Summary: Lando is newly single again and seems to be trying hard to catch someone’s attention. But did their history of his consistent rejection do too much damage for him to change his mind now?
Russell!Reader
Word count: 2.6k
They had a history. A past that y/n intended to leave buried in the past.
He moved on. He chose someone else.
So she moved on. She made herself move on.
"Lando is single again." Her busybody brother smirks as she walks through the Melbourne paddock with him. Obligated to attend the first race of his season that is already looking promising in that Merc.
"Good for him." She hums feigning disinterest. Though really she just don't want to hear about that asshole.
"Yeah, he was asking about you too." George comments making her glare. "Oh come on, you two were close."
"Key word. Were. I haven't spoken to him in almost a year and quite frankly I'm happy for that to extend indefinitely." Y/n declares with a huff.
George sighs since he knows he shouldn't pester y/n but he genuinely thought Lando and y/n would work out and they seemed such a perfect pair. Neither ever divulged what happened that made them part from each other and sever the strings of whatever had been going on. But second chances exist and surely what they had is worth another try.
He'd spoken to Lando, who asked about y/n without provocation. Asking if she'd be attending any races, how she'd been recently. George questioned why Lando didn't ask y/n himself and was informed he was blocked on every platform and then she changed her number just to make sure he couldn't get a new number.
Whatever he did, it sliced deep. George knows his sister isn't the extreme or dramatic type so for her to go that far to evade Lando then her feelings were stung and so was her pride.
But George is a matchmaker and he is certain that Lando and y/n pair up well together. Lucky for him, Lando agrees so he only has one party to change the mind of and see sense.
-
Y/n isn't stupid. She knows her brother is trying to force her hand and make her stop being so stubborn.
"Hey, y/n." Lando smiles pulling up to her walking to the paddock after George left early and said Lando offered to give her a ride. "George said you needed a ride."
"No. I'm good." Y/n states with a strained voice as she keeps her head forward and refuses to look at him as he rolls along side her, probably going slower than he's ever driven before to keep pace with her.
"Come on, y/n. Either you get in or I follow you all the way to the paddock and that will make some lovely headlines for the media." Lando sighs leaning back and continuing to drive at a snail pace. Somehow the road is empty so he's not getting anyone's way.
Y/n keeps walking stubbornly for another 3 minutes and Lando doesn't seem to be wearing down.
"Fine! Fuck sake fine. But we are not talking. We are sitting in silence." Y/n huffs making Lando grin which says just as much as if he actually opened his mouth and spoke.
The car journey is as silent as y/n demanded but when the car stops y/n goes to almost throw herself out only for the door to lock.
"Resorting to kidnapping. I thought low of you but I guess I was generous." Y/n comments dryly earning a sigh.
"Can you stop with this? Y/n, I'm sorry. I don't even know what I did." Lando pleads making y/n look at him with a glare. "Please, tell me."
"You think I'm just going to sit on ice waiting for you to choose me? I'm done, Lando. You enjoy all the women you like, let them ride your dick till it fucking falls off. But stop coming back to me like a safety net when you get bored of the new bitch you've had your hands on. I'm not interested in this game."
Lando doesn't get another word out as she yanks the handle twice, unlocking the door and slamming it as she marches off.
Lando sighs leaning back in the driver seat with a curse. He'd not intentional made her a back up. Actually last time they talked about it y/n said that she didn't think George would approve and she didn't want a relationship anyway. Maybe she was lying to cover for herself and thought wanting a relationship would scare Lando away, but Lando was stupid enough to believe it and now he's realising he broke her heart.
-
After y/n came to George with angry tears, he stopped trying to push for y/n and Lando to reconcile so much.
Lando on the other hand, has not given up.
Endless bouquets, gifts, letters, all either binned or returned. George kept hold of a couple of the letters for her, leaving them sealed because he thinks that she might want to read them one day.
"Hey, Jon." George greets watching him leave the Merc hospitility, sent with yet another gift placed in front of y/n as she sits at the outdoor tables.
Staring at the gift as George approaches her, he sits down looking at the wrapped gift that Lando clearly made a point of wrapping himself because it's the worst wrapping ever.
"I can be the messenger to take it back if you want." George offers making her look at him. "Or you could open it and keep it."
"It's material. My forgiveness can't be bought." Y/n mutters then curling up on the chair and looking away from it.
"Then tell him. You clearly want to forgive him, y/n. But he's trying and failing because he doesn't know how to earn it." George tries knowing he promised to stop but he can't help it. "I'm not saying you have to forgive him. But give him a chance to earn it and if he still fucks up then I will personally make sure he never tries to speak to you or send you anything ever again.
Y/n is miserable and Lando is relentless but something needs to give.
"He wants what he can't have. I made myself so easy for him George and he chased other women. Now I've rejected him suddenly he's fighting to have me."
George frowns realising that's a completely valid reason for her not to want to give Lando an opportunity to lose interest and make her regret it all.
"Can you just butt out?" Y/n mutters and despite it going against every fibre of his being.
-
Lando didn't let up till the unplanned break with the Bahrain and Jeddah races cancelled.
Y/n thought she finally escaped him. But instead he showed up at her door.
"Lando, have you not had enough?" Y/n frowns crossing her arms.
"Come out with me." Lando tries earning an eye roll. "One date. Please."
"I'm not dressed for a date." No in fact she was dressed just back from the gym, having showered off there and changed into some joggers and a hoodie.
"It'll work for this one. You look amazing in everything you wear." Lando promises and the fact he's not dressed up formally makes her feel like she's not being lied to but she still doesn't feel right leaving for a date like this. "I can give you some time. It's not like we're on the clock."
Y/n bites her lip before sighing and holding the door open.
"Come in, I'm not going to make you wait outside like a stalker. I'll be quick."
Lando smiles lightly trying not to let himself think too much of the chance. For all he knows she's pitying him or plotting to give him this date just so she can spit in her face that he's never getting her.
She takes about 30 minutes but Lando remains at the doorway, not snooping in the space he's been a few times before. She got the London apartment about a year and a half ago, so he visited before she'd cut him off.
"Ok, let's go." Y/n sighs having changed into a dress and some trainers, looking more make up with some make up though she's opted for just keeping her hair down.
She locks up and they head to his car where he opens the door for her and helps her in before he looks at the sky thanking the universe for this chance as he moves around to his door.
"So where exactly are we going?" Y/n asks making Lando grin at her. "Lando..."
"Just trust me. Please, this once trust me and I promise it'll be worth it."
Y/n sighs slumping in the seat as they drive and she realises they're leaving London.
"Are you kidnapping me?"
"Just momentarily." Lando teases earning an eye roll.
Y/n sighs rubbing her palms on her thighs as Lando drives them, he's always happy to just settle in a silence but y/n hates it.
