepping stone." Max's voice hardened. "He had 'friends' who only wanted paddock passes. Girls who only wanted Instagram followers. Even some family members got weird about money."
"I'm not those people."
"I know. That's the problem." Max laughed, but there was no humour in it. "He met you, and you had no idea who he was. You didn't care about lap times or podiums. You asked him about his day. You made him laugh. You let him lose at Scrabble."
Your throat tightened. "That doesn't excuse the lie."
"No. It doesn't." Max's agreement was immediate, absolute. "He was a coward. He should have told you the first week. The first month at the latest. But he got scared, and then he got trapped, and every day the lie got bigger and harder to undo."
"That's not my problem to fix."
"No," Max agreed again. "It's not. But here's what I'm asking you to consider." His voice softened. "He didn't lie to control you. He didn't lie to hurt you. He lied because for the first time in years, someone made him feel like a person instead of a product. And he was terrified of losing that."
You pressed a hand to your mouth. The tears were back.
"I've known Lando since we were kids," Max continued. "I've seen him win races. I've seen him crash. I've never, ever seen him cry. Until four weeks ago. He sat on my couch and he didn't speak for two hours. Just stared at the wall."
"Max—"
"I'm not telling you to take him back. I'm not even telling you to forgive him. I'm just telling you: he's not a liar. He's a scared twenty seven year old who made a catastrophic mistake because he fell for you too hard and too fast." He paused. "And maybe that's worth one conversation. On your terms. No pressure."
The silence stretched. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
"Where is he?" you asked.
"He's in Abu Dhabi. Final race of the season tomorrow." Max's voice was careful. "But he'll be back in London on Monday night. If you want to see him."
"I'll think about it."
"That 's all I ask. Thanks, Y/N. For listening."
He hung up. You sat on the fire escape for a long time, the phone warm in your hand, the ghost of Lando's laugh echoing in your chest.
You didn't decide to go. You just… went.
You'd spent the whole night thinking about that conversation, remembering every moment you'd spent with Lando those last six months. So Sunday in the morning arrived, and you booked a last minute flight to Abu Dhabi. You told yourself it was for closure. You told yourself you wanted to see the world he'd hidden. You didn't tell anyone—not Chloe, not your mum, not the small, hopeful voice in your head that whispered maybe.
The Yas Marina Circuit was overwhelming. The noise was a physical wall—engines screaming at a pitch that vibrated in your bones. The smell of burnt rubber and hot asphalt. The crowd was a sea of team colours: papaya orange for McLaren, red for Ferrari, blue for Red Bull.
You'd bought a grandstand ticket, high up, where you could see the sweep of the track. You sat on your hands to stop them from shaking.
You watched the formation lap. Watched the grid line up. Watched the lights go out.
And then you watched him.
Lando Norris in his natural habitat was nothing like the man who'd held your hand on the South Bank. That Lando was soft edges and self-deprecating jokes. This Lando was a predator. Precise. Aggressive. He defended against a Mercedes with ruthless intelligence, overtook an Alpine on the outside of a corner that made the crowd gasp, and when he crossed the finish line in third place—P3, a podium on the final race of the season—he screamed over the team radio with a joy so pure it made your chest ache.
That was the part of him he'd kept hidden. Not the fame. The passion.
As he climbed out of the car and pulled off his helmet, sweat-soaked and grinning, you saw the boy Max had described. The one who'd been bullied. The one who'd escaped to the track. The one who just wanted to be loved for who he was, not what he drove.
You stood up. Your legs were unsteady.
You didn't have a paddock pass. You didn't have a plan. But you had something better: a memory of a bookshop, a terrible chess player, and a laugh like sunlight.
You found Max first.
He was leaning against a barrier near the McLaren garage, watching the podium celebrations on a monitor. He was holding two bottles of water and looking vaguely lost. When he saw you, his eyebrows shot up, then softened into something like relief.
"You came."
"Don't look so surprised." You hugged your arms against the desert evening chill. "I need to see him. But I don't have access."
Max grinned—the real grin, the one from photos. "Leave that to me."
He led you through a labyrinth of temporary walls and security checkpoints, flashing a credential that seemed to open every door. The paddock was chaotic—mechanics in matching shirts, journalists with boom mics, drivers in team kits walking with the focused stride of people who'd just risked their lives at 200 miles per hour.
And then you saw him.
Lando was sitting on a crate outside the driver's room, still in his fireproofs, the top half unzipped and tied around his waist. He was alone, head bowed, phone in hand. He hadn't changed. He hadn't celebrated. He was just… there. Small. Tired. The podium champagne was still drying in his hair.
Max touched your elbow. "I'll be right over there." He pointed to a catering unit fifty metres away. "Take your time."
You walked forward. Your footsteps were silent on the asphalt.
"Lando."
He looked up. And the expression on his face—shock, hope, fear, disbelief—was more real than any podium celebration.
"Y/N?" His voice cracked. He stood up slowly, like he was afraid you'd vanish if he moved too fast. "What—how—"
"Max." You stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the tear tracks on his cheeks beneath the champagne residue, the exhaustion in his eyes. "He's a good friend."
"He's an idiot," Lando whispered. "I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"I know."
The word hung between you. He didn't move. He didn't reach for you. He just stood there, trembling slightly, waiting.
You took a breath. "I'm still angry."
"I know."
"I don't trust you."
"I know." His voice broke. "But I'll earn it. Every single day. If you let me."
"You lied about everything."
"Not everything." He swallowed. "The pigeon thing was real. I hate them. They're just seagulls in suits, I stand by that. And the Scrabble thing. I let you win. Every time."
"Every time?"
"Okay, most times." A tiny, trembling smile flickered across his face. "And the way you look when you're concentrating on a design—your tongue sticks out a little. And I love that. I love—"
"Don't." You held up a hand. "Not yet."
You knew how Lando felt, and despite all the lies and the four weeks apart, your feelings for him hadn't changed either. But you didn't want it to be like this, for the first time you said it to be under these circumstances.
He closed his mouth. Nodded.
You stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar on his chin from a karting accident at twelve.
"I came here because I needed to see if you were real," you said quietly. "The Lando in the car—that driver, that competitor—that's part of you. And you hid it. And that hurts."
"I know."
"But the Lando who brought me coffee in Soho? Who pretended to have roommates so he wouldn't have to admit he lives alone?" A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "That Lando is also real."
His breath caught. "He's the only one I want to be. With you."
You reached out and took his hand. His fingers were calloused, still warm from the gloves, and they closed around yours like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"I'm not promising anything," you said. "But I'm here. And I'm listening."
He pulled you into a hug—gentle, desperate, his face buried in your hair. He was shaking. So were you.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. Thank you."
From fifty metres away, Max Fewtrell raised a water bottle in a silent toast and grinned.
Three months later, you stood in the paddock at Silverstone. This time, you belonged there.
Lando had kept his promise. He'd answered every question, introduced you to every awkward family member, and let you watch every simulator session until the numbers blurred. He'd even let you design a custom helmet—a pigeon with laser eyes, which the internet either loved or hated.
You still had moments of doubt. Moments when the lie echoed. But he never deflected again. Every time you asked, he told the truth—even when it was embarrassing, even when it was painful.
And now, standing in the garage as he climbed into the car, you felt something you hadn't expected: pride.
He looked up at you through the visor, and you saw the smile even through the helmet.
"Bring me back something nice," you said.
He gave a thumbs up. Then the engine roared, and he was gone.
Max appeared at your side, holding two cups of terrible paddock coffee. "He's going to win today."
"You don't know that."
"I know him." Max shrugged. "And he's got something to prove now."
The lights went out. The cars screamed into the first corner. And somewhere in the chaos, a boy from Somerset who'd once been too scared to tell the truth drove like his life depended on it.
He finished first.
And when he climbed out of the car, tore off his helmet, and ran straight past his entire team to wrap his arms around you—soaking wet with champagne, laughing and crying at the same time—you didn't pull away.
"Thank you," he said against your ear. "For giving me a second chance."
"Don't make me regret it," you whispered back.
"I won't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. "I love you. The real me. The whole me. Every stupid, racing-obsessed, pigeon fearing part."
You kissed him—right there, in front of the cameras, the crowd, the world.
"I love the real you too," you said.
And for the first time, there was no lie between you. Only the truth, finally told.
ALWAYS YOU ! ln1
— lando norris breaks up with you because you're ‘too soft’. as an aspiring journalist, you're not fit for a life of partying—of constant celebration. he breaks up with you, and yet when you come back, your hair dyed black and a whole new person, he just can't seem to stay away.
CONTAINS: fem!reader, usage of alcohol, cigarettes, highly toxic relationship, cheating (i do not condone this behaviour irl!!!), heavy jealousy, smut, p in v, oral, fingering, overstim, both lando and reader will piss you off at some point, lando is cocky, includes magui corceiro, angst-ish but don't worry it's not that bad, second chances, marriage, 'baby/babe' used, no usage, of y/n
RADIO CHECK: after about a millenia this fic is FINALLY finished. i highkey hate the start of this but absolutely love the middle + ending. this is the first long fic i'm posting on here, and i hope you guys like it as much as i loved making it!
WC — 17k (17,524)
The break up hurt.
Of course it did. Two years down the drain, two years of smiling by his side, two years of sitting there in the paddock surrounded by cameras that questioned your relationship as a whole.
Lando Norris was a force to be reckoned with. You knew that, everyone in the paddock knew that, and yet he’d decided to stay with a girl like you—a journalist, with your light colored hair and even lighter personality. You stayed home while he went out and drank until six in the morning, you sat quietly in McLaren’s hospitality while he risked his life on a track and called it sport.
“You’re too soft.”
He’d won that very same night he’d said the words to you. Winning meant celebration—meant clubs and alcohol. You only ever went when you had to, something he and everyone else had noticed.
“And I don’t think this is working anymore.”
So on the first day of Formula 1’s summer break, he’d single-handedly ended two years with a couple of sentences.
You’d dyed your hair completely black the next day without telling anyone. It wasn’t a change for him, in attempt to finally be the girl he wanted, but a change for yourself. You’d started going out more, drinking more, replacing the flowy dresses with miniskirts and tops that revealed more than they covered. Hell—you’d even picked up smoking.
“Interview’s in five.”
You’d never originally planned to move into journalism in Formula 1, but here you were, standing in the media pen, mic in one hand, a smile on your face as you waited patiently. No one had recognized you yet, but that was the point.
You were here as you, a journalist, an interviewer, and no longer Lando Norris’s girlfriend.
“Congratulations on your win, Charles,” you’d rehearsed this countless times, interviews flowed as easily as blinking. “How are you feeling now that this puts you in an advantage for next weekend?”
Charles Leclerc stands in front of you, race suit pulled down halfway, still not entirely looking at you as he answers, “Yeah—I mean, it’s great. car was great today, pace was amazing, and…”
He looks up.
You smile, mic pointed at him, relishing in the recognition that flashes across his features.
“And?” you prompt, and he blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he scrambles to finish answering.
“And I think if things run the same as they did today, next weekend could be a huge success for myself and this team.”
“Any comments on that incident between you and Norris on turn three?”
“Norris?” Charles repeats, and you’re unsure if he’s surprised at the question itself or your usage of Lando’s last name. “Just an incident. Nothing major—he managed P2, great job to him. You’ll be interviewing him next, won’t you?”
“Looks like it,” you smile, and he cocks his head again, like he’s debating adding something. “Thank you for your time, Charles. we’ll see you on the podium.”
The camera’s pan to someone else, and you know you’ve got at least five more minutes until the next interview.
“Hey.”
“Mm?” you switch off the mic, hand dropping back down to your side as you look at Charles. “Something wrong?”
“You…you’re here.”
“I am.”
“And your hair—I mean, it looks great, really does, just a drastic change to the blonde.”
“Isn’t it?” you play with the end strands, smiling. “Amazing job today, by the way. Well deserved win.”
“Thank you,” he nods, and his gaze switches somewhere else before focusing back on you. “Good luck on this next one. It was nice to see you again.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, and he smiles back, turning to leave. “Thanks.”
Lando sees you before you do.
His eyes are wide, one hand clenched around a can of Monster, frozen on the spot in the media pen. You want to lie and say your heart doesn’t stop when you see him too, but it does, and you hate yourself for it.
“Next interview starts in two.”
“Yeah,” you say, staring back at him. “Got it.”
No matter how much you’d prepared yourself for it, the drop in your chest when he moves closer is inevitable. He looks the same—same face, hair, personality, only this time it’s you who doesn’t.
“Lando,” he’s managed to stand in front of you now, still practically frozen as you start the interview. “P2 after starting on the grid P5. how are you feeling?”
He stays silent. You’re looking up at him, smiling, posture straight.
“Lando?”
“Oh—um, yeah. P2. It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Really good. Sorry—I can’t focus, um, can we…” he glances to the camera crew behind him, and your smile falters as they put down their equipment. “What the hell are you—”
“My job,” you say, carefully. “And you’re supposed to be doing yours, and interviews come with it. You can’t just cancel an interview.”
His jaw flexes, hand clenching tighter, “you can’t just show up here like that.”
“Like what?”
“Why aren’t you blonde?”
“Why aren’t you doing the interview?”
“Least of my concerns,” he leans closer, and you don’t have the heart to move away. “So we break up, you dye your hair black, and come back here to make some kind of statement?”
“Everything I do is a statement.”
“It wasn’t like that before.”
“It is now.”
He stares at you, at your hair, the mic in your hands, your eyes, like he can’t even tell who you are anymore.