"Why did you do it?" Y/n finally asks making Lando flex his hand, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel with a sigh.
"You said you didn't want a relationship."
"I didn't think you wanted a relationship." Y/n mumbles then biting her lip. "I thought you would get scared and leave if I suggested one so I just...said it so you wouldn't leave. But clearly I was wrong and you found someone else easy enough anyway."
"We have some work to on communication." Lando declares earning a side eye. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Give me the look like I'm entirely to blame. You should've asked me."
"Lecturing me about my assumptions is not the move you think it is." Y/n states but Lando only grins at her. "Can you please tell me where we're going?"
"No. It's a surprise."
"That's not very good communication."
Lando looks at y/n with a deadpanned expression before she sighs and accepts her fate for the night.
Eventually they arrive at MTC and y/n frowns looking at Lando since it's late and while the centre isn't empty, she's not sure that they should be here.
"Come on."
"But-"
"Come on, y/n." Lando smiles cutting in while y/n huffs at his abruptness.
Y/n sighs moving with him and frowning as they walk into the centre and y/n finds a blanket laid out in front of the window that overlooks the lake.
"What is this?" Y/n mumbles as Lando pulls her to the set up that clearly he recruited some people in to help with given it's about an hour drive to get here from her place.
Y/n sighs looking at the F1 driver before she bites her lip as she sighs and sits down with him.
The sky is clear and with the lights turned off, the stars are so pretty in front of her.
"I was going to put us outside but it's freezing so I thought this was the second best." Lando explains with a smile then beginning to pile food onto a plate for her then placing it down for her.
"Thank you." Y/n mumbles before swallowing thickly.
"You know I'm not actually that scary." Lando comments while y/n sighs at him. "I am sorry you know? For fucking things up. I just...thought that you saying you didn't want a relationship was you friend-zoning me and telling me that you want nothing to do with me."
"I never said that."
"I know but you never said otherwise either, y/n." Lando points out then biting his lip. "I fucked up by not trying harder. But I'm going to try so hard that you can't deny it."
Y/n smiles softly before she shoves some food in her mouth to try and keep herself from smiling though Lando clocks it anyway but doesn't say anything.
"So go on, tell me about the past year since my 2025 was well documented." Lando comments making y/n sigh a little.
Y/n does fill Lando in on her year. She tells him everything and Lando listens, being completely in love with listening to her talk after so long of her ignoring him and his entire existence.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Y/n whispers making Lando smile softly at her.
"I missed you." Lando confesses and it's a pretty effective way to make y/n get flustered, her face practically burning under his gaze. "I know I probably seemed happy this past year and there were a lot of things to be happy about. But I missed you and I wish I'd not been so stupid because I would've loved to have those experiences with you there too."
Y/n blinks trying to swallow the lump that's formed in her throat.
"I'm sorry." Y/n whispers biting her lip. "God I really fucked shit up for us."
"I'd say it's at least equal parts. I didn't have to go out and find a rebound but I did." Lando mumbles with a shrug then shifting closer to her.
"I missed you too. That's...why I couldn't let myself see you. Seeing you with someone else, it hurt more than I wanted to let myself feel." Y/n confesses before shifting. "I'm sorry for fucking it up like I did. You didn't deserve to be...rejected then given the cold shoulder and blamed for rightly trying to move on."
"Do I get a chance this time?" Lando asks making y/n grin at him, nodding lightly.
"Yes, and I promise not to fuck it up this time. Really it's my second chance." Y/n mumbles before smiling when Lando shuffles closer and finally wraps his arms around her.
"I'm going to be trying harder to make sure you know exactly what I mean and what I want and never leave room for us to be confused and mess up." Lando declares earning a grin as she leans back on him a little. "I also don't want George to break my hands which is what he threatened if I didn't leave you alone."
"I'm going to do so much better. I promise. No more fucking up." Y/n whispers then tilting her head back to look at him but she hardly gets glimpse before he's kissing her.
A long overdue kiss. They have kissed before but that obviously was kisses of hidden feelings and some serious restraint.
"Not that I would be opposed to it, but we can't hook up here." Lando states when y/n deepens the kiss a little before she laughs a little.
"No. That might be pushing our luck a little." Y/n hums before settling back against him again. "Thank you for all of this and not just...giving up. I thought you were always chasing me because you couldn't have me and you wanted what you couldn't have."
"I always wanted you. I'm just stupid."
"Guess we're both kind of stupid."
"Makes us even more perfectly matched." Lando grins making y/n laugh before she picks up some more food and bites into it. "So as far as first dates go, how are we doing?"
"We're doing so well. 5 out of 5 stars, would recommend and will do again."
"Good. Because if you said badly this was about to be a crime scene for your kidnapping."
Lando accidentally takes his anger out on you after a bad race result.
WORD COUNT: 857!!
i don’t know if i like this one 🫣please tell me who/what you want me to write about next!!
LN1 MASTERLIST back to navigation
You aren’t actually too sure what the original argument was about all you can seem to remember is lando storming through the front door and slamming his helmet down on your brand new dining table,
you’d gently asked him not to do that because it’s new and you don’t want to ruin it as soon as you get it
oh boy was that the wrong thing to say,
he then blew into this tangent about how nothing was going right and all he wanted was to come home to an “understanding girlfriend” and a “clean apartment”
that was the moment it blew into something way out of proportion
you shouted, he shouted , you said things and so did he
and now?
your sat in your car at a random dark car park because you couldn’t stay in that apartment with him any longer,
his words cut way deeper than he’d realised and it broke your heart because yes you knew he didn’t mean it and he was just nit picking the little things to take his anger out on but still it doesn’t soften the blow of his words.
<3
it’s 2am, your tired, your cold and your just mentally exhausted but still your pride got in the way and you still sat in the parking lot just staring into nothingness
you could feel your phone vibrating beside you but still you made no move to pick it up and see who it was because you already knew who it was,
your boyfriend,lando. who seems to have calmed down now and wants you to come home
even though he’d said “god i wish i still lived alone so everything would be how i want it”
that hurt more than you’d like to admit,
you sit there replaying the argument in your head feeling pangs of regret and guilt for the things you had said too
eventually you hear an all too familiar sound of a GT3 RS
landos GT3 RS to be exact
you roll you eyes slightly turning your head towards where the noise is coming from and notice him driving towards you
he then parks right beside you and steps out of his car to walk round to the drivers side of yours,
lando knocks on the window to grab your attention but you ignore him keeping your gaze on a tree that seems to have become very interesting
“baby please open the door i’m sorry” his voice is muffled from outside the car but you can still make out everything he’s saying
“y/n/n please i’m so sorry baby i didn’t mean anything i said”
“whatever i said was just heat of the moment and i regret it so much”
he keeps saying all these nice things but to no avail,
the only acknowledgement he gets is a slight turn of your head
“y/n please open the door i’m sorry” he tries one more time
still you don’t answer wanting him to know how you felt during the argument with him not paying any mind to what you were saying.
you hear him let out a huff before he turns around and goes back to his car
lando gives you one last look through the windows of both cars before pulling away and driving off into the darkness
<3
it’d been about half an hour since lando had left and you’d thought he’d just given up completely and gone home
boy were you wrong
just as your about to start driving yourself home you hear the noise of his car again
your heart jumps a little bit inside knowing he came back for you,
this time you turn your head fully towards where he had parked
to say you were shocked by what you saw was an understatement
lando had somehow found an open florist and brought a dozen red roses along with a plush bear that has “i’m sorry” written on a bandanna.
as he walks up to the car once again and tries the door handle
this time it’s open
he crouches down to be eye to eye with you and says
“y/n i am so sorry, what i said was completely out of line…you are the best thing that’s happened these last couple of years and i couldn’t think of living with anyone better”
the speech brings small tears to your eyes
for a moment you don’t respond, just holding eye contact before you speak
“thankyou for the speech…though…you really hurt me lan…but i forgive you”
your voice feels so loud in the quietness that surrounds you both
lando smiles and hands you the gifts
“now can we please go home?” he asks
you respond with a smile
“i’ll race you there”
<3
THIS WAS VERY RUSHED IM SORRY IF ITS BAD!!
as always like,reblog and comment on my content if you wish to be added to my taglist (when i decide to make one)
could you do one for lando x reader where his gf of around a year suffers from social anxiety but hasnt told him and he asks her to go to a race and she says yes not wanting to hurt his feelings but has an anxiety attack from all the fans being too much whilst landos out on track xx
When It Gets Too Much - LN1 x social!anxiety!fem!reader
You are his #1 supporter but when everything gets too much, he’s the one who knows how to make it quieter.
warnings: reader has social anxiety, fluff, a bit overwhelming
a/n: thank u lovely anon, hope u like it and it's the way u want it xx<3. DO NOT HESITATE TO REQUEST, INBOX ALWAYS OPEN!!
support me here: ko-fi
🔊 listening to: L' enfer - Stromae
The first time Lando asked you to come to a race, he said it like it was nothing.
“You should come this weekend, it’ll be fun” tossed over his shoulder while he scrolled on his phone, like he wasn’t accidentally asking you to step into one of the loudest, most overwhelming environments imaginable.
And you just smiled and said yes, because you loved him, because you didn’t want to be the difficult girlfriend, because saying no always felt heavy for you.
You knew, logically, what a race weekend was like. You'd seen clips, interviews, the endless crowds pressed against barriers, people shouting his name, cameras flashing. It was part of him, part of his world. He wanted you to be part of his world after a year of dating, and you wanted that too. Or at least… you wanted to want that.
The days leading up to it, you told yourself you'd be fine.
"It’s just noise. Just people. You’ve handled worse."
Except you hadn’t, not really.
Lando was a perfect match for you; he was cheerful and knew how to calm you down.
Even though you’d been together for a year, he didn’t know you suffered from anxiety. In fact, ever since you met him, your episodes have become less and less frequent, to the point where they now only happen in specific situations.
The paddock is already alive when you arrive, buzzing with energy. Everyone is moving quickly, talking loudly, laughing, calling out to each other over the constant background roar. Even before you fully step inside, your chest feels tight, like the air’s been subtly thinned.
Lando’s busy, of course. He kisses your cheek in passing, warm and distracted, his hand squeezing yours for half a second before someone calls his name and he’s pulled away again.
“You okay?” he asks quickly.
You nod. “Yeah. Go, you’re gonna be late.”
And he trusts you. Of course he does.
At first, you stays close to the garage, tucked slightly behind everything, headphones on. People pass by in a blur of team gear and headsets, conversations overlapping into a constant stream of noise that you can’t quite separate.
You try to focus on something steady—the floor, your breathing, your nails, the rhythm of footsteps—but there’s always something new interrupting it.
A sudden cheer erupts somewhere nearby and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
It’s fine. You’re fine.
You move toward the hospitality area, thinking maybe it’ll be quieter. It isn’t.
Fans gather near every accessible space, hoping for a glimpse of drivers, cameras already raised, voices loud and excited. Someone recognizes you, enough to stare a little too long and suddenly you're aware of yourself in a way that makes your skin crawl.
The noise isn’t just noise anymore. It’s layered, pressing in from every direction, overwhelming you.
Your heart starts to race, fast enough that it feels out of sync with everything else, you need to find a quiet place, now.
By the time Lando gets in the car, you're already struggling.
You tells yourself you just need to sit down, just need a minute, but everything around you is open, loud, moving. Even the air feels crowded.
The engines start.
The sound hits you, echoing through your chest and skull. The crowd reacts instantly, cheering, shouting and it all blends into something you can't control.
Your breathing stutters.
In. Out. In—
The fuck...It doesn’t work.
Your hands start to shake, fingers curling into the sleeves as you try to ground yourself, but there’s nothing to hold onto. Your head is spinning and hurts like a bitch.
Someone brushes past you as you flinch hard. You feel like you're in one of those movies where the main character stands frozen in place while everyone and everything around them keeps moving.
You need to leave.
Now.
That thought cuts through everything else.
You turn quickly, throwing the headphones away, weaving through people, barely aware of where you're going—just away, away from the noise, from the crowd, from the suffocating feeling building in your chest.
No one stops you, you find a quiet corridor eventually, somewhere behind the main areas where the noise dulls.
The second you’re alone, it hits fully.
Your breathing breaks, uneven, like you can’t pull in enough air no matter how hard you try. Your chest tightens painfully, vision blurring at the edges.
You press a hand against the wall to steady yourself, but it doesn’t help.
It feels like losing control of your own body.
Like something terrible is about to happen, even though you know that it isn’t.
Tears come without warning, frustration mixing with fear because this wasn’t supposed to happen. You was supposed to handle this, supposed to be normal about it and be there cheering on Lando, your boyfriend, not here having a panic attack.
Lando. He doesn’t know.
He’s out on track, focused, doing his job, completely unaware that a few walls away you’re falling apart, throwing away what you spent a year carefully hiding.
And that’s the worst part, the fact that you never told him.
It takes a while for it to pass enough that you can think again.
You stare at the phone for a long time.
There’s a message from Lando from earlier, something dumb and sweet, and it makes your throat tighten all over again.
You could text him. You could tell him.
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. You lock the phone.
He’s still in his race suit, hair messy and sweaty, adrenaline lingering in the way he moves. He spots you sitting there, next to his room, and his expression shifts instantly, confusion first, then concern.