“Do the interview, Norris,” you say, raising your mic again. “And do it properly.”
The rest of it goes as smooth as it can be. He responds with tighter answers, laced with tension, but still good enough to pass off as post-race frustration. As soon as it’s over, you turn away, but he lingers.
“Let’s go,” you hear one of his managers say, and only when you can see him on the broadcast in the cooldown room, you turn back around for the next interview.
Max stops in front of you, eyebrows raised as he gives you a once over.
“Jesus. You look good.”
“I try my best.”
“Journalist and interviewer now too,” he nods. “Is this permanent?”
“Until the end of the season, pretty much.”
“Nah, the hair.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, head tilting, “Sure.”
“Hope so,” you both ignore the call of one minute until interview. “Suits you.”
Your interview with Max goes the best out of any. He answers perfectly, while acting like nothing had ever changed. You don’t know if it’s to make you feel more comfortable, or because he simply hated interviews that much.
“I’ll see you around,” he says, waving as he leaves. “Promise I’ll give you as much interviews as you need.”
You laugh in response, turning back to where the media crews are starting to prepare for the other driver’s interviews. Your agency only needed interviews for the podium finishers, along with the conference with all three at the end.
You watch the podium celebration on the large TV screens of the paddock club. Max is smiling, so is Charles, and when you focus on Lando, his jaw is clenched. He’s trying, for the sake of the cameras, to smile and crack a joke, and everyone else is falling for it but you. A month away from him didn’t erase the two years of knowing.
“Charles, once again, huge congratulations on the first win of the second half of the season,” you’re sitting on the couch of the conference room now, all three podium finishers seated alongside each other. “Reflections on this weekend as a whole?”
“Like I said before, it’s amazing,” Charles answers, hand running through his hair. “Felt good to reset during that break but coming back and winning the first race feels redeeming. Clearly everyone, reset during that break, I think.”
“I’d imagine so,” you say, trying to ignore the way Max snorts out a laugh and unsubtly looks over at Lando. “Any thoughts on how the championship might progress?”
You go through each question with precision. You get answers, responses, a joke here and there. Your questions with Lando are quick—efficient more than anything.
“Any celebrations planned tonight?” you ask no one in particular as the cameras shut off. “Or is this finally a quiet win?”
“Of course there’ll be celebrations,” Charles says, and then he raises his eyebrows, leaning closer. “You interested?”
“Depends,” you pretend you’re busy with packing notes into your bag, but your attention is wholeheartedly on his words. “What kind of celebrations are we talking?”
“Clubbing,” Max cuts in, standing right beside Charles. “Tradition. Most drivers are going—it’s the the first race, technically. What’s better to wish on good luck than alcohol?”
You’re well aware that Lando’s still there, in range of hearing the entire conversation.
“In or out?” Max asks, and you look up fully, pulling your bag onto your shoulder. Charles is slightly leaned forward, like it’d coax an answer out of you. Max has his arms crossed, face passive, but still waiting.
“In.”
“We’ll see you later tonight then,” Charles says, tapping his phone. “Got a group chat for this. Expect a text somewhere around ten.”
Once they’re gone, leaving you alone with just a media crew and your ex-boyfriend that’s looking at you like he has no clue who you are, you let out a small sigh and make to leave as well.
“You said yes.”
The voice stops you.
“I did,” you say, looking over at lando. “Of course I did.”
“You never say yes.” You never said yes when we were together.
You’re too aware now. Too aware of the media crew still packing up, whose entire job was to record this kind of thing.
“Great job today,” you say, turning away. “Hope you’ll be able to sit through another interview with me sometime.”
And he’s still standing there, staring after you, like you’re some kind of ghost he can’t seem to get rid of.
Privacy wasn’t a thing in Monaco. especially not in Monte Carlo.
That was the reason you’d spent the entirety of the summer break in New York, a city too busy to care about anyone else.
Your new apartment feels empty, spacious, but not lonely. Your neighbors consist of an older, incredibly rich couple, and another girl who isn’t even in the country half the time. The windows outside reveal the clearest view of the Monaco hairpin, and you occasionally hear the roar of a sports car passing by that sounds familiar and foreign all at the same time.
“Hey, you up for dinner tonight?” you’ve got your phone balanced on your shoulder as you open your fridge for a Red Bull. Max’s voice comes out of the speakers, and you shut the fridge again with your hip. “Practically the entire grid, plus girlfriends. 6:30.”
“I’m not a girlfriend anymore,” you say, cracking open the drink. You smile, though he can’t see. “Why is it that you’re the one inviting me to everything?”
“I think everyone else is too scared."
Your eyebrows raise, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“Seriously?”
“Maybe cause of Lando. I don’t know.”
“Huh,” you move to your lounge, switching on your tv for background noise. The windows are directly to your left, and you glance out of them as you answer. “So they’ve made you the messenger?”
“Exactly, and a messenger needs a message to bring back.”
You watch as a Ferrari F430 passes by, mindlessly trying to put a name to the owner before tearing your gaze away.
“Yeah, I’ll come.”
“We’ve got a seating arrangement. Safe to say you won’t be seeing any papaya.”
You laugh again, head tilting back on the couch, “Yeah, thanks, Max.”
The line goes dead, and you shut your phone, tossing it beside you. It lights up again, no doubt messages with details on time and location, but you don’t pick it back up.
You said yes.
The words, Lando’s face, the way he’d stared after you, all keeps replaying in your head. It was ironic really. You’d become the exact girl he was looking for as soon as you’d left.
“Notre bien-aimé Charles Leclerc remporte la victoire à Zandvoort!”
Before you know it, the TV is switching to the interviews you’d hosted. You watch, silently, blocking out the noise and focusing on the expressions on everyone faces.
Charles’s face on his interview holds confusion, Max’s holds what looks like delight, and Lando?
“On dirait que l’ex-petite amie de Lando Norris—”
You switch the TV off then. Right as the reporter moves onto the topic of you and him. You haven’t opened any of your social media platforms in almost twelve hours—you don’t need to.
The clock on your wall ticks to exactly 5pm.
Your phone is still buzzing, still lighting up with notifications, and yet your focus stays on the now black TV screen in front of you. Another car passes by, a McLaren, Spider, 765LT, and you know who exactly brunette, curly-haired man it belongs to.
You sigh, eyes shutting as you lean further into the couch.
Privacy wasn’t a thing in Monaco. Especially not in Monte Carlo.
“Did you see her?”
“Who? Lando’s ex? She interviewed almost all of us last race, didn’t she? I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t seen her.”
“She looks good. Really good. Black suits her.”
“She’s coming tonight.”
“Really? Didn’t think she’d say yes.”
Lando’s seated at the table, on his phone, when the conversation floats past him.
The other nineteen drivers are either standing, deep in conversation, or not even there yet. Everyone’s girlfriends are on the other side of the table, laughing with drinks in their hands, and he can see the empty chair they were purposely saving.
Lando hadn’t seen you since that day. He was glad he hadn’t. The way his heart had dropped when he’d seen you for the first time in months wasn’t something he’d like a repeat of.
You were almost unrecognizable. You would’ve been, if not for the fact Lando had already memorized every single one of your features for the past two years, and the fact all those features clouded his head more than he wanted to admit.
“Lando.”
“Huh?”
He glances over at his side, at Carlos.
“What?” he repeats, blinking and slowly setting down his phone.
“Nothing. You just look—”
When you walk in, it’s like his whole world goes dark and you’re the only source of light left.
Lando’s focus shifts completely off of Carlos. You’re in a black dress, the kind he’d always loved but you never used to wear. Your eyes meet his first, coated in that same dark eyeshadow he’d seen you in a few days ago, and the eye contact stays.
“You made it!”
The three words tear your attention away from him, and instead towards Ollie who’s rushed towards you. You smile, saying something out of Lando’s earshot, and Ollie laughs.
You talk for a few minutes, all cheerful smiles, subtle confidence, before patting Ollie on the shoulder and making your way down the table. You pass by him, and the scent of vanilla, jasmine, and something richer fills his nose. You’d always opted for floral when you were with him, but that was the thing. You weren’t with him anymore.
“You look amazing!” he hears someone’s girlfriend say, and he blocks out the conversation, turning back to his phone.
“You’re not sulking, right?” Max pulls back a chair, sitting beside him. “Don’t ruin the dinner.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’re pouting, then,” Carlos adds. “Quite obvious.”
“I’m not sulking or pouting,” Lando shuts his phone, pocketing it. “Why should I be?”
“Cause your ex came back looking better than ever.”
All three of them look towards you again, where you’ve situated yourself next to Alexandra, right on the line between girlfriends and drivers. George ends up beside you, who you start talking to immediately.
“So what?” Lando says, quieter than he would’ve liked. “She’s not mine anymore.”
“But your face says you wish she was,” Max reaches for a glass of champagne. “Cheer up, mate.”
Lando doesn’t answer this time, too busy with not-so-subtly stealing glances at you.
On the other hand, you were doing fine.
“So is it dye?” George was saying as you hold up a strand of your hair. “Like…box dye?”
“Nah, it’s proper color,” you answer, letting the strand fall back onto your shoulder again. “Done at a salon and everything.”
“Took new season new me seriously, huh?”
“Of course,” you smile, picking up the glass in front of you. “Everyone reset during the break, like Charles said”
“That interview was absolutely painful to watch,” Ollie cuts in from opposite you. “Could feel the tension through the screen.”
You laugh, and Lando immediately glances over.
“Seriously though, how’ve you been?” George asks. “Trying to get the big question out of the way for the rest of the dinner.”
“I’ve been…” you trail off, frowning. “Good. As good as I can be.”
“Y’know, you’re always welcome here,” he says, and Ollie nods along. “In the paddock. Doesn’t matter if you’re a wag or a journalist or just you.”
“We like you for you,” Ollie says, and he abruptly sits up straighter. “Can you still bake? Those cookies you used to bring were incredible.”
“My hair being a different colour doesn’t affect my baking skills,” you answer, smiling again. “I’ll make some if I have the time.”
The rest of the dinner is relaxed. No one forces answers out of you, Lando keeps to his end of the table, and you keep to yours. Until—
“Lando! Are you two back together?”
The voice makes you and everyone else at the table freeze.
You glance to the window at the same time everyone else does. People have swarmed the entire restaurant, the flash of cameras illuminate the space, voices reach you even in the private dining room. Alexandra reaches for your hand, squeezing it once in comfort. Ollie gives you a smile that looks more like a wince, and George lets out a heavy sigh.
“Why did you two break up?! Lando!—”
“Excuse me,” you mutter, pushing back your chair and standing. Your fingers are inching for the pack of cigs in your purse, and you’re slipping through the door with your head down, heading towards the back exit.
Cold, night air hits your skin, oxygen fills your lungs, and you lean against the deserted back wall of the restaurant. You blame the slight tremble of your fingers on the wind as you flick open your lighter, lighting the end of the cigarette just to have something to do with your fingers.
The door beside you bursts open, and you scramble to stand up straighter, almost putting out the cig until you lock eyes with the very reason you’d just left.
“Lando—”
“Why are you smoking?”
Lando’s standing there, hood pulled over his head, but doing nothing to hide the expression on his face.
“None of your concern.”
“That’s unhealthy.”
“Why would you care?”
“Don’t act dumb,” he says, and you scoff out a laugh, bringing the cig to your lips. “With that why would you care bullshit.”
“Go before someone sees us,” you say, looking away. “Might start up gossip.”
“Since when have I ever cared about gossip?”
You blow out smoke, and he reaches for your wrist, forcing your attention towards him.
“Stop it,” he says, and you blink at him. “Stop acting like you’re—”
“Like what?” you say, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence, Norris."
He physically flinches at the name, fingers tightening around your skin.
“I thought you left,” he says, voice quieting with each word. “You did, and you didn’t even tell me—”
“You were the one who ended it. You don’t get to turn it all around and—”
“I regret doing that, you know I regret it.”
“Why?” you tug out of his grip. “Because I’m finally who you wanted me to be?”
He stays quiet, and the silence is answer enough.
“If I’d stayed the same, would you have cared this much?” you say, the cig still burning between your fingers. “If I showed up the exact same—”
“I would—I do. I care. I’ve been regretting ending this ever since you left. I miss you, I love you—”
“You love being loved,” you say, and the look on his face makes a small part of you want to take the words back. “You miss having someone waiting there for you at home with praise and a hangover drink, Norris.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop acting like you care!”
The silence that rings after the words is deafening.
He’s still looking at you with hurt, with frustration, with pure, raw emotion mixed into one. Fans are still screaming on the other side of the building, no doubt at the sight of other drivers starting to leave.
“It’s over,” you say, softer. “You ended it. Learn to be okay with that.”
The door swings open again, and Max steps out, Charles’ voice audible behind him.
“We’re heading home,” Max says, addressing you and completely ignoring Lando. “We were wondering if you needed a ride?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” you say, putting out the cig and brushing past Lando. “Thanks.”
Lando hasn’t turned around yet, frozen in place, but you don’t glance back as you step back inside the restaurant.
Charles looks at you with knowing, Alexandra smiles and acts like everything is okay. You appreciate it more than you realise, especially when you walk out and the constant shout of Lando’s name follows you like a mantra.
You wonder if he’s still standing there, you wonder if the sound of your name haunts him the rest of the night like his does to you.
“I miss you, I love you.”
And the scariest bit is that part of you knows he isn’t lying.