“Hey” he says, softer than you expect. “Why are you back here?”
You tries to smile but it doesn’t really work.
“I just needed some air babe.” That was true.
He crouches in front of you, frowning slightly. “Are you okay?”
And for a second, you almost says yes again. Almost keep it simple, easy.
But something about the way he’s looking at you—really looking, like he knows something’s off even if he doesn’t know what—makes it harder to lie.
So you hesitate and then tell him. Finally.
“I… get really overwhelmed in places like this, Lan” you admits quietly. “Crowds, noise. I didn’t want to say no when you asked. I'm sorry.”
There’s a pause. He's just… processing.
Then Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair, something almost frustrated flickering across his face—but not at you.
You shake your head quickly. “I just didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says immediately, a little too firm, hands cupping your red cheeks still wet from crying. Then softer, “You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then he shifts closer, reaching for your hand carefully, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you need to. You don’t.
“We can do this differently,” he says. “Or not at all if it’s too much. I don’t care, honestly. I just want you okay.”
Something in your chest loosens at that.
Later, when they leave, it’s not through the crowds.
From the moment she first heard the roar of an engine, felt the rumble of the track beneath her feet, she knew she was hooked. There was something indescribable about the thrill of speed, the way time seemed to slow down when a car zipped past at two hundred miles per hour. The adrenaline rush, the smell of burning rubber, the intense focus required, every part of it made her heart race.
As a little girl, she would sit in front of the television, eyes wide with wonder, watching the legends of the sport battle it out on tracks around the world. She idolized them: their skill, their courage, their relentless pursuit of victory. She dreamed of being one of them, of feeling the same exhilaration as they did, of one day earning a place on that starting grid.
Becoming a Formula One driver was more than just a dream for her; it was an obsession. She devoted every waking moment to getting there, training hard, studying the intricacies of the cars, and soaking in every bit of knowledge she could. For years, it felt like an impossible goal, a fantasy that lived in the realm of maybe someday. But she never stopped believing.
And then, finally, the dream came true.
Her determination and skills in Formula 2 had drawn the attention of many Formula One team principals, one of them being Toto Wolff, Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team’s principal, so when he came to her and offered her a seat, she naturally couldn’t refuse. So in 2019, she became Mercedes’ first and youngest female driver ever to join Formula One, being only eighteen.
On her very first day around the paddock as a Formula One driver, she was walking with her helmet in her hand, trying to fix the inside of it. Since she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, she bumped into someone’s back and stumbled a little before looking up, locking eyes with a young driver who seemed around her age.
“I’m so sorry,” she muttered quickly.
“It’s fine,” the boy smiled at her. “You’re a rookie too, right?”
“Yup,” she said, smiling. “I feel like I should know your name.”
“Lando Norris.” He stretched his hand out. “McLaren.”
“Y/N Y/L/N.” She shook it. “Mercedes.”
“You got that right,” he said, pointing at her suit.
She laughed a little. “I’ve got to go, but good luck for quali today, Lando Norris.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You too.”
She smiled once more before walking away.
Lando watched her leave for a second too long.
That was the first time.
Neither of them knew then that they would spend the next seven years orbiting each other like something written badly by fate—too much timing, too little courage.
2020
By 2020, Y/N had learned that Formula One was not kind.
It was glamorous from the outside, maybe. Beautiful in photographs. Elegant in interviews. But inside the paddock, it was ruthless. Every mistake was magnified. Every bad session was a headline. Every decent result from her was treated as surprising, as if she hadn’t dragged herself into this sport with blood in her teeth.
She had expected pressure.
She had not expected loneliness.
And somehow, somewhere between race weekends and media days and endless flights, Lando became the person who made all of it lighter.
It started with stupid conversations. The kind that should not matter but somehow did.
He would find her in the paddock and start talking as if they had known each other for years. He’d complain about engineers, about jet lag, about media obligations, about sandwiches, about absolutely nothing at all. She would act like he annoyed her, even while staying there longer than she meant to.
Then came the texts.
Late-night messages after races. Snarky comments during media days. A constant stream of nonsense that somehow became the part of her day she looked forward to most.
lando: survived today
y/n: unfortunately
lando: wow
y/n: was talking about me
lando: sure you were
y/n: you’re clingy for someone who swears he’s cool
lando: and yet you keep replying
He had a point.
She hated that he had a point.
At Spielberg, she found him sitting on the floor behind the McLaren motorhome, long legs stretched out, head tipped back against the wall.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He opened one eye. “Avoiding people.”
“In the paddock?”
“I know. Terrible strategy.”
She snorted and sat beside him.
The silence between them was easy. That was the dangerous thing about Lando. Silence with most people felt awkward, like something that had to be filled. Silence with him felt natural.
“You okay?” he asked after a while.
“Tired.”
“Tired how?”
She let out a quiet laugh. “You ask way too many real questions for someone who spends most of his time being an idiot.”
“I can multitask.”
That pulled another laugh from her, but it faded quickly.
“Just tired of feeling like I have to prove I belong here,” she admitted.
He didn’t answer immediately. When she looked over, he was already looking at her.
“You don’t have to prove it to me.”
Something in her chest tightened.
“Or to anyone who actually knows what they’re talking about,” he added softly.
She swallowed. “You know you’re annoying, right?”
His lips twitched. “Why?”
“Because sometimes you’re nice when I’d rather you just be stupid.”
He grinned then, warm and bright. “Don’t worry. I’m still stupid.”
And just like that, the heaviness in her chest eased.
The rest of the season passed in a series of almosts.
Almost confessions. Almost touches. Almost moments that felt too intimate to be friendship and too undefined to be anything else.
At Monza, his hand landed on the small of her back to guide her through a crowd of journalists.
At Mugello, he stole her sunglasses and wore them for half the day just because it irritated her.
At Sochi, they sat on a low wall after sunset, watching the paddock empty around them.
“You ever think about quitting?” she asked suddenly.
He turned to her. “Bit dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
He looked back toward the track. “No. Not really. You?”
“Never.”
That made him smile.
“Then what’s with the question?”
She shrugged. “Just wondering if everyone feels like this all the time.”
“Like what?”
She took too long to answer.
“Like if they mess up once, everyone’s just waiting to say see? told you she didn’t belong.”
His expression changed immediately. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s still there.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, softer, “You know what I think?”
“Should I be worried?”
“Always.”
She rolled her eyes, and he smiled faintly before going serious again.
“I think you’re one of the strongest people I know,” he said. “And I think most people in this paddock would crack in five minutes if they had to deal with half the shit you do.”
Compliments were easier to accept from anyone else. From him, they always went too deep.
“You say things like that and then act surprised when I tolerate your presence.”
He laughed softly. “Tolerate? That bad?”
“Worse.”
But she was smiling, and he knew it.