There’s a half-finished coffee in one of your hands, you’ve got folders pressed against your chest, and your hair is pinned up as you step into Ferrari’s hospitality. You’re set to host another interview with both Lewis and Charles in fifteen minutes, along with a few more with Williams and one with Toto afterwards.
Cameras already being set up, and you can see Ferrari’s communications manager off to the side. Other than that, the room isn’t as busy as it usually is.
“You’re an interviewer?”
You blink, turning to the voice.
A man stands there, dark brunette hair, features that scream Italian, and in the same Ferrari shirt majority of staff wore.
“Nic,” he holds his hand out, smiling, and you shake his hand with a slightly surprised look on your face. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I don’t think so,” you answer, hand retreating back to the folders you were holding. “I’m an interviewer—journalist, actually.”
“Journalist,” his eyebrows raise, glancing over at the camera crew that was still setting up. “Have you always been in F1? I haven’t seen you around before.”
Your mind scrambles for an answer.
Yes, my ex-boyfriend is Lando Norris and I changed my hair so you probably don’t recognize me. No, I recently just got into the sport but not really because—
“No,” you end up saying, and he smiles. “First season.”
It’s a lie. You know its a lie, anyone who knows you knows it’s a lie, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Why are you here?” you ask, switching your attention on putting your belongings on a nearby table. “Work?”
“I’m an analyst. For Ferrari."
“So you’re smart?”
“I guess so,” he shrugs, and you let out a soft laugh. “It isn’t as hard as it sounds, I swear.”
“Do you sit at the pit wall every session?” you feel him move beside you, the scent of cologne filling the space. “Or are you more of a background kind of guy?”
“Background,” he says. “I’m in the garage for sessions—prefer it that way, actually.”
Nic leans against the table, and you glance over at him again.
“Got a favorite team?” he asks, like he doesn’t want the conversation to end. “Or a least favorite?”
“Least favorite? McLaren.”
“Got some bad history there?” he laughs, and you fight back your urge to wince. “Like their drivers refusing to do an interview?”
“Something like that.”
The doors to the hospitality swing open, and Lewis and Charles are walking in, leaving cameras and reporters in their wake.
“I guess that’s my cue to go,” Nic says, standing up. “Enjoy the interview.”
“Thank you,” you say, and your heart drops a little at the thought of him leaving so soon. “I’ll see you around.”
“Why don’t we grab lunch sometime?” he asks, stopping. “Or dinner. Whatever you prefer.”
You can see Charles staring with mild curiosity from the corner of your eye, and you run Nic’s words through your head a couple times.
“Yeah—dinner, that’d be great.”
“Yeah?” Nic pulls out his phone, clicking onto contacts and passing it to you. “I’ll text you later then.”
“For sure,” you say, handing the phone back with your number. “Talk to you then.”
Once he’s gone and you’re being handed a mic, Charles sidles up next to you.
“Nic?”
“You know him?”
“I know my team,” Charles says, following as you sit on a chair the cameras were facing. “What’d he want?”
“Just conversation,” you smile at Lewis, who sits beside Charles on another chair. “Why? Is there something I should be worried about?”
“No, he’s a good guy,” Charles says, mindlessly turning the mic over in his hands. “It’s good you’re talking to someone.”
“He invited me to dinner or something,” you say, fixing your hair. You glance up again, and Charles is practically grinning. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, leaning back and his chair. “Interview. Let’s go.”
“You’re currently leading the championship by thirty points. Are you confident going into this week’s race?”
Lando’s sitting on one of the chairs in McLaren’s motorhome, an interviewer on the other side of him.
“I mean—yeah, I’m not sure. Thirty could switch to ten really easily, and I can’t say much until I’ve been on track.”
The interview’s been going on for what seems like hours now. He’s more focused on his surroundings than the questions, and anytime someone walks past, he glances up and thinks it’s you.
He knows you’re here today. He knows because majority of the questions thrown his way have all been: are you here with your girlfriend?
Your last conversation with him from last week is still playing on loop in his head. Your face still flashes in his mind whenever he shuts his eyes.
He hates you for it.
Hes hates the way you manage to stay in his life, when he’d been the one to push you out. He hates how good you look, even with your hair dark, and how fine you are with the whole situation.
But above all, he hates how he’d left in the first place.
The interview ends like all of them do. He signs a few autographs, takes pictures, thanks the interviewer even though he doesn’t actually mean it.
“You good?” Oscar asks him as they’re in one of the private rooms of the motorhome. “You look more bothered than usual.”
“I’m good,” Lando answers, because it’s the only thing he actually can. “ Just tired.”
“Fair enough,” Oscar says, leaning back in his chair. Zak and Andrea are going through some kind of strategy plan, but neither drivers are paying attention. “Sorry about last week.”
“It’s fine,” he says, glancing away. “Still got second place.”
He knows that wasn’t what he meant, but the topic of you wasn’t something he was willing to bring up again.
“I know we had this conversation last week,” Zak says, dragging Lando’s attention to the front of the room. “But I’ll say it again. New half of the year, new mindset. Erase whatever happened last month and put it behind you.”
His speech lasts about ten minutes, and by the end of it Lando feels even more drained. It’s 6:15 now, reporters are still outside, cameras are still waiting to be shoved into his face.
There’s nothing more he wants to do than walk into a club for a few hours, drink everything away and pretend any responsibility didn’t exist. But he can’t.
He walks out of hospitality with Oscar beside him, his PR manager on his left, and Zak and Andrea a few steps ahead.
“Lando—can you sign this?”
He stops, smiles as the fan rants on about good luck and I love you, signing the cap with muscle memory.
“And don’t listen to anyone talking about your ex or whatever. You could do better than her.”
Just like that, Lando’s smile drops.
“What?”
“Okay!” his PR manager says, taking the pen and cap out of his hands and back towards the fan. “Tight schedule. Let’s go.”
“No—repeat that—”
“Lando,” Oscar says, and when he glances up, his teammate shakes his head ever so slightly.
The fan is staring with wide eyes, and Lando can’t help the glare that escapes him.
“The fuck was that?” Lando mutters once they’re in the carpark, hood now pulled over his head. “Seriously. You could do better than her—what does he know about any—”
“Lando,” Oscar sighs, stopping at his car. “You broke up with her.”
“So?”
“You’re acting like she broke up with you.”
Lando frowns, sliding his hand into his pocket for his car keys.
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you care this much?”
“I don’t—I hate her.”
“You hate her?” he repeats incredulously. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
He can still hear noise from the paddock, the fans and the reporters, but his mind goes quiet for a brief second.
“I hate her,” he ends up repeating, turning away. “I do.”
The drive home is silence.
He doesn’t turn on music, he doesn’t open the windows, he drives back to his hotel in pure, unbreakable silence. You’re not sitting next to him, playing the playlist he’d memorized by heart. You’re not there, talking about your plans for the race weekend which consisted of hanging out with other drivers’ girlfriends.
By the time he parks his car and checks into his room, his mind is set on one thing.
He hated you, and he’d do anything to convince himself that the sentence was true.
It’s been three months. Five since the break up.
You’re with Nic now, a guy who buys you flowers whenever he can, a guy who parties hard when needed but quietly cooks dinner in your apartment when you wanted him to. He stands behind cameras with his arms crossed, a smile on his face as he watches you go through interviews. He wakes you up with kisses and falls asleep with his arm around your waist. The title of Lando Norris’s ex is fading, replaced with every driver’s favorite interviewer, or simply just your own, regular name.
With him, it should be perfect. It should be anything a girl would ever want, and yet it isn’t.
Four months isn’t enough to erase the sting of the past. Especially when you run into said ‘past’ almost every week and come face to face with him for interviews. He acts like you’re just some random journalist, some stranger that doesn’t hold the weight of two years behind them. He doesn’t look you in the eye when you ask him questions anymore. He doesn’t stare, or linger, or pause when you walk by, and for some stupid reason, it hurts.
You told Nic you’d lied about it being your first season a week into dating him. He hadn’t cared—he’d said it didn’t change a thing. The relief that’d flowed through you was something you’d chased ever since.
“Thank you, Lando,” you’re saying now, smiling with that same professional look you always have on. “Congrats on your win tonight.”
“Cheers,” he mutters, and before you can see him turn away, you do it first.
Nic is standing there, waiting, and when you move closer to him he pulls you in by the waist.
“Flawless.”
“Liar,” you smile, setting down your mic and opening up your schedule in one of your notebooks. “That was the worst.”
“I’d never associate the word worst with you,” he says, kissing your forehead. “What else do you have for today? I need dinner.”
“That was the last of it, “ you say, shutting the notebook. “You don’t have to wait for me all the time if you don’t want to.”
“If I didn’t want to I’d be gone by now,” he says, making you laugh. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
You pick up your bag, glancing back out of habit to the media area.
Instead of the empty space you’re used to, only filled with camera crews and other reporters, someone’s standing there, staring right back at you.
Lando’s jaw is clenched, his posture stiff as his gaze flickers to Nic who’s already walking away. When he looks back at you, the first time in months that he’s done so, something in your chest physically drops.
It’s not because he’s staring—it’s the way he is. The way you see him bite the inside of his cheek like he’s grounding himself, the way he swallows and something in his eyes changes like he’s realized something.
You don’t know if he’s realizing you’ve moved on, or if he’s realizing deep down you never have.
“Nic,” you say, your eyes still on Lando. “I forgot one of my folders in William’s motorhome. Can I meet you back in twenty?”
“I can come with—”
“A Ferrari analyst in another team’s area?” you say, smiling and hoping it reaches your eyes. “I think not.”
Nic’s eyebrows raise, but then he nods, “I’ll see you in twenty then.”
You don’t check if Lando’s still standing there as you move. You push past crowds of other journalists and reporters, finding your way through the paddock and towards the familiar garage you know so well.
Someone grabs you by the wrist, tugging you off to the side, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“What are you doing?!”
“No, what are you doing?”
Lando’s grip is firm, and you don’t make any attempt to move away.
“Nicolai? Seriously?”
“You don’t get to dictate who I date.”
“But I’m allowed to share my opinion,” he practically glares as he says the next words. “You and him? Shittiest decision I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, whatever—”
“Does he even know you?” he cuts you off. “At all? Cause it seems like he doesn’t. Barely scratched the surface.”
“What would you know?”
Lando pauses, and you think he’s about to let go, but he pulls you closer.
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“Do you love him?” he repeats, and he’s so close all you can smell is the cologne that you keep telling yourself you don’t miss. “Does he love you?”
“He says he does,” you stare up at him. “And I do.”
“So why are you here?” his tone isn’t cocky or smug, it’s genuine. When you don’t answer, stuck between him and the rest of the world, he scoffs out a laugh. “Fuck, I hate you.”
You stay silent, focused on trying to sort out the onslaught of emotions running through you.
“I hate how I can’t get rid of you,” he continues, hand still on your wrist. “I hate the fact you look like you’re doing fine.”
“And you hate that you left, don’t you?” you say, disbelieving. “How long are you going to do this, Norris? How long are you going to say you hate me then pull something like this? How long are you—”
“I don’t fucking know!” he says, louder than he intended. You both immediately look over to the side, where you can hear reporters and the flashing of cameras in the media pen. His voice lowers again, “You have no idea how hard it’s been acting like I don’t give a shit.”
Someone passes by, loud as they talk on the phone, and he tugs you further away from the main pathway. You fight the urge to check the time. Nic was probably still waiting, and when Lando sees you think about, he lets out a bitter laugh.
“He doesn’t know you like I do.”
“Norris.”
“He doesn’t know you hate having someone wait for you like that, does he?” Lando’s voice drops slightly as he says it. “He doesn’t know your favorite type of flower—I’ve seen your Instagram posts. He keeps getting your drink order wrong, you hate your coffee black. You can pretend you do to fit this whole persona of yours, but you never will.”
Despite the wave of nausea you get at the words, you let him continue.
“You like cocktails, sweeter not bitter,” he says. “Everytime you went out with me you’d refuse anything else. You still refuse anything else when you go out. I noticed—I always fucking notice, and you’re getting the complete opposite whenever you’re out with him.”
“Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”
It’s another lie. That’s all you felt like you did these days—lie until you couldn’t tell what a truth was anymore.
“I know you better than anyone else will, and you know me better than I’ll allow anyone else to.”
That truth hits you harder than it should.
“You look exhausted,” he says, and you swear you feel his fingers trace over your skin. “It’s killing me.”
“It isn’t your job to care anymore.”
“Isn’t it?” before you know it, he’s leaning closer, face dangerously close to yours. “Feels like it still is.”
“Lan,” you practically whisper. “I can’t. I really fucking can’t.”
“I know,” he answers. “I know that.”
You’re so close now. So close to closing the last remaining gap between you, so close to giving in.
“I can’t,” you repeat, and instead of kissing you, he shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against yours. “Fuck.”
“Why’d you have to come back?” he says, but his tone isn’t harsh anymore. “Gives me more reasons to hate you.”
“You don’t hate me, Norris,” you pull away, and his hand finally falls away from your wrist. “You never have.”
You see the unspoken question left in the air, the what ifs and the possibilities.
“I have to go.”
“Stay.”
His response is immediate. The paddock is still alive with energy, soon enough you know he’ll get a call asking why he isn’t back in the garage, and you’ll get a call from Nic asking what’s taking so long.
“Are you just gonna leave this?” he says, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s debating reaching for you again. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not her, Lando,” you look away, like you can see past walls to where Nic is standing. “I’m not who you’ve been chasing after. I changed for a reason.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care if I have to relearn you. I don’t care what color your hair is or how many times you go out a week. I just need you.”
Your phone rings.