That was the year everything became a maybe.
Maybe the way he looked at her meant something. Maybe the way she waited for him after meetings meant something. Maybe the way they always found each other in crowded rooms meant more than friendship.
Neither of them said it.
Neither of them wanted to be the first one to ruin what they had.
So 2020 ended in almosts.
2021
If 2020 had been the year of almosts, 2021 was the year everything got too intense to ignore.
They were no longer rookies trying to find their footing. They had settled into the rhythm of Formula One, into the expectations, the pressure, the repetition of airports and garages and lights-out Sundays. And by then, Lando knew her too well.
He knew the difference between her angry silence and her tired silence. He knew when to make her laugh and when to sit beside her without speaking. He knew how she twisted the rings on her fingers when she was nervous, how she clenched her jaw at the timing screens when she wasn’t happy with herself.
And she knew him too.
She knew when his smiles were real and when they were for cameras. She knew when his jokes were a shield and when they were genuine. She knew the difference between the Lando everyone loved and the version of him he only let a handful of people near.
It was dangerous, knowing someone like that.
Because once you did, there was no going back.
That year, he started getting more attention.
Not that he had never had any. He was Lando—funny, talented, easy to like. But in 2021, something about him shifted. There was still boyishness in him, still softness, still that ridiculous streak that made her laugh when she didn’t want to. But there was confidence now too. Sharpness. More eyes on him than before.
Y/N noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She noticed every girl that lingered a little too close. Every interviewer who flirted. Every stupid fan edit someone shoved in her face as a joke.
At Silverstone, they were standing side by side in hospitality, hidden for once from the worst of the chaos.
“You’re quiet,” Lando said.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s rare.”
She gave him a flat look. “Do you ever get tired of being annoying?”
He smiled. “No.”
His shoulder brushed hers.
“Thinking about what?”
She should have lied.
Instead she said, “Nothing important.”
“That usually means it’s very important.”
She turned her head and met his eyes.
For one suspended second, she thought maybe he would say it. Maybe this would finally be the moment one of them was brave enough to ruin everything honestly instead of safely.
Then someone called his name from across the room, and the moment shattered.
A rumor. A passing joke. A paddock whisper that Lando had been seen with a girl more than once.
Y/N laughed it off.
Because that was what she did.
She laughed. She shrugged. She pretended not to care.
But she started noticing things. His phone face-down more often. The distracted look after reading messages he didn’t show her. The way some part of him seemed to have stepped just slightly out of reach.
Their worst argument happened in Austin.
“You’ve been weird,” he said as they walked out of the paddock after media.
She laughed coldly. “Funny. I was going to say the same about you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stopped walking. “What’s your problem?”
She turned sharply. “Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t get to act like everything’s normal and then ask me what my problem is.”
His brows furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means maybe I’m tired of feeling stupid.”
That was the opening.
The place where she could have said it.
For liking you. For waiting. For thinking this meant something.
But fear won.
Like it always did.
So she just shook her head. “Forget it.”
“No, don’t do that,” he said, frustrated now. “Don’t say things like that and then shut down.”
She laughed bitterly. “Maybe take your own advice.”
His jaw tensed.
For a second he looked like he wanted to say something bigger.
Instead, he just stepped back.
“Fine.”
And that one word felt worse than shouting.
By the end of 2021, he was with someone else.
She did not ask for details. Did not ask when it started. Did not ask if there had ever really been room for her in his life or if she had built an entire universe out of timing and silence and hope.
They spoke alone once before the season ended.
Abu Dhabi. Harsh artificial lights. The weight of another year pressing down on everyone.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly.
She kept her eyes ahead. “I’ve been busy.”
He was silent for a moment. “Right.”
When she finally looked at him, he looked tired.
“I didn’t mean for things to get weird,” he said.
“That’s comforting.”
“Y/N...”
“No, it’s fine,” she cut in. “It’s whatever.”
He looked at her like he knew she was lying.
“I still want you in my life,” he said softly.
That hurt more than anything else.
Because it was not what she wanted.
It was not enough.
And the worst part was that she would still have taken it if he asked at the wrong moment.
So she nodded once, because she did not trust herself to say anything else.
He stepped closer, hesitant now in a way he had never been with her before.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
It was the biggest lie she told all year when she forced a smile and said, “You won’t.”
Because by the end of 2021, she already knew something between them had broken.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But in that slow, terrible way things break when two people keep choosing silence until silence becomes the only thing left.
2022
If 2021 had broken something between them, then 2022 taught her what it felt like to keep living with the pieces.
Now there was someone else.
And this time, it was real.
A real girl. A real relationship. A real place in his life that had never belonged to her.
She found out the way everyone found out—through photos, through social media, through people trying to act casual about something that felt anything but casual.
George walked into the Mercedes garage, saw her, and immediately put his phone face-down.
Y/N looked up. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve just committed a crime.”
He sighed. “You should maybe not open Instagram for a few hours.”
Her stomach dropped before her brain had even caught up.
That night, alone in her hotel room, she made the mistake of looking anyway.
Pictures. Comments. People calling them cute. People saying they made sense. People acting like it was simple.
She stared at one photo far too long before throwing her phone onto the bed and pressing both hands over her face.
It wasn’t childish jealousy.
It was grief.
Because for two years she had carried this stupid, stubborn hope that one day he would stop hesitating. That one day all their almosts would finally become something real.
And now he had chosen real.
Just not with her.
Still, Lando seemed to think they could slide into friendship without anything breaking. He still found her after sessions. Still texted her at stupid hours.
lando: terrible media day. save me
y/n: no
lando: wow
y/n: ask someone else
lando: you’re meaner this year
y/n: maybe i’m growing as a person
He sent back a laughing emoji.
She threw her phone onto the bed and hated herself a little for smiling.
Monaco was where her patience nearly snapped.
“You disappeared after dinner last night,” he said.
“I was tired.”
“You could’ve said goodbye.”
She gave him a look. “I didn’t know I had to check out with you.”
He laughed softly. “You know what I mean.”
He said things like that as if they still belonged to each other in some private way. As if she was still the person he expected at the end of his day.
“You had company,” she said before she could stop herself.
His brows pulled together. “What?”
“At dinner. You seemed occupied.”
He studied her face too carefully.
“Are you mad at me?”
Mad was far too simple.
“I’m not mad at you,” she said quietly.
That part, at least, was true.
She dated once that year. Briefly. Someone kind and straightforward and uncomplicated.
It lasted less than two months.
Because every time he touched her, some awful part of her compared the feeling to a kiss she had never even really had, to a fantasy built out of years of longing, and found reality lacking.
By the end of 2022, she and Lando were no longer close the way they had been.
Still familiar. Still capable of slipping into old rhythms for five minutes at a time before reality returned.