“Please,” he says, voice cracking slightly at the end. “I love you.”
The three words might as well have stabbed you straight in the heart.
“I have to go,” you say, quiet, and before you can second guess yourself, you’re walking away.
You don’t answer Nic yet, focused on making it far enough you don’t turn right back around again.
You know Lando’s still standing there, that he probably will be until someone else finds him. You tell yourself you don’t care, like you have for the past four months.
It doesn't work. It never has.
Lando swears he hates social media.
He swears that he hates the concept of having people obsess over how other people live their lives, the way people overanalyse things and make assumptions.
He hates social media, and yet he’s stuck staring at your latest Instagram post. The one where the very first picture is you and him. You and Nicolai.
He’s stuck studying everything in the photo. The way Nicolai’s hand is on your waist, the way you’re leaned into him, smiling, eyes shut like you’re the happiest you could ever be, but Lando knows you’re not. Nicolai’s staring at you with pure adoration in his eyes, like you’re the only thing that mattered in the world, like he’s falling for it.
Lando’s been stalking his posts too. The candid stories where you’re sitting across from him at a restaurant, where you’re on a yacht, lying on his lap. The posts that take up 99% of Nicolai’s feed, making Lando think he was only with you to show you off.
He sighs, swiping onto the next photo, one of you in an apartment he doesn’t recognise.
Your last conversation with him kept playing on a loop in his head.
The way he’d begged, the way he’d said I hate you and I love you in the same breath, the way he’d almost kissed you and the way you’d almost kissed him back.
You don’t hate me, Norris. You never have.
You were right. You were so unbelievably right that it made him want to rip his hair out.
He glances at the picture again, at the lines of your face pressed against Nicolai’s shoulder.
Fuck.
“Lando.”
One of his managers knocks on the wall next to the door of his driver’s room. “You’ve got interviews.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, mindlessly, and the manager disappears. “Thanks.”
He stares at the pictures again, before shutting his phone and shoving it into his pocket.
“What about dinner? Surely you can’t be busy for dinner.”
“I don’t know—I’m sorry. I’m just—”
Like some cruel joke, as soon as Lando steps into the hallway, he runs straight into you.
You’ve got folders clutched against you like you always do, your hair is pinned up, and you’re simultaneously balancing your paddock pass on top of everything. Your eyes are tired, stressed, and when he glances to your side, it’s no other than Nicolai standing right beside you.
His hands are free. He’s in his Ferrari uniform, hands in his pockets, looking like the epitome of relaxed whereas you’re the definition of exhausted.
“Just one dinner, c’mon. We haven’t made plans in a while. I don’t want people thinking we’re not together or something.”
“We went out last week.”
“Last week.”
“Nic, I wish I could, believe me. I’m just—”
You see him then. Lando.
You pause, stopping dead in your tracks, and Nicolai stops too. Lando’s frozen at the doorway, focused entirely on you.
“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he answers, swallowing.
Nicolai glances between you and him, before tugging you closer. Lando almost scoffs, but holds it back for the sake of you.
“Ferrari analyst in Mclaren’s motorhome,” he says instead, and you tense even more. “Isn’t a good look, is it?”
Nicolai laughs, but it comes out strained, fading away awkwardly at the end. He casts another glace at Lando, at the Mclaren team polo shirt, the jeans, and the way all he’s looking at is you.
“I’ve gotta get back to the garage,” he mutters, looking away to kiss your forehead. “Text me later.”
“Yeah,” you answer, and you don’t even look at him when he walks off.
Heavy silence follows. The hallway is deserted, leaving only you and Lando behind. It’s then he realises this might be the first time you’ve been alone together since that night. Since you’d walked away from him.
“You look good.”
“Don’t start.”
You press the folders tighter against you with one hand, tugging down the edge of your skirt with your other.
“No, I mean it,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m not teasing you.”
“Sure seems like it.”
“Why? Just cause of what I said to Nicolai?” he smirks. “It’s true. Wouldn’t want him to loose his job.”
“You couldn’t care less about Nic and his job.”
“But you care.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
The word pierces through the air like a declaration. Like a reminder.
“Your boyfriend,” he repeats. “Right. How are you and him?”
“Fine.”
“That conversation I walked in on didn’t seem fine.”
You sigh, “He’s—it’s difficult. I’m working it out.”
“Are you?”
“I am,” You shift again, fingers wrapping around your drink to steady it. “That’s how you make relationships work, right? By figuring it out together?”
His eyebrows raise, “You’re saying if we figured it out together we might’ve worked?”
“No,” you answer. “We would’ve never worked.”
You’re so certain of it.
Lando studies your face like he’d studied that picture, every detail, every microexpression, and all he concludes is that you mean it. You really believe the two of you could’ve never worked out.
“You’re not ignoring me anymore,” you say, and it isn’t a question. “Surprising.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“It’s fine, Norris,” you smile, polite. God he hated when you were polite, like he was just another one of the drivers you had to interview for work. “I don’t blame you.”
“No, I—”
“It’s good you’re moving on. Or trying to—.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he repeats, taking a step closer. “I wasn’t—I didn’t want to ignore you. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
You stare at him, like you’re studying his face too.
“But—”
“I haven’t moved on.”
The confession spills from him before he can stop it.
“I can’t move on.”
“Lando.”
“I can pretend all I want, but I can’t do it,” he says, heartbeat racing in his chest. “You should be with me.”
“We tried. For two years. It didn’t work—”
“You’re saying it’s working now? With Nicolai?”
“It’s—”
“Are you happy?”
The three words make you pause.
“What?”
“Because if you’re seriously happy with him—if you love him, then I’ll fuck off for the rest of your life.”
“That’s not—”
“Are you?”
He knows you’re not. You know that you’re not, and that conversation he’d walked in on you and Nicolai having didn’t help.
“I’m trying,” you land on, looking away again. “For the sake of me and you. I’m trying to move on. I’m trying not to be known as just your ex, but you’re making it so incredibly hard.”
“Why?” he asks, moving closer, until he’s right in front of you. “Why am I making it hard?”
“I don’t know!” you say, sharp, full of truth. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know if I should be breaking up with Nic, getting back with you, or doing neither. Stop asking me because I don’t know.”
His jaw clenches, fingers curling around nothing. You’re still standing there, in the hallway, all of your responsibilities and priorities waiting outside of the building.
“You don’t have to know,” he says, softer. You try step back, try and force yourself to be mature and walk away, but it doesn’t work. It’s like there’s some kind of physical string, connecting you to him, refusing to let you leave.
He stares at you, your eyes, with the look that makes you think he sees through to your soul. Then it switches, focusing on your lips instead.
“Lando,” you say, almost a whisper.
“Break up with him.”
“I can’t.”
Then he’s leaning forward, and before you know it, he’s kissing you.
For a split second, you’re frozen. The world tilts, falls around you, and then there’s nothing but him. His lips on yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin, the smell of his cologne. You kiss him back before you realise it, eyes shutting, giving in without even thinking to pull away.
“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, breathless. He moves his hands to your waist, pulling you against him, tugging you away from the hallway and back into his driver's room. The door shuts, locking, and everything in your hands drop.
“This is—” your hands come up to his hair, your head tilts to let him kiss down your jaw. “So stupid. So—”
“I know,” he answers, fingers almost bruising on your waist. “Fuck.”
His hands slide up your sides, just barely reaching under your top. You let out a small sound at that, something that you can’t tell is a whine or a plea.
“I can’t,” you say, but you make no move to push him away. “I can’t do this.”
“You don’t have to,” he answers, hands sliding higher. “Tell me to stop.”
You don’t. For some stupid reason, you don’t.
“Tell me you miss me too.”
“Lan.”
“I know you do,” he kisses you again, with pure desperation and want. It’s rougher this time, needier around the edges. Your hands move from his hair, to his shoulders, to the hem of his shirt, tugging to pull him impossibly closer.
“I shouldn’t be—” you stop, letting him press kisses down to your collarbone. “Lan—Lando.”
“Yeah?” he says, but you know he isn’t listening. He moves you with the ease of blinking, until you’re sitting on the top of the desk against the wall. “Shouldn’t be what?”
Your rationality is dissolving with every kiss, every touch.
“I’m…” you don’t finish your sentence, caught up in the way he tastes, the way his teeth graze the bottom of your lip.
“Off,” you say instead, somewhere between kisses and breathless words. You tug at his shirt, trying to ignore the heat pooling at your thighs when you feel how hard he is against you. “Take it off.”
“Say please.”
Before you can glare, he’s already shrugging it off, discarding it behind him.
He looks exactly like you remembered.
You stare. You stare at his tan skin, the defined shape of his shoulders, his arms, the lines that disappear beneath his jeans. Then you stare up at him, his face, his eyes that are solely trained on you.
“I miss you,” he breathes, hands sliding down to rest on your thighs. “I miss you so much.”
You don’t protest when he hitches up your skirt, palm hot and steady against your skin.
“I hate him with you,” he continues, fingers sliding higher. “I hate the way he uses you just to make himself look good.”
The words don’t register in your head.
His fingers pause, grazing the edge of your panties.
“You want this, right?” he asks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You want me?”
The double meaning stabs you in the heart.
“Right now?” you answer, fighting the urge to moan when he moves closer to kiss your neck. “I need you.”
His fingers tug at the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down until they’re off your ankles and thrown somewhere behind him. You whine at that. At the sheer desperation of him, at the heat of his fingers tracing over your core, at the way he groans too when he’s not the one being touched.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and guttural. You gasp when he slowly pushes a finger into you, steady but the opposite of hesitant, like he’s savoring every second. “Look how fucking wet you are.”
You can hear it. The obscenity, the sound of him pressing a second finger inside of you. You moan, loud, thighs coming together before he forces them apart again.
“Stay still for me,” he murmurs, eyes trained on your cunt. “Yeah?”
You nod, eyes glazed over, arching into him when he curls his fingers in just the right way.
It’s too much.
The feeling of him—his fingers, the feeling of looming regret and guilt, and the overwhelming pleasure shooting through you.
It’s too much, and yet when he moves his hand, sliding all the way out just to slam back in again, you moan his name like it’s the only thing that matters.
“Fuck—Lan,” you breathe when he finally speeds up, fingers working in and out, relearning you. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, hitting that one specific spot inside of you. Your eyes flutter shut, head tilting back, and he lets out a hoarse laugh. “Shit, you don’t change, do you?”
It sounds condescending, and yet you only clench around his fingers at the words. He’s stretching you out so well, filling your thoughts with nothing but him.
“You still love whenever I kiss you on your jaw, right on that spot right beneath your ear. You still love when I fuck you like this, with my fingers,” you feel yourself growing closer as he talks, moving closer to press his lips against your neck. “You gonna come? Yeah?”
“Lando—”
His thumb grazes your clit, so soft compared to the rest of his pace. You whine something incoherent, hips bucking up, chasing that high you’ve craved from him for months.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, relentless. “You’re so pretty, falling apart on my fingers for me.”
Fuck.
The words send you over the edge. You’re whimpering beneath him, completely wrecked, your hair messy and undone as you come. He groans at the sight of you, at the slick coating his fingers, at the way you’re shaking just because of him.
“Good girl,” you think you hear him say, but it’s muffled.
You gasp for air, eyes opening, just in time to see him slide his fingers out and into his mouth.
It’s filthy. Absolutely filthy, and all it does is make you want him even more.
“Lan,” you repeat, and he hums in response, taking his fingers out again just to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixing with mint and something else—something undeniably him that you’ve been missing.
He pulls away. Your gaze flickers to the prominent bulge at his jeans, at the Calvin Klein peeking out around his waist.
“I—”
“Lando!”
The door handle rattles, making you both snap your heads towards it.
“Interviews! You’re behind schedule a—why’s your door locked!?”
He shudders, moving away from you to lean against the desk instead.
“Yeah! Shit, I’m coming. Just give me a sec.”
The weight at the door disappears, footsteps retreating down the hall.
Just like that, the world starts up again around you. The bliss fades, the overwhelming pleasure turning into panic.
Lando sees the change on your face, and he’s immediately reaching for you again.
“No—fuck, no, don’t—”
You’re already scrambling off of the desk, almost stumbling. His fingers are warm around your arm, but you shrug him off, rushing to pull down your skirt.
“Baby—please—”
“I can’t,” you say. “Oh god. What did I—Nic. I can’t—”
“We can work this out. I told you we could work this out. You can’t just leave!”
“Then what do you want me to do?!” you turn around, staring at him. He’s still shirtless, still hard, and you hate how you notice. “Break up with Nic? Tell him I cheated when he was less than five minutes away from me?!”
You turn away again, “What did I—where are my panties?”
“You can’t just go back to him.”
“I am.”
“After this? After letting me—”
“Yes. After letting you give me an orgasm, yes. It was a stupid fucking mistake. I shouldn’t have—” you run your fingers through your hair. “Where are my panties?”
“You can’t go.”
He moves closer, spinning you around to face him.
“Please. You can’t just—”
“We’re over, Lando!”
Your eyes are wide now, gaze darting to the door, before landing back on him.
“We’re done. You broke up with me—fuck, you broke up with me months ago! Months, Lando!”
“That was a mistake.”
“This was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a—”
You pull yourself away from him again, snatching your panties up and tugging them back on.
“I can’t keep doing this with you,” you say, moving past to grab your things from the ground. “I can’t. I can’t keep sneaking around. I cheated on him—on Nic. Do you know how shit that feels?”
“He’s not good for you.”
“And you are?”
You’re still breathless, cheeks flushed with something that screams sex. He’s still shirtless, still hard, and you’re still fucking noticing.
“Baby.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
You unlock the door before you can second guess yourself.
“I love you.”
You’ve never hated those words more than you did now.
“I know.”
You slam the door shut behind you.
Lando loses the championship six months after that last conversation. Nic proposes to you four months after that.
It’s sudden—rushed. When you interview Lando after that one, career-changing race—when you stare at him, at his eyes that are a mix of loss, anger, but above all want, it’d been so hard to go back home with Nic. You wondered what you might’ve done if the two of you were still together. You wondered if he would’ve cried in your arms, or if he would’ve gone to a club and drank everything away like he usually did.
A part of you wanted to believe he’d changed like you had. The other, rational part knew he probably hadn’t.
You’d barely been keeping up with the demands of life recently—the demands of work, and yet when Nic proposes, you say yes.
It should be right. You think it’s what’s right. The proposal is perfect, in Rome, Italy, next to a beautiful expanse of water and the lights of the city behind you. The ring is gorgeous, fitting perfectly around your finger though you’d never once mentioned rings or marriage once to him.
“I know this is rushed,” he’d said to you, as you’d stood there, tears spilling down your face. To this day, you weren’t sure if they were out of shock or stress, you just knew they weren’t out of happiness. “But this—I just, it feels right. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
You’d taken what felt like eternity to respond.
“Nic,” you remembered saying. “This is fast. This is so—you know it’s fast.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I know you love me, but we’re—” you’d stopped, staring at his face. You’d wanted to talk about work, about how you were both at the height of your careers, about how you had no time for wedding planning or house hunting.
You’d wanted to talk about Lando, about that day, about how even though it’d been over a year and half, he’d never once left your head. You wanted to admit you’d cheated, that Nic deserved someone better, someone who loved him as much as he loved you.
“I hate the way he uses you just to make himself look good.”
The words, words that’d never once crossed your head again since he’d said them, had run through your head.
“Okay,” you’d told Nic instead. “Alright.”
“Alright?” Nic had repeated, and you’d hated the relief on his face. “You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying yes.”
Then you’d let him kiss you, hug you, and slip that beautiful ring onto your finger.
The next week in Italy almost convinced you this was the right decision. You’d drank, a lot, under the ruse of celebration. You’d let Nic shout from rooftops that you were engaged, while the two of you were drunk out of your minds.
That same week, Lando is spotted with another girl out in Monaco.
Magui Corceiro.
Every night, when Nic was asleep, you’d sit out on the balcony smoking, staring at the name, at her account, at her latest post that had liked by Lando on the bottom.
He hadn’t texted or called. He’d merely liked your Instagram announcement post, leaving it as that. You wondered if it meant he’d accepted it as it was, if him being spotted with her wasn’t enough. That is, until you step foot into the Formula 1 paddock for the first time since the proposal.
“Congratulations on pole,” you’re standing in front of Lando now, no barrier between you, staring straight at him while he stares right back at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Congrats on your engagement.”
You freeze, fingers clenching around your mic. His gaze flickers to your hand, at the ring sitting there, and he smiles.
Bastard.
It’s not genuine. It’s practically mocking, and definitely not appropriate for a post-quali interview.
“Must be exciting.”
Any words you try say get stuck in your throat.
“Yeah,” you manage to answer. “Thanks. It is.”
He spends the rest of the interview with a small smirk on his face, and you’re half expecting him to be petty. Instead, he answers exactly how you need him to, he gives you every reply you want, and he never once takes his eyes off of you, or the ring.
When the interview is over, and you’re rushing to put the mic down, he speaks up again.
“Mrs Leone, huh? Rolls off the tongue nice.”
“Leave, Norris.”
“No,” he says, flatly. “I don’t want to.”
You don’t answer, busy with shoving things with unnecessary force into your bag.
“Where’d he propose, again? Italy? That’s nice.”
“St—”
“I would’ve done it in Italy too, I think. Lake Como, maybe? Or maybe I should save that for our wedding.”
“I’m engaged,” you snap, glaring at him. “I’m not yours anymore. You don’t have to save anything.”
“You haven’t been mine in over a year,” he follows you when you start to walk away. “A year and three months, to be exact.”
When you speed up, turning the corner, he easily reaches for your wrist, tugging you back.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’m kidding. I’m happy for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I’m not,” he smiles, arrogant. “Y’know, this hair is growing on me.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m being serious this time,” he reaches up, playing with the end strands. “Suits you.”
Just as you try bat his hand away, insults on the tip of the tongue, he switches the topic again.
“Why’d you say yes?”
“I love him.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” he laughs. “You’ve barely been dating him a year.”
“It’s been a year and a half,” you say, quietly. “It was bound to happen.”
He goes silent. Then—
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he says, amusement simmering. “You don’t talk about him with love or that bullshit you say you do. You talk about him like work! Like your engagement is some kind of duty you have to fulfill—like an obligation.”
“I—”
“You don’t love him. I can’t sit here and watch the only girl I’ve ever loved marry someone else when she clearly doesn’t want to.”
“I’m going to marry him, Lando,” you say, equally as soft. “You don’t get it.”
Your heart breaks when he stares at you. The ring on your finger feels heavy, burning into your skin.
“I can’t keep doing this with you,” you continue. “I can’t keep dancing in circles. You had all the time in the world to get me back—I would’ve let you back then! You had two whole months before I met him. Two, and then an entire year, and now I’m engaged.”
He turns away, running his hands through his hair.
“Call it off.”
“No.”
“Call it off,” he repeats. “I guarantee it won’t work out anyway. Have you seen his posts? Do you ever wonder why he makes the two of you go out so often? Why he insists the two of you are seen together? He just—”
“You don’t get to dictate my life of all people!” you say, and your sudden anger makes him raise his eyebrows. “You’re my ex for a reason! I don’t get why it’s so hard to just stay out of my life—you had no problem staying out of your other exes lives—you’ve got a new girlfriend, for fucks sake!”
“She’s not—” he pauses, something like hurt flashing across his face. “You’re not just one of my others exes.”
“Then why’d you break up with me?” you ask, not expecting a real answer. “If you love me so much, if you care enough to ask me to break off my engagement, why’d you break up with me?!”
He looks at you again.
You hate him. You hate him so much.
“You’re a cocky piece of shit, Norris.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re so incredibly full of yourself that it pains me to watch. You think you can go around telling people what to do—you think you can get away with it just because you’re Lando Norris. You have the nerve to break up with me, end two whole years of us, then come right back to me just because you know I’ve changed.”
“Mm.”
“And I fucking hate how unbelieveably unprofessional you are. I hate the way you stare at me during interviews—how you stare at me when my fiance is right there.”
He cocks his head at that, and you don’t register him moving closer until he’s right in front of you.
“If you loved him that much,” he says, once again glancing at your lips. “You wouldn’t give a shit if I stared at you while he was around. You wouldn’t care because you trusted yourself around me.”
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers curling around nothing.
“Stop it,” you say, but the words barely come out.
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me like you want to have sex with me.”
“I do.”
You knew he’d answer that. Of course he’d fucking answer that.
“I miss you,” he says, and before you can move away, he’s reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I miss you so bad it hurts. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? Ages ago. Ten months ago. Hasn’t changed one bit.”
You can’t breathe. The space between you two is almost non-existent, and despite everything, there’s nothing more you want to do then close it completely.
“C’mon,” he says, and instead of moving his hand away, it moves to your jaw. “I know you know I’m not lying.”
“Do I?”
He scoffs, the sound low and amused. You’re frozen on the spot, trying not to melt into his touch. His hand is warm against your skin, and when his thumb grazes against your cheek, you almost collapse against him.
“Lan—”
“Lando!”
The name is sharp, cutting through the space.
“Babe,” Lando answers, stepping away from you with enough casualty you think you’ve imagined everything. “Hey.”
Magui smiles, arm linking through his, attention shifting to you.
“Hi,” you say, standing straighter.
It’s only when she stays smiling, extending a hand to shake yours, you realise.
She has no clue who you are.
“You’re…?” She trails off, glancing to Lando.
“Journalist,” you answer, clearing your throat. You reach up, brushing your hair back, that beautiful diamond on your finger glinting in the light. “Was just wondering when I could grab the next interview with him.”
“Right,” Magui nods, and you wonder how she doesn’t feel the tension emitting between you and Lando. “Your ring is gorgeous, by the way.”
You look at it, at the silver, the reminder.
“Thanks.”
“You’re engaged?”
“Since two weeks ago.”
“Oh—congratulations!”
She moves, arm sliding away from Lando to hug you. The scent of something rich, floral, him envelops you, and you try not to shove her away.
“I bet your wedding will be gorgeous, judging by the ring.”
“I hope so.”
“Invite us if you can!”
Your heart drops. You know Lando’s does too, because he snaps his head to his girlfriend.
“Babe—”
“I think it’d be nice.”
“We’re busy.”
“Are we?” she looks at him, fingers wrapping around his bicep. “I doubt it.”
Just before she starts to feel the awkwardness, you laugh, politely.
“I will if I can.”
You shift your bag on your shoulder, nodding at Lando.
“See you next tomorrow for that interview."
“Yeah,” he says, and you turn away. “See you then.”
“Where’ve you been?” you hear her ask him as you’re walking away. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Got held up with something.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
You don’t bother trying to listen. You were moving on, from him, from the possibilities and the what ifs.
You hoped he could too.
The invitation comes half a year later, during the start of winter break.
Lando’s standing outside his apartment, sifting through the mail at his mailbox, majority of them labeled Margarida Coceiro and not Lando Norris.
Magui’s at the kitchen table. He can hear the music she always plays while she makes breakfast, the sound of her talking to herself in sleepy portuguese.
The invitation comes in cashmere card, cursive lettering. Your name, then Nicolai’s then ‘invite you to their wedding’ with the date underneath.
His fingers trace over the letters, like he’s trying to make sense of it though he knows very well what it is.
“Hey,” Magui leans against the door, a plate of breakfast in her hands. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” he answers, sliding the invitation into his pocket and turning to her. “I’m fine.”
She’s in one of his shirts, using his boxers as shorts, and the only thing Lando sees is you.
He kisses her forehead as he walks back into the apartment, the invitation a heavy weight at his side.
He breaks up with her a week later. It’s soft, sudden, filled with I’m sorry and the typical it’s not you, it’s me. She cries, trying to figure out what she did and why it didn’t work, and Lando doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because he’s still in love with you. His engaged ex of two and a half years.
He feels like absolute shit after. Right up until your wedding.
It’s is in Italy, in Nicolai’s hometown. The venue is beautiful, stone terraces, the altar positioned right in front of a deep blue expanse of water.
He shouldn’t be here. The invite was for him and Magui. Out of respect, out of friendliness because she’d asked. And yet he’d come alone.
The place is packed. There’s people he recognises. Your parents, your best friends, faces he used to know. There’s also unfamiliar ones. New people, new friends and relationships that he’d missed over two and a half years.
You’re nowhere to be seen yet. He’s glad that you aren’t.
“Hey.”
Lando’s standing at the end of the courtyard, against one of the stone pillars. Nicolai stops beside him, in a suit, his engagement band on one of his fingers.
“Hey,” Lando answers, eyes focused on the altar. “Congrats.”
“Thank you,” your fiance answers, also turning to look in front of him. “Thanks for making it.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, scoffing out a laugh. “That’s…yeah. No worries.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to hear that you’re here,” he tilts his head to the left, presumably where you were inside getting ready. “I know the two of you are still friends—friendly, at least. She was hesitant about inviting you, but I convinced her.”
Nicolai looks back at him.
“Is your girlfriend not here?”
“Magui? We’re not—” he stops, winces at the memory. “No. She’s not.”
“I see,” Nicolai says, nodding slowly. He smiles at someone who passes, who congratulates him on his new chapter. “It must be hard though.”
Lando glances over, “what?”
“Coming here. Showing up and watching your ex get married when you’ve just broken up with someone else,” Nicolai shrugs. “Takes a lot of…I don’t know. It must be hard.”
Lando slowly looks away again, at the altar, at the image of you standing there looking like his favorite dream and biggest nightmare in one.
“But you aren’t in love with her or anything anymore, so I guess it doesn’t matter that much, right?”
He shouldn’t have come here.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Nicolai nods, smiles, claps him on the shoulder.
“Thanks again for coming.”
“Congratulations on getting to marry her.”
Nicolai doesn’t hear the bitterness of the words, the harsh way it comes out. Instead, he walks away, towards people who are happy for him, who don’t resent him in every way possible.
Lando feels like shit.
The wedding ceremony starts half an hour after he arrives. He sits towards the back, between faces that he doesn’t recognise and faces that don’t recognise him. He watches as Nicolai stands up at the altar, as the doors open, as you walk out in a dress of lace and white fabric.
You look so beautiful that it hurts. Sunlight casts a glow on the side of your face, behind your veil, catching on your perfect features. It physically aches with every step you take, closer to that altar, closer to someone that isn’t him.
You reach Nicolai. He smiles, says something that makes you laugh, stares at you like you’re the best thing that’s every happened to him. You probably are.
The officiant starts talking, but Lando doesn’t hear a thing. He’s too focused on you, on how radiant you look, marrying someone else. He’s too focused on regretting everything.
You tear your eyes away from Nicolai, to sweep them over everyone watching—everyone you love.
Your eyes land on him.
He sees the way your breath hitches, even as the officiant continues on about devotion, about sickness and health. He sees the way your hands clench around Nicolai’s.