But no longer the first person the other one reached for.
And just when she thought maybe that distance would finally save her.
everything changed again.
2023
It started, like most bad ideas did, with hope.
By early 2023, Lando was single again.
Or that was how it looked from the outside.
The paddock was never clean, never simple. Things ended quietly, started messily, overlapped in rumor and speculation and public appearances that meant everything and nothing. But as far as she could tell, that relationship was over.
And for the first time in months, hope came back.
She hated it immediately.
Because hope, where Lando was concerned, had always made her stupid.
There was also something different about him that year.
Not just in the way he looked, though there was that too.
He had always been handsome in an effortless, boyish sort of way. But over the years, he had sharpened. Grown into himself. Less teenager, more man. More confidence. More intention. More people noticing him every time he walked into a room.
She noticed too.
He was different with her again.
Warmer. Closer. Too easy.
He texted more.
lando: guess who just got publicly bullied by his engineer
y/n: you probably deserved it
lando: wow. no loyalty
y/n: never claimed to have any
lando: liar
lando: you always take my side
y/n: don’t make this weird
But it was weird.
That was exactly the problem.
Because one moment he was looking at her like no one else was in the room, and the next he was distant in a way that made her feel insane for imagining anything at all.
Hot and cold.
That was the phrase she used when Alex asked her why she looked like she wanted to throw her phone into the sea.
“One day he’s all over me,” she muttered, “texting, talking, following me around the paddock like it’s 2020 again, and the next day it’s like I imagined the whole thing.”
“Have you considered,” Alex asked carefully, “that maybe you should stop letting him do that?”
She looked at him in disbelief. “What an insane thing to suggest.”
Miami was the first time she thought she might actually have a chance.
The paddock was almost empty. The sky was dark. She had been heading back toward the hotel transport when Lando caught up to her.
“Wait.”
She turned.
“I was looking for you,” he said.
“Why?”
He stopped directly in front of her.
Then, quieter, “Because I wanted to see you.”
Her pulse stuttered.
“Lando...”
“Can we not do the thing where you shut down and I joke and then we both walk away pretending none of this is weird?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
She laughed softly, without humor. “That’s rich coming from you.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I miss you.”
“You said that last year.”
“I meant it.”
“That didn’t exactly help.”
His expression faltered.
Then, as if dragged out of him against his will, he said, “I think about you all the time.”
It was the kind of sentence she had waited years to hear.
The kind of sentence that should have changed everything.
Instead she only thought, then why does it never mean anything when it should?
“Lando,” she whispered, “you can’t say things like that unless you’re going to do something about it.”
Something shuttered in his face.
He looked away first.
That told her everything.
A week later he was back to texting her at midnight. Back to private smiles. Back to reaching for her like instinct.
And then the rumors started.
Magui.
At first it sounded like paddock nonsense. The kind of speculation that attached itself to drivers because cameras were invasive and people were bored.
Y/N ignored it.
Then she saw them together.
Not enough for certainty.
Enough for understanding.
When she asked him about it—not directly, never directly, because apparently directness would have killed them both—he gave her nothing useful.
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“Of course it is.”
“You act like I’m trying to mess with your head.”
She stared at him. Then said quietly, “Aren’t you?”
That shut him up.
They stood near the back stairs of hospitality while the noise of Singapore carried in waves around them.
“You don’t get to not know forever,” she said. “You can’t keep me in this weird in-between version of your life whenever it suits you.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
She laughed once, broken and disbelieving. “You keep saying that like it’s enough.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
Her voice cracked on the word.
By the end of 2023, she was exhausted in a way no race car had ever made her.
Not because she loved him.
Because she was beginning to understand that loving him might not even be the worst part.
The worst part might be that he loved her too, in some fractured, unfinished, selfish way—and that it still wasn’t enough to choose her.
2024
By 2024, she told herself she was done.
Not in the dramatic sense. Not I hate him. Not I never want to see him again.
Just quietly, deeply done.
The kind where you wake up one day and realize that if you keep hoping, it will hollow you out completely.
So she changed.
She stopped waiting for his texts. Stopped looking for him first in crowded rooms. Stopped letting herself be alone with him after race weekends just because he asked with those soft eyes and careful voice.
People noticed.
Especially him.
At Imola, he caught up to her outside the paddock gates.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’ve said that like six times this weekend.”
“Maybe I’ve been busy six times.”
“That’s not funny.”
That made her stop.
She turned to face him. “Then why are you almost smiling?”
His mouth flattened immediately.
“What happened?” he asked.
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been weird for months.”
She laughed under her breath. “That is a deeply unfair thing for you to say to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
For a second neither of them moved.
Then she said the thing she should have said a year ago.
“I got tired, Lando.”
He went very still.
“Tired of waiting for you to figure out what you want. Tired of pretending your mixed signals are somehow my fault for reading them wrong. Tired of feeling like I matter to you only in these very specific moments where it’s convenient.”
His face closed off the more she spoke.
“That’s not fair.”
Her jaw tightened. “No?”
“No,” he said, sharper now. “You act like I’ve been manipulating you.”
“Have you not?”
He stared at her.
And there it was again—the silence where truth should have been.
That conversation should have ended things.
Instead, it only changed the shape of the damage.
Because after that, he stopped reaching out as much. Stopped trying to find her alone. Stopped saying the kinds of things that kept her suspended between hope and common sense.
And somehow, that hurt too.
Because maybe she had wanted peace.
But she had not expected peace to feel so much like grief.
That year, she got better on track. Sharper. More consistent. More podiums. More control. The media stopped asking whether she deserved to be there and started asking whether she could become world champion.
She should have been thrilled.
Mostly, she was.
But sometimes she would catch Lando looking at her from across a briefing room with an expression she could never quite name.
Not longing.
Not regret.
Something adjacent to both.
And that was somehow worse.
2025
By 2025, Lando barely looked like the boy she had met in 2019.
He was still there, somewhere.
In rare moments when he laughed too hard and forgot himself. In the softness that slipped out by accident when no one else was watching.
But most of the time, he was someone else now.
Sharper. Colder. More careful with his image. More ruthless with his words. The years had polished him into something almost untouchable, better dressed, more controlled, more aware of exactly how many people were watching him at all times.
He had glow up written all over him.
And this was not just a good year.
This was his year.
He was in the fight for the World Championship, and everyone knew it.
Every point mattered. Every lap mattered. Every mistake mattered.
The pressure around him was suffocating.
And under that pressure, he had changed in all the worst ways.
Y/N noticed it before anyone said it out loud.
The way he stopped apologizing when he snapped. The way his interviews became cleaner and colder. The way everything about him felt optimized for survival, even if that survival came at the cost of tenderness.
Even with her, whatever softness remained had become inconsistent.