Fuck. He really shouldn’t have come.
You look away again, shifting on the spot, smiling when Nicolai starts to say his vows.
I do comes quicker than Lando would’ve liked. It all blurs together, in one big mess of promise and beginnings. By the end of it, he feels hollow.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
He snaps out of his trance, looking beside him. An older woman stands there, smiling as she stares, her grey hair glinting under the sun.
“She’s beautiful,” he agrees, watching as you and Nicolai kiss for the hundredth time. “Really beautiful.”
“You’re on her side?”
“Huh?”
“You’re on the brides side? Invited by her.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
The woman nods, looking at him.
“You should let her go.”
The words take a few seconds to register in his head.
“What?”
“Let her go,” she repeats. “You love her. Not in the way everyone else in here loves her. You love her. I can see it.”
Lando blinks, fingers curling around air, searching for the words to answer.
“You look at her like she’s the love of your life.”
“She is.”
“But are you hers?”
He freezes, running the sentence through his head.
“How?” he lands on. “How am I supposed to let her go?”
“By accepting the fact that she’s moved on. That she’s now married, and happy,” she turns to where you’re standing, where you’re making your way down the aisle with Nicolai by your side. “It’s what’s best for you, and it’s what’s best for her.”
He looks as well, studying the way your face is glowing with laughter, with the joy of marriage.
You pass by him, smiling, locking eyes just as you did on the altar. He nods, barely, and you look away again.
“I can’t,” he says, quiet. “I really can’t.”
He feels a hand on his arm, warm and comforting.
“You can.”
“I love her.”
“I know.”
“I love her so much.”
“Let her go. I promise you, it’ll be okay.”
He shuts his eyes, blowing out a breath, facing away from the aisle. The woman’s hand falls away from his arm, and she turns back to face in front of her, like nothing had ever happened.
Lando leaves twenty minutes after you say I do.
He’s got his hands in his pockets, slipping past the crowds of people, avoiding anyone he remotely recognises. He’s halfway down the steps of the venue, where his car is waiting, when you call his name.
He stops immediately, but he doesn’t turn. He waits until you’re halfway down the steps too, still in your dress.
“You came.”
“I did.”
Your eyes are wide, waiting, unsure of what to say.
“Congratulations.”
“Lando—”
“You two look good together.”
“Lando.”
He shuts up, looking over at you. There are tears in your eyes now, your lips parted like you want to admit something but don’t know how. He tilts his head.
“Are you happy?”
The question hangs in the space between the two of you.
“I don’t know.”
He studies your face again, as if he were ever capable of forgetting. He studies the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose, your eyes. Then he leans forward, tilting your face towards him, kissing you. It’s soft, tender, and this time he doesn’t feel relief. All he feels is finality.
“Lando,” you say when he pulls away. His hand drops from your face, sliding back into his pocket. “I—”
“I love you,” he says. “So much. I think I always will.”
You swallow, eyes red, unable to form a reply.
“Congratulations,” he smiles, polite. “I hope he treats you well.”
He’s walking away before he can even see your face, your reaction to his words. He hears his name again, and it takes everything in him not to turn back around.
He doesn’t start sobbing until he’s on the plane, halfway back to Monaco.
It’s three in the morning, and you’re still awake.
Nic is asleep beside you. He’s shirtless, hand draped over your waist, quiet but weighted. You stare at him, at the smooth planes of his back, his brunette, messy hair, the way his chest moves up and down as he breathes.
It’s been a long few months.
You’re almost never in Monaco anymore. You live in a new hotel—a new country every week, following the F1 schedule like your life depends on it. The only familiarity keeping you sane is Nic. Your husband.
Marriage is everything you expect it to be.
You wake up to him, to perfect mornings where he makes you coffee while you obsess over works and deadlines. You fall asleep to him right beside you, holding you against him. You’ve started saying we a lot more often, because that’s how it worked now.
“No, we’re busy.”
“Sorry, we’ve got plans that day.”
You weren’t your own person anymore, but that’d been your decision, at an altar in Italy.
Your wedding day replays in your head everyday, for all the wrong reasons. You knew Lando would show up—of course he’d show up. But you didn’t think he’d leave. You didn’t think he had the nerve to kiss you, to smile the most neutral, polite smile you’ve ever seen him do, wish you happiness, and leave.
Your interviews with him had turned bland. He’d respond with perfect, polite, media trained answers. No extra smiles, no stares that linger longer than they need to. Just a Formula 1 race winner answering a journalist’s questions, the way he was meant to.
You don’t hold your breath in anticipation around him anymore. You don’t wait for a stupid remark, or a sentence with double meaning. It shouldn’t bother you. You were married now, to a guy that might’ve just been the best possible person you could’ve called your husband. And yet it does.
“Hi,” Nic says, voice rugged with sleep. He opens his eyes, turning to you. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking at him too. “I am. I can’t sleep. Probably jet lagged.”
“We’ve been traveling a lot,” he says, pulling you closer. “It’s understandable. But we’re back home for a few weeks, it’ll wear off soon."
You sit in silence, taking him in, your fingers tracing over the rings on your finger you never took off.
“Can’t believe I’m here right now,” he says, sighing. “With you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, smiling as he kisses your jaw. “You can’t believe what?”
“I got so lucky,” he says. “With you. Marrying Lando Norris’s ex. Isn’t that crazy?”
With just three words, your whole world goes crashing back down again.
“Lando Norris’s ex?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“What else is it supposed to mean?” you say, sitting up. “Have you just been looking at me like I’m only his? His ex, his past relationship, Lando Norris’s—”
“I was just—” he reaches over, turns on the light. “Baby. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re my husband!” you say. “My husband, Nic! You were supposed to marry me for me. Not because I was the ex of a Formula 1 driver—”
“That’s not why I married you,” his voice is desperate, pleading. “I swear. I swear to you—”
“Is this why you wanted him at our wedding so bad? To show off? To prove to him you had me?”
He goes silent. Your mouth opens, then closes, and then you’re laughing, everything clicking in your head,
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No—” he scrambles after you. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you—”
“You love the idea of me.”
“I love you for you.”
“You love having me by your side because of the recognition it gets you, Nicolai,” you snap, reaching for the nearest hoodie without even checking to see if it’s yours. “And you’re the one person who knows better than anyone else how much I hate being associated with him!”
He reaches for you, pulling you towards him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We can talk this out, right?”
“I don’t want to talk things out.”
“I know it was different when you were with him. I know you never talked things out, but we can. It’s—”
“Stop mentioning him!” you say, letting out a frustrated sound and tugging out of his hold to reach for a pair of sweatpants. “I’ve worked so hard trying to get rid of him! I practically did until you—”
You stop yourself, letting out a deep breath and shutting your eyes.
“Baby,” Nic says, softer, still pleading. “C’mon.”
“Do you want to leave or should I?
He blinks, “What?”
“Fine.”
You snatch up your phone, your keys, your wallet, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then move to the door.
“You’re seriously leaving?”
“This is your apartment, not mine.”
“No—you’re leaving me?”
You pause, hand on the door handle. He’s standing in the hallway, eyes wide, still shirtless, and you almost feel bad.
“I don’t know,” you answer, walking out and slamming the door shut behind you. You half expect him to run out after you, but you know he won’t. Nic was too perfect for that. If you needed space, he’d give you it. Maybe that was why it never felt right with him.
Monte Carlo is quiet at three in the morning. When you walk out of the apartment complex, you reach for your car keys, before deciding against it. Instead, you walk, tugging the hood of your hoodie over your head. Your fingers shake when you reach for a cigarette, and when you light it, you think you’re crying.
You’re unsure of where you’re going. You’ve got the vague picture of another apartment, one you’ve been to so many times you could get there with your eyes closed.
It’s still dark outside, right between night and sunrise. The air is cold, making you second guess your decision of walking. The cigarette is warm between your fingers, the only thing grounding you. Your thoughts are over the place, jumping from work, to Nic, then to Lando.
You seemed to fixate on Lando the most.
The day of your wedding, the conversation you’d had that his other ex had interrupted, the day you’d let him kiss you and give you an orgasm, before panicking and leaving. Your mind goes back to almost four years ago, to when he’d broken up with you, to when you’d dyed your hair black and kept with it even until now.
You’re caught up in the thought of him when someone bumps into you. The cigarette in your hand drops when you stumble, you feel a hand steady you by gripping your arm, and you turn, apologies on the tip of your tongue.
When you glance up, the whole world stops.
Lando is staring back, his hand still on your arm, his eyes wide. Both of you are frozen on the spot, staring at each other. You look away, just for a split second, and realise you’ve brought yourself right outside his apartment building.
Of fucking course you have.
“Hey,” he says, quiet, carefully. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to your hand, to the rings. “You…you’re…”
He doesn’t continue, waiting for an answer, a small sign of anything on your face.
“Lando,” you say, voice breaking at the end. “Lan, I don’t—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t—” you try pull away, tears threatening to spill again, but he holds firm. “I can’t—Nic, he—I don’t know what to do.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just as you want to run again, leave him and his apartment behind, he pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you.
“It’s okay,” he says as you bury your face in his shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
You don’t know how long you’re standing there for, his arms around you, muttering soft words of comfort that you barely hear, like those months after your wedding didn’t happen. You don’t know a lot of things these days.
He wipes your tears with his thumb, and it’s so soft—so loving that it feels wrong.
“It doesn’t mean anything. Coming up to my apartment doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does. It always means something when it comes to you.”
He stills, pausing his movements, before starting again.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“I’m married.”
“I know that.”
“Fuck,” you say, eyes shutting. “I still love you. I’m married, and I still love you.”
Something on your shoulders lifts at the confession. The pressure on your chest lessens, and for once, you feel like you can finally breathe.
Lando moves again, bringing you closer. You don’t protest at it. You don’t push him away like you should.
You never did anything you should when you were with him.
“I regret getting married,” you say. “I regret it. I regret meeting him and giving him a chance. I regret a lot of things, and they all circle back to you.”
“You regret meeting me?”
“I think life would be easier if I hadn’t.”
“I think so too.”
“But I did.”
“And you still love me.”
“I still love you.”
He sighs at the words, resting his head on your shoulder this time.
“Come upstairs,” he repeats. “Please.”
You reach up, running your fingers through his hair.
“Okay,” you whisper, giving in. “Okay. I will.”
His apartment hasn’t changed a bit.
You stand in the doorway, waves of nostalgia hitting you, taking in the space that feels so foreign yet so familiar. His helmets still line one of the walls, in the same order you’d put them in because you’d thought they looked better. The paintings you’d put up are still on every wall, untouched. There’s flowers in each of the vases you’d bought. Fresh flowers.
“Coffee?” he asks, sliding a hand around your waist and leading you to the kitchen.
“It’s three in the morning,” you answer, but still take a seat at his kitchen counter anyway.
He shrugs, opening up one of the cabinets you know holds all of his beverages, “I feel obligated to make you something. You’re in my apartment.”
You play with the rings on your finger, twisting them, fingers tracing over the engravings. He turns around, pouring something into a mug, glancing at your hands.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
Your drop your hands, like the rings have burned you.
“No. I mean—” you lean forward, against the countertop. “It’s fucking stupid.”
“Doubt it.”
“It’s stupid because saying it out loud means admitting you were right.”
His eyebrows raise.
“Right about what?”
“About him. My husband.”
You slowly look over at his face, at his reaction. You’re expecting a smirk, a scoff, and a reply along the lines of I told you so. Instead, he keeps his attention fixed on the cup in his hands, merely listening.
“He called me your ex,” you say. “He said ‘I got so lucky. Marrying Lando Norris’s ex’ and I left.”
Lando still doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if you want him to.
“It’s stupid,” you sigh, sitting upright. “I can’t throw away my marriage because of something like that.”
“You can.”
“It’s marriage. I made vows, Lando. I made a promise to him that we’d stay together no matter what happened. I can’t throw it all away when it’s barely been half a year. I can’t run as soon as something shitty happens. How am I ever going to manage a relationship?”
He turns away again, towards the sink.
“Here,” he says when he moves back to the kitchen island, sliding a mug towards you. “Hot chocolate.”
“Not coffee?”
“Hot chocolate’s supposed to make people feel better, apparently,” he shrugs. “Drink.”
You take it, letting it warm your hands, as if it could distract you from everything else.
“I don’t blame you for leaving.”
“I don’t blame myself either.”
“But you can’t stay with him.”
“I’m supposed to.”
“Says who?” he watches you take a sip of the hot chocolate. “Nicolai? The officiant at your wedding that I know you never wanted?”
“I did want it,” you say, fingers clenching around the mug. “In that moment, I wanted it. I wanted to marry him because I thought it was what was best. I thought it’d help me.”
“And did it?”
“No,” is your immediate answer. “Because I still love you.”
Your phone starts ringing in your pocket. Lando’s glances at it, like he can see through the fabric to the Nic that’s flashing across the screen. You reach for it, putting it onto the counter, just to watch it ring.
“He’s perfect, Lando,” you say, like you have many times before. “He’s everything a girl would want in a guy.”
“But not what you want in a guy.”
“He could be.”
“But he isn’t.”
Lando reaches forward, switching the ringer off on your phone.
“He used you.”
“But he treats me so well,” you say, hands coming up again to rest on your temples. “Would it really matter? If he used me for recognition? I didn’t notice it before and it was—”
“Baby,” he cuts you off, and the name sends heat down your neck. “You deserve better than that.”
“He’s my husband.”
“He’s nothing but a man. He could be your husband one day, and your ex the next hour. You owe him nothing after he used you.”