He still looked at her sometimes in that old way, like she was something familiar in a life that no longer felt human.
But he never stayed there.
And she still, pathetically, hopelessly, kept hoping the old Lando was somewhere underneath all of it.
That was her mistake.
It happened in Singapore.
A night race. Hot, brutal, claustrophobic. The kind of circuit where one mistake could destroy everything, and everybody knew it before the lights even went out.
Lando had qualified P2.
Y/N was P4.
The title fight was tightening. He could not afford a DNF. He could not afford damage. He could not afford a reckless move.
He knew that.
Which was why what happened next made it so much worse.
The race had already been tense for thirty laps, strategy windows opening and closing, tyres fading, gaps shrinking under the lights. Y/N had better pace in the second stint and was closing fast.
“Lando ahead. Gap six tenths. Better traction out of Turn 5. He’s struggling.”
She was.
And she knew him well enough to know he knew it too.
On lap thirty-seven, she got close enough to show the nose into Turn 7.
Not a divebomb.
Not desperate.
Just enough to make him defend.
He moved late.
Too late.
She backed out before contact.
“Jesus,” she muttered.
The next lap, she tried again.
This time she got the better exit, pulled alongside on the straight, and for half a second it looked clean—tight, aggressive, but clean.
Then he turned in.
Not fully. Not enough to look deliberate at first glance. Just enough to squeeze her harder than he should have, as if he believed she would disappear if he forced the space small enough.
But there was no room.
Her front wing clipped his rear tyre.
His car snapped sideways.
Hers jolted violently left.
Carbon fibre exploded across the track.
The sound over the radio was sickening.
By the time both cars slid out of the corner, the damage was done.
Lando hit the barriers first.
Y/N spun and stopped half-sideways, front wing destroyed, one tyre punctured, the steering gone heavy in her hands.
“Fuck... fuck...”
Her engineer was already talking in her ear.
“Box, box, box. Damage. Are you okay?”
She couldn’t answer for a second.
Because on the giant screen opposite, she could see Lando climbing out of the car.
The title contender.
The man everyone had pinned their season on.
Out.
Because of an accident involving her.
Her stomach dropped so hard she thought she might be sick inside the helmet.
“No,” she whispered, even as she limped the car back toward the pits. “No, no, no…”
By the time she got to the garage, her hands were shaking.
Not because she thought it had been her fault.
Because she already knew what this would become.
The first replay came up on the monitor.
Front-on. Then overhead. Then from Lando’s onboard.
She watched him move across on her.
Watched the space disappear.
Watched herself back out as much as physically possible without putting herself in the wall.
Watched the moment contact became unavoidable.
Her chest hurt.
Because it was his fault.
Not malicious. Not intentional.
But his.
A late, panicked, overaggressive defense under title pressure.
And still, dread crawled colder down her spine.
Because she knew him.
And she knew what being in a championship fight did to people.
She found out what he’d said before she even saw him.
One of the Mercedes press officers walked in looking pale and furious.
Y/N looked up. “What?”
The woman hesitated.
That was enough to make Y/N stand up.
“What did he say?”
Another pause.
Then: “He told Sky you came in too aggressively and that you should’ve known he was defending.”
For a second, the room tilted.
“No,” she said.
The woman’s expression didn’t change.
“That’s not what happened.”
“I know.”
The pity in her voice nearly made Y/N throw up.
Because one thing was the media spinning it.
One thing was pundits choosing sides.
But Lando?
Lando knew.
He knew exactly what had happened.
He had been there. He had felt it. He had made the move.
And he still blamed her.
Publicly.
“Where is he?”
She found him outside the McLaren hospitality, half-surrounded by PR people and engineers.
He looked up when he saw her.
For one tiny, awful second, she thought maybe he would look guilty.
Maybe horrified.
Maybe human.
He didn’t.
He just looked tense. Defensive. Tired.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Her voice was so controlled it didn’t even sound like hers.
His PR manager stepped in immediately. “Now’s not a good time—”
“Yes,” Y/N said, eyes still on Lando. “It is.”
They moved far enough away that no microphones could catch them clearly.
The second they were alone, she said, “What the hell was that?”
His jaw tightened. “I told them what happened.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“From my car, you came in too late.”
She actually laughed.
A small, disbelieving, broken sound.
“Are you serious?”
“Y/N...”
“No, answer me. Are you actually serious right now?”
His face hardened. “I’m in the middle of a championship fight.”
The words hit her like a slap.
Not because they were loud.
Because they told her everything.
Everything.
“You think that makes this okay?”
“I think it means every point matters.”
“And so you throw me under the bus?”
His expression flickered : guilt, maybe, but it vanished fast.
“I didn’t throw you under the bus.”
“You blamed me for your mistake.”
His voice sharpened instantly. “It wasn’t all on me.”
She stared at him.
That was somehow worse than the interview.
Because in front of cameras, maybe he could hide inside instinct, inside PR, inside pressure.
But here, in front of her, with no one else listening, he was still doing it.
Still choosing the lie.
“You know what happened,” she said quietly.
He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “I know it was tight.”
“Tight?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you were completely innocent.”
Her mouth actually fell open.
For a second she couldn’t speak.
Not because the accusation hurt.
Because she had never felt so suddenly, so completely foolish.
All those years. All that history. All the versions of him she had loved and defended and waited for.
And this was the man standing in front of her now.
A man so desperate to protect his title fight, his image, his season, that he would look her in the face and rewrite reality.
“You really mean this,” she whispered.
His face changed then. Just slightly. Enough for her to know some part of him heard how devastated she sounded.
But he still didn’t take it back.
And that was it.
That was the moment she lost him.
Not romantically. Not hopefully. Not tragically.
Completely.
“You know what?” she said, voice shaking now despite all her effort. “I think the worst part is that I actually came here expecting you to tell me the truth.”
“Y/N...”
“No.”
She stepped back.
“I protected you in my head for years. Even when you hurt me, I always had some excuse for you. You were confused, or scared, or under pressure, or not ready, or whatever the fuck else I needed to tell myself so I didn’t have to admit you just… didn’t choose me.”
His face went pale.
“But this?” Her eyes burned. “This is a choice.”
“I’m not doing this with you right now.”
That finished her.
Because of course.
Of course he would say that.
Like she was the unreasonable one.
Like she was asking too much by wanting him to own what he had done.
A laugh tore out of her, wet and ugly and humiliated.
“You already did it,” she said. “You did it the second you opened your mouth.”
Then she turned and walked away before he could see her cry.
The fallout was immediate.
The stewards called it a racing incident with shared responsibility.
The media did not.
The media split exactly how the paddock always split when a famous man in a title fight collided with a woman who already had to prove she belonged.
Half said it was hard racing.
Half said she had been too ambitious, too emotional, too reckless.