He moves again, stopping beside you.
“You deserve better than that,” he repeats, brushing back your hair from your face. You stay still, watching him with careful eyes, torn on the border of rationality.
“You’re saying you’re better than him?” you say, but it comes out quiet. “You’re saying I deserve you?”
“I’m saying you deserve someone you really love.”
His thumb brushes against your cheek again, soft, like it’s barely there.
“I love you,” he says, and you slowly set down the hot chocolate on the counter. “I always have and I always will.”
The kiss feels inevitable.
His lips are on yours first, his hand still cupping your jaw to tilt your face towards him. Your eyes shut, and you practically melt into him. He’s warm against you—comforting. The usual rush of need isn’t there this time. There’s no harsh pulls, no desperation. There’s only him, and sweet, sweet relief, and all your rationality crumbling around you.
“Lan,” you manage to say against him. “Lando.”
“I love you,” is all he answers, moving away from your lips to breathe. “I need you.”
Your hands trail to the edge of his hoodie, tugging softly. He gets the memo, tugging it along with his shirt over his head.
He’s kissing you almost immediately after, like he can’t go more than a few seconds without touching you, without tasting you.
“Shit,” he groans, low, pulling you up and off of the chair. His hand brushes against your cheek again, before sliding down underneath your sweater. He pauses, “you’re not wearing anything under this?”
“I rushed,” you say, almost whining at the heat of his palm on your skin. “I’m wearing a bra. A—”
“You wear a bra to sleep?”
“Not a—” you sigh, and he raises his eyebrows, starting to kiss down your jaw. “Lingerie. Whatever you want to call it.”
“For him?”
“He’s my husband.”
“Not for long,” Lando mutters, moving to kiss you again. “You still haven’t repaid me, by the way.”
You let him back you into the wall, his fingers sliding higher.
“For what?”
“That day. In my drivers room,” he kisses you harder, his teeth grazing your lip. “When I gave you what might’ve been the best orgasm of your life, and you ran aw—”
You pull away, panting, staring up at him.
Then, before you can second guess yourself, you slowly drop to your knees, fingers fumbling at his sweatpants.
“Baby—” he says, eyes wide. “I didn’t—”
“Thought you wanted me to repay you.”
“I know—I do, I was—”
“Off,” you say, and he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his sweatpants, tossing them elsewhere. You lean forward, kissing the edge of his boxers, so dangerously close to where he wanted you. You can feel how hard he is, how desperate he was becoming.
“Fuck,” he breathes, shuddering when you mouth at his cock, over the fabric. “Oh, fuck.”
Your hands move up his thighs, tugging at the edge of his boxers.
“You don’t h—”
“Lan,” you say, taking out his cock with the kind of gentleness that made this seem all too filthy. “Let me.”
You start stroking him, slow, deliberate, like you have all the time in the world. He braces his forearm against the wall, looking down at you, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning.
“Please,” he eventually breathes, eyes fluttering shut. “Please, baby. Fuck.”
“Please what?” you say, smearing his pre across his tip. You lean forward again, just to tease, tongue darting out to taste him. “Please what, Lan?”
“I—” he stops, making a sound in the back of his throat that sounds like a whimper. “I can’t—I need—”
“You gonna come?” you ask, and it’s almost mocking, a repeat of the words he’d said to you months ago. “Yeah?”
“Fuck,” he groans as you move faster, hand sliding up and down, relentless. “Baby—I’m—”
He comes hard, all over your hand and his stomach, letting out a shattered moan as he does. You don’t move your hand away, stroking him through it, staring up at his pretty face.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, eyes opening. “That was too quick. Fuck. I’m sorry. I—”
You cut him off with a smile, kissing the tip of him again.
“What are you doing?” he says as you trail kisses along him. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Repayment.”
You take him into your mouth, hands still on the base of his cock. His hand flies to your hair, tangling in the strands, gasping.
“Wait—” he chokes out. “Too much, s-shit, I just—”
You don’t listen, taking him deeper, throat relaxing around him.
“I can’t,” he whimpers, overwhelmed with the warmth of your mouth, the feeling of your tongue. “Oh fuck.”
The floor is cold and harsh on your knees, but you don’t care. The look on his face, his whines as you pull off just to sink all the way back down again, makes it worth it. Your underwear is soaked, your stomach flutters every time he moans.
“You feel so good,” he says, breathless. “Fuck. I think I’m—”
His second release comes almost as quickly as his first. He bucks his hips into your mouth, whimpering, head tilting back. You look at him through your lashes, letting him come in your mouth.
“Jesus,” he says when you pull off, swallowing. “I love you.”
You laugh, soft and unfiltered, giving his cock another kiss before standing on shaky legs. His hands come around your waist, kissing you, tasting himself on your tongue.
“Take this off,” he says, and you shrug off your sweater, leaving you in just your bra. He stops, gaze flickering over you, and you think he’s holding back a groan. “You wore that? For him?”
“Don’t get jealous.”
“I’m always jealous.”
His fingers loop at the waistband of your sweats, tugging them down too, until you’re left in your underwear.
“I’m jealous of the fact someone like him got to marry you. I’m jealous that he gets to see you like this every night.”
You scoff out another laugh, cut short by him gently biting at your neck.
“Couch,” he says, and you don’t protest when he pulls you along with him.
You practically fall onto it, straddling him, his head resting against one of the pillows that you remember buying. He watches, almost in a daze, as you reach down to slide your panties and bra off.
“Can’t believe I lost you,” he says when you grind down, lining up his cock with your cunt. “I should’ve never left in the first place—fuck!”
You sink down without any warning, both of you moaning as he slides in deeper. His cock fills you so well, like it was made for you, like those years apart never meant anything. His hands grip your waist, almost bruising, holding you still.
“Wait—shit,” he says, stopping you when you try and move again. “I’m still sensitive.”
“And?” you answer, grinding down on him again. He makes another sound deep in his throat, low and guttural, grip tightening. “You’re saying you, Lando Norris, can’t last—”
He scoffs, moving his hips, fucking deeper into you. You moan at that, at the warmth inside of you, the feeling of his skin on yours.
He smirks, “You were saying?”
“Fuck you.”
“I will.”
His hips jerk again, and you hold them down with your thighs.
“So much for being sensitive,” you say, settling further into you’ve bottomed out on his cock. “Fuck.”
“I’m—” he tilts his head back when you rise up again, just to sink back down. “I am.”
Your cunt clenches around him, and his eyes roll, letting out a choked groan.
The sound of skin against skin fills the space. His muscles tense underneath your fingers, trembling beneath you. You bounce up and down on him, finding a rhythm that makes him whimper and instinctively try slow you down.
“Baby,” he says, thrusts meeting yours halfway. “Oh, fuck. You’re so wet.”
“Lan,” you gasp, panting. “Lan.”
He hums in response, and before you know it he’s flipping you over.
You whine as his pace speeds up, cock hitting all the right spots inside you like he’s memorized them. He moves down to kiss your stomach, your tits, sucking marks into your skin you know will last for days. You trace the lines of his shoulders, the touch making him let out a hoarse groan.
A familiar pressure starts building low in your stomach, your cunt clenching harder in response. He presses his forehead to yours, never slowing down, fucking you into the cushions.
“I love you,” he says at one point, and you arch into him. “I love you so much. I’m gonna—”
Your release hits you as he says the words, hard and fast, tears springing at your eyes. He follows only a second later, spilling deep into you.
He collapses, careful not to put too much weight on you, still buried deep in your cunt. You try catch your breath, remnants of your orgasm still flowing through your body.
You lay there in silence for a few minutes.
He starts kissing you, lazily, like he knows he’s got time.
“I love you too,” you answer, and when he reaches for your hand, the cold metal of your rings meet the warmth of his skin. “Fuck.”
He slides them off, setting them on the coffee table nearby. You stare at them, and they seem to stare back, like an accusation.
“Hey,” he says, and you tear your gaze away. “It’s okay.”
“Is it really?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He sits up, both of you wincing as he pulls out of you.
“I’m on birth control,” you say when he opens his mouth, eyes trained on his come messily covering your body. “Promise.”
“Birth control?” he repeats, lying back on the cushions. “Thought Nic would want you off it.”
“He does,” you answer, crawling to lie on top of him. “He thinks I’ve stopped.”
“Do you seriously want to go back to that—to him?”
You stare up at the ceiling, sighing. His hand runs through your hair.
“We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, kissing your forehead. “Today, tomorrow, next week. Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out together.”
You nod, letting him wrap his arms around you.
The rings still sit on the coffee table. Your phone still buzzes on the counter with calls and messages, and the only thing running through your head is that word.
Together.
The break up hurt.
Of course it did.
You’d told Nicolai the morning after. He’d cried, said something about vows, about promises that you regretted making. He’d begged, saying a million different variations of an apology, while not really apologizing at all.
“It’s Lando,” you’d told him, rings on the table in front of you. “It’s him.”
Nicolai had stared at the rings, jaw clenching and unclenching.
“It’s always going to be him, isn’t it?”
You’d nodded, and he’d taken off his ring too, putting it next to yours.
“I still love you,” he’d said, halfway out the door. “You were—”
He’d stopped, sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand, “I loved you.”
“I know,” you say, leaning against the doorframe. “And I’m sorry too.”
You hadn’t gotten back with Lando until two months after your divorce.
It wasn’t to make yourself look better, to change the narrative and make it seem like you hadn’t still been in love with him for years. It was to learn how to live without him, without anyone else.
“Lando. Words must be unexplainable to you right now—you’ve just won the championship. How are you feeling?”
You’re standing opposite him now, the widest smile on your face, a matching one on his. His race suit is still soaked with champagne, his cap is barely put on right, and his eyes are still red with tears.
It’s been a whole season since then. Since Nicolai, since that night in his apartment.
“I’m—” he stops, looks up to try find the words. Then he looks back at you, a grin on his face. Before you know it, your boyfriend is reaching for you, bringing you close, kissing you in front of cameras and millions of eyes from all over the world.
“We did it! We fucking did it, baby. Fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”
You laugh, mic discarded beside you, arms thrown around his neck. He rests his head on your shoulder, breathing you in, laughing in what sounds like disbelief.
“Congratulations,” you say, making him look at you. Tears stream down your face, and you think tears are running down his own too. “I love you too. I love you so much.”
He kisses you again, smiling against your lips.
“Marry me.”
“What?”
“Marry me,” he whispers in your ear, still grinning, still basking in the glow of winning the championship. “I planned to do this somewhere else—I still do, but I want to know if you’re ready.”
You blink, eyes wide. There are cameras still on him, on the both of you, but they don’t pick up his words. Your heart races, mind going blank at the two simple words.
“I need you with me. I can’t see myself with anyone else. For four fucking years I’ve tried to get over you—four. I’ve watched you get married to someone else, I’ve watched you ignore me and move on with your life, and it’s never worked. I love you. Every part of you. Every single aspect. I don’t care what color your hair is—fuck, I love your hair dark. I love you in every way, shape and form.”
He lets out a laugh, like he can’t believe himself.
“Marry me.”
It feels right. This time, you know it feels right. You feel it in your head, your heart, your very soul.
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” you repeat, and he laughs, forehead resting against yours in relief. “Holy shit, Lan.”
“I love you,” he says, pulling away to cup your jaw. “So much. I want you as my wife. I want you with me for the rest of my life. I want to know I’m never going to loose you again.”
“You have me,” you say, not even trying to hide the tears falling down your face. “Always. You’ve always had me.”
He’s still covered in champagne. All eyes in the paddock are still focused on him, his name is flashing on every screen you look at, shouted from crowds and reporters, yet when he looks at you, it’s like you’re all he can see.
“I love you.”
You don’t think you’ll ever get sick of the words.
“I love you too.”
When you kiss him again, underneath the flashing lights of cameras, through the cheers and chants of his name, you know you always will.
Summary: When Lando returns a day early from London, he finds you lost in your cleaning playlist, wearing nothing but his sweatpants and a pink sports bra that shows off your Miami tan. The sight of you, flushed, sweaty, wholly unaware, ignites a desperate hunger that pulls you both into the shower for raw, unrestrained, sex.
Warnings: 18+!!!!! explicit sexual content (oral sex, blowjob, penetrative sex, dirty talk), mature language, consensual sex, unprotected sex (pls wrap it), creampie, reader implied being on bc, shower sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare
Word count: 3.3k
A/N: hiii, loves. Don’t worry Bet part two is on the way, I’m still in the process of writing it, please know I am on my phone so it takes me a little longer to get fics out. Long story short, but basically my ex broke up with me last October and I didn’t get chance to grab my laptop or anything important when he kicked me out, I tried to go back to the house but he kept making excuses as to why I couldn’t go round, so I lost a lot of stuff and I can’t afford to replace it yet. Turns out, we hadn’t even been broken up 4 months and he already had another girl on the go. So yeah, please bear with me, I didn’t want to leave you for weeks without a fic and I’ve had this one in my drafts for a while unsure if I should share it or not but I thought what the hell, so here it is loves, enjoy! 🩷
Masterlist 🌸
The apartment was a disaster when you started.
Well, not a disaster, you'd never let it get that bad. But after Lando had left for London three days ago, you'd let things slide. A mug here, a pair of shoes there, the mail piling up on the entryway table. Nothing catastrophic, but enough that when you woke up this morning with restless energy humming through your veins, you knew exactly what to do with it.
You'd already scrubbed the worktops until they gleamed, the lemon-scented cleaner cutting through the morning's toast crumbs and coffee rings. The washing up was done and drying in the rack, plates stacked neatly, glasses upside down, the way you'd learned from your mum. You'd hoovered every inch of the marble floors, then mopped them twice because you'd caught a spot in the corner the first time. The windows were streak-free. The cushions were fluffed. The mail was sorted into piles: bills, fan mail, and the junk you'd recycle later.
You'd even scrubbed the stubborn ring in the toilet that had been taunting you for weeks.
Your back was beginning to ache, that familiar dull throb that settled right at the base of your spine, the one that reminded you you weren't twenty anymore, that four years of racing weekends and bad hotel mattresses and carrying Lando's helmet bag through crowded paddocks had taken their toll. But you ignored it. You always did. You'd rest when you were done, pop a couple of ibuprofen, and let Lando's fancy heated mattress pad work its magic on the knots.
Lando had said time and again you could get a cleaner. "Baby, we can afford it. Let someone else scrub the toilet. You don't have to push yourself." And you knew he meant well, he always meant well, but you couldn't shake the feeling of having a stranger in your space. Going through your drawers. Touching your things. Your things. The pink vibrator in the nightstand. The lube in the bathroom cabinet. The love letters he'd written you when he was still a rookie, still nervous, still not quite believing you'd chosen him.
Those were private. Those were yours.
So you did it yourself. Paced yourself, took breaks when your back screamed too loud, and ignored the way your hips popped when you bent over the bathtub.
Now it was midday, the sun streaming through the balcony doors, and you were onto the last task: laundry.
You'd collected it all this morning, the mountain of towels you'd let pile up, the bedsheets from the two times you'd changed them in a panic before remembering Lando wasn't there to see, and his clothes. God, his clothes. You'd dumped the basket onto the sofa, the fresh scent of fabric softener rising up as you sorted through the chaos.
T-shirts. Jeans. Socks. More t-shirts.
And then there were the orange ones.
You held one up, sighing dramatically even though no one was there to hear it. Another McLaren polo, papaya orange with the sponsors running down the sleeve. You folded it with practiced precision, setting it on the pile that was growing taller by the minute.
"One hundred orange shirts," you muttered, reaching for the next one. "One hundred bloody orange shirts and he still complains he has nothing to wear."
Not that you were counting. Okay, you were counting. And you were pretty sure you'd hit sixty-seven before you'd lost track, but the point stood.
The music was loud enough that you almost missed the front door clicking shut.
Your cleaning playlist, a chaotic mix of upbeat pop, guilty pleasures, and a few songs you'd never admit to loving, blared from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen worktop. Dua Lipa's Physical was playing, and you were half-singing, half-grumbling along as you smoothed out the collar of yet another orange polo.
You didn't hear the footsteps behind you. Not over the music. Not over your own humming.
But you felt the hands.
Two warm palms slid around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest, and you squealed, a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into a laugh as familiar lips pressed to the curve of your neck. The scent of airplane air, airport coffee, and him flooded your senses. That particular smell you'd come to associate with coming home, with late-night arrivals and early-morning departures, with the way he always smelled a little bit like jet fuel and a little bit like the expensive cologne you'd bought him for his birthday.
"Jesus, Lando," you breathed, dropping the shirt mid-fold. "You know I hate when you do that."
"Sorry, baby." His voice was low, rough, pressed into your skin like a promise. His lips moved against your neck, soft at first, then firmer, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. "Couldn't help it. You look so good right now."
You turned in his arms, and there he was, tired dark circles under his eyes, his hoodie zipped halfway, that lopsided grin you'd fallen in love with four years ago. His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of his own sweatpants that you'd stolen. Again.
His eyes were dark, pupils already blown wide, and you felt the evidence of his arousal pressing against your ass through the thin fabric of his sweats. He wasn't wearing boxers. You knew that trick, he'd done it before, showing up at hotels with nothing but joggers and a hoodie, grinning like the cheeky bastard he was when you reached for his waistband.
"I thought you weren't meant to be back until tomorrow?" you managed, your voice a little breathless as his hands tightened on your hips. "Lan, I'm all gross and sweaty."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin as he dipped his head to your neck again. His lips found that spot just below your ear, the one that always made your knees weak.
"Got an earlier flight." His words were muffled against your skin, but you heard them perfectly. "Missed you too much. Couldn't stand the thought of sleeping alone. Needed to come home. To you."
His hips rolled against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sent a jolt straight between your legs. You could feel him, hard, aching, the outline of his cock pressing against the seam of his sweats. He didn't try to hide it. He never did.
"Let's go shower, baby." His voice was rough, almost a growl, and his eyes were dark with want as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
He didn't wait for your answer. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, and he pulled you through the living room, past the half-folded laundry, past the speaker still blasting music, past the coffee table where you'd left your water bottle. You stumbled after him, your heart hammering in your chest, that familiar flutter of anticipation low in your belly.
The bathroom was bright, the afternoon sun streaming through the frosted window, casting patterns on the white tiles. Lando didn't bother closing the door all the way, he was too impatient, too desperate for you, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was hungry. Desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth like he'd been starved for weeks instead of days, like he'd been thinking about the taste of you on the flight, in the taxi, every single moment he was away. His hands found the clasp of your sports bra, fumbling for a moment before it gave way, and he pulled the fabric down your arms, tossing it somewhere behind him.
He pulled back just long enough to look at you.
You stood there in nothing but his sweatpants, the waistband folded three times to keep them up, your skin still flushed from the cleaning, a bead of sweat trailing slowly down your chest, between your breasts. Your hair was a mess, strands falling from your bun, framing your face in a way that made his breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "You're so beautiful."
His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones, and he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"Let me take care of you," he murmured, and you nodded, unable to find your voice.
He stripped you with practiced ease, sweatpants pushed down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your bare skin, the cool air of the bathroom raising goosebumps on your arms. He stepped back just long enough to yank his own hoodie over his head, then his t-shirt, and then his sweats followed in a single impatient motion.
The water was warm when he turned it on, steam beginning to fill the small space. He tested it with his hand, adjusted the temperature, then stepped under the spray, pulling you in after you.
The water hit your shoulders, warm and steady, rinsing away the day's dust and sweat. It streamed down your body, over your breasts, between your legs. Lando watched it all, his gaze dark and hungry, his cock already fully hard, curving up against his stomach, the tip flushed and slick with precum.
He pushed you gently against the cool tile wall, one hand bracing beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your thighs. His fingers found your clit, circling slowly, dipping lower to feel how wet you already were.
"Jesus," he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. "You're soaked for me."
"Always," you whispered back, and that was all the permission he needed.
He dropped to his knees.
The water beat down on his back, darkening his curls, running in rivulets down his shoulders. He spread your legs wider, one hand gripping your thigh, lifting your leg over his shoulder. The position was intimate, vulnerable, the tile cold against your back and the water warm on your skin.
And then his mouth was on you.
His tongue licked a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, flattening and pressing, tasting you through the water and soap and salt. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, gripping the damp curls as he worked you open. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core, and he doubled down, his tongue circling your clit with practiced precision.
He ate you like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this moment on the flight, in the taxi, every minute he was away. Like the taste of you was the only thing that could ground him after three days of meetings and spreadsheets and pretending to care about sponsorship deals.
"Fuck, Lando—" Your voice broke, your hips bucking against his face.
He pulled back just long enough to say, "Let go. I've got you," before diving back in, his fingers joining his mouth, two digits sliding into your cunt as his tongue worked your clit. He curled them just right, pressing against that spot inside you that made your vision go white, made your knees buckle.
Your leg tightened around his shoulder, your fingers pulling at his curls as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you without warning, a wave of heat and pleasure that made you cry out, your voice echoing off the tiles. Lando groaned in satisfaction as he lapped up every pulse of your release, working you through it until you were trembling, until your grip on his hair went slack.
He stood up slowly, water streaming down his face, his lips glistening with your release. He looked fucking wrecked. And he was still hard, his cock pressing against your thigh, aching and desperate.
"My turn," you said, your voice low and rough, still catching your breath.
You sank to your knees before he could protest. The tile was cool against your shins, the water warm on your back, streaming down your shoulders. You took his cock in your hand, thick and aching, the skin hot against your palm, and licked the tip, tasting the salt of precum and the clean tang of soap.
He sucked in a breath, his hand finding the back of your head. "Fuck, baby."
You wrapped your lips around him and took him deep.
Your tongue traced the vein along the underside, your hand working the base in rhythm with your mouth. He tasted like home, like the hours you'd spent in this exact position, like every hotel room and apartment and penthouse you'd ever shared. Your other hand came up to cup his balls, gently massaging as you bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him as far as you could until your throat relaxed and he hit the back.
He gasped above you, his hips twitching, fighting the urge to thrust. His hand threaded through your wet hair, not pushing, just resting there, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained, ragged. "If you keep—fuck—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna—"
You doubled down, taking him deeper, your hand working faster, your tongue swirling around the tip. You wanted to taste him. You wanted him to come undone in your mouth, wanted to feel his release hot on your tongue.
But he pulled back, stepping out of your reach, his chest heaving. Water streamed down his face, his chest, his stomach, pooling at his feet.
"No." His voice was rough, almost desperate. "Not like that. I need to be inside you."
He hauled you up, spinning you around, pressing your chest against the tile. The water sluiced over your back, warm and steady, and you felt him behind you, his cock sliding along your ass, your thighs, finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, the tip pressing against your folds, sliding through your wetness, making you ache for him.
"Please," you breathed, your hands flat against the tile. "Lando, please."
He didn't make you wait.
He pushed in in one smooth motion, filling you completely, and a low groan tore from both of you. Your walls clenched around him, still sensitive from your orgasm, and he had to pause, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your wet skin.
"God, you feel—" He couldn't finish. He started to move.
His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each one pressing you harder against the tile. The sound of his hips slapping against your wet skin echoed off the walls, mixing with the rush of water and your shared moans. One of his hands snaked around to your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucked you from behind.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice low and rough in your ear. "Taking me so good. You love this, don't you? Love when I come home and fuck you like this."
"Yes—fuck, Lando—yes—"
"Tell me." He drove deeper, harder, your knuckles white against the tile. "Tell me how much you missed my cock."
"So much," you gasped, your voice breaking. "I missed—I missed you inside me—fuck, don't stop—"
He didn't. He fucked you through another orgasm, your body shuddering around him, your walls clenching and releasing as pleasure washed over you. The feeling of you coming undone around him pushed him closer to the edge, and you felt his rhythm falter, his grip tightening on your hips.
"Cum inside me," you whispered, the words barely audible over the water. "Please, Lan. I want to feel you."
That was all he needed.
He buried himself deep, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he released inside you, hot, pulsing, endless. You felt every spasm, every twitch, the sensation sending aftershocks through your own sensitive body. He stayed there, grinding slowly, riding out every last pulse of his orgasm, until his body went slack against yours.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the water and your breathing, heavy and ragged. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close.
But you felt it, a twitch. Another. He was still hard inside you.
"Again," he murmured against your skin, his voice wrecked but determined. "One more time."
He didn't pull out. Instead, he turned you around, your back against the tile, and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he pressed you against the wall, still buried deep inside you.
This time was slower. Deeper. His forehead pressed against yours as he thrust up into you, his eyes locked on yours, not breaking contact even as the water streamed down your faces.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice raw. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you breathed back, your fingers tangling in his wet curls, gently tugging as he moved inside you.
He groaned at the tug, his hips faltering for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut. "Fuck, baby. Your hands in my hair. Always gets me."
You did it again, pulling gently, and he moaned, burying his face in your neck as he fucked you against the tile. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you felt another orgasm building, coiling low in your belly.
"Cum with me," he whispered against your ear. "One more time. Let go with me."
You did. Together. Your bodies shuddering in sync, your release mingling, the water washing over you both as you clung to each other, breathing each other in.
When it was over, he held you for a long moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. He pulled out slowly, and you felt his release trickle down your thigh, mixing with the water and disappearing into the drain.
He didn't let you go. He turned you around, his hands gentle now, and reached for the soap.
He washed you slowly.
His hands moved over your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. He lathered your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you shiver. He knelt to wash your legs, your feet, then stood again to rinse the soap from your skin. When he was done, he washed himself quickly, then turned off the water.
He grabbed a towel, the biggest, fluffiest one in the cupboard, and wrapped it around you, cocooning you in warmth. He dried his own hair with a smaller towel, then wrapped another around his waist before taking your hand.
"Come on," he murmured, leading you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
The bed was unmade, the sheets still rumpled from your restless sleep the night before. He guided you to sit on the edge, then disappeared into the bathroom again. When he came back, he was holding the hairdryer.
"Let me," he said, and you didn't argue.
He sat behind you on the bed, your back against his chest, and began to dry your hair. The warm air blew through the wet strands, his fingers gently combing through tangles, working from the ends up so he didn't pull. You leaned back into him, your eyes closed, feeling the hum of the dryer and the steady beat of his heart against your back.
"You know you don't have to do this every time," you murmured, your voice sleepy.
"I know." He kissed the top of your head. "But I want to."
When your hair was dry and soft, he set the hairdryer aside and pulled back the covers. He guided you under them, then climbed in after you, his body spooning yours, his arm draped over your waist.
"Thank you for coming home early," you whispered, your eyes already fluttering closed.
His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. "Always, baby. Always."
You felt his breath even out, his grip loose but present. You smiled into the pillow, your hand finding his where it rested on your stomach, your fingers lacing with his.
The laundry could wait until tomorrow. The orange shirts could stay unfolded.
Right now, there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