She heard every version.
Too aggressive. Too impatient. Should have known better. Should have backed out. Should have remembered what was at stake.
As if what was at stake belonged only to him.
As if her race, her points, her career, her right to fight for position meant less because he was the one with a championship on the line.
As if she was supposed to disappear to protect the narrative.
And the worst part—the truly unbearable part—was that a piece of her started believing it.
By Monday morning, her phone was unusable.
Mentions flooded. Headlines everywhere. Clips of the crash cut to look worse from her angle. Ex-drivers speaking confidently about what she should have done. Fans calling her every name they could think of.
And underneath all of that noise was one devastating thought she could not silence:
Lando could have stopped this.
One honest sentence.
That was all it would have taken.
He didn’t give it.
The next race weekend was the worst of her life.
Not because of the car. Not because of the track.
Because for the first time since she was a little girl, Formula One stopped feeling like the place she had fought her whole life to reach.
It felt hostile. Alien. Like a room she had accidentally walked into and still had not earned the right to stay inside.
She felt it in the garage. In the press conference. In the loaded wording of every question.
And worst of all, she felt it in herself.
Her confidence was gone.
Not all at once.
Just enough that every braking point felt uncertain. Every overtake looked riskier. Every decision suddenly came with the fear that if she got it wrong, everyone would say there, see? told you she didn’t belong here.
She stopped sleeping properly.
Started replaying the crash from angles she had never even seen.
Started wondering if maybe she should have backed out earlier, made herself smaller, safer, easier to forgive.
She hated herself for thinking like that.
And she hated him for putting those thoughts in her head.
Lewis found her alone in the Mercedes hospitality on a Thursday evening, sitting on the floor in full kit, staring at nothing.
He sat beside her without asking.
For a while, he said nothing.
Then: “This isn’t yours.”
She let out a hollow laugh. “Feels like it.”
“It’s not.”
She kept staring ahead. “He said it was.”
Lewis went very still.
“He knows better.”
Her throat tightened so hard it hurt.
“That’s the problem.”
Because Lando did know better.
That was what made it unforgivable.
Not the crash. Not even the blame.
The fact that it came from someone who knew exactly how much harder this sport already was for her, and chose to make it harder anyway.
They did not speak for six weeks.
No text. No apology. No late-night message trying to soften what had happened.
Nothing.
And that silence told her more than any fight ever could.
When he finally approached her again late in the season, it was already too late.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
She looked at him for a long moment.
This time, there was no ache.
Just exhaustion.
“About what?”
“About Singapore.”
She laughed once.
He flinched at the sound.
“No,” she said.
“Y/N...”
“No. You don’t get to do this now.”
He took a step closer. “I was under pressure.”
She stared at him.
Then said, very softly, “And I was under your car.”
That shut him up.
For the first time since the accident, he looked fully ashamed.
It changed nothing.
“I spent years thinking losing you would be the worst thing that could happen to me,” she said. “But it wasn’t losing you.”
His face tightened.
“It was finding out who you become when something matters more to you than I do.”
He looked like she had hit him.
Maybe she had.
Good.
Because she had been carrying the wreckage of him for years.
He could carry one sentence.
She stepped around him before he could answer.
This time, he did not stop her.
That was the fallout.
Not one screaming match.
A crash. A lie. A public betrayal.
And then the slow death of everything that had once made her believe he was the safest place in the paddock.
For the rest of 2025, she drove like someone trying to remember who she had been before she let a boy with soft eyes and terrible timing become the center of her emotional life.
Sometimes she managed it.
Sometimes she didn’t.
But one thing never stopped being true:
Singapore was the moment she lost more than him.
She lost the version of herself that had believed love could survive being chosen second.
And for a while, for the worst stretch of her life, she lost her place in the sport too.
2026
By February 2026, the paddock had started whispering again.
He and Magui were over.
Or maybe off again.
Or maybe just not speaking.
No one ever knew anything for certain, only enough to construct stories out of fragments.
Y/N heard about it the same way she heard everything now—secondhand, half-true, dangerously easy to build hope around.
She told herself she wouldn’t.
She really did.
But hope had never cared much about her promises.
Because if there was one thing more pathetic than loving him for years, it was the small, traitorous part of her that still believed timing had been the real villain all along.
Maybe now, she thought.
Maybe now, older and more bruised and finally forced to look at what they had become, maybe now he would be honest.
He was softer with her again that spring.
More deliberate. Less careless. As if he knew he had no right to ask for easy closeness anymore and was trying, for once, to earn it.
It worked.
Of course it worked.
At Melbourne, they sat on the steps behind hospitality at nearly midnight, sharing terrible vending machine coffee and talking about anything except the years between them.
At Jeddah, he walked her back to her car after a late debrief and lingered long enough that her pulse did embarrassing things.
At Imola, his hand brushed hers on a table between them and neither of them moved away for a full three seconds.
It was not much.
To anyone else, it was nothing.
To her, it was history repeating itself in a softer voice.
And somehow that was even more dangerous.
The breaking point came in Monaco.
Of course it did.
Monaco, where everything looked cinematic and therefore felt crueler.
She had just finished a sponsor event and escaped onto one of the quieter terraces behind the paddock building, heels in one hand, irritation buzzing beneath her skin. She needed five minutes without cameras, without people, without anyone asking if she was excited for qualifying tomorrow.
Instead, she found Lando already there.
He was leaning against the railing, sunset catching on the edge of his profile, jacket undone, looking tired in the sort of beautiful way that would have made her furious once.
Now it just made her tired too.
“Of course you’re here,” she said.
He glanced over, smiled a little. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“You.”
That actually made him laugh.
She moved to stand beside him, close enough to be familiar, not close enough to be intimate.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then he said, “I miss this.”
Her heart gave one awful thud.
“This,” she repeated carefully.
“Us. Talking without it turning into a fight.”
She stared out at the harbor lights. “That implies we ever figured out how to do the rest of it.”
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “Fair.”
Silence again.
Then, quietly, “I’ve been thinking.”
She nearly told him to stop right there.
Nearly said don’t do this unless you mean it.
Instead she asked, “Dangerous.”
He turned toward her fully.
And there was that look again.
That open, searching look that had once made her believe love could survive indecision.
“I was an idiot,” he said.
She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s not exactly breaking news.”
“No, I know.” His mouth twitched briefly, then fell. “I mean with you.”
Every nerve in her body went taut.
He kept going before she could stop him.
“I think I spent years assuming you’d always be there. That no matter how badly I handled things, no matter how long I took to figure myself out, some part of you would still…” He broke off, jaw tightening. “Still care.”
She swallowed hard.
“That’s a hell of a thing to admit.”
“I know.”
He looked wrecked. Earnest. Older than she had ever seen him.
And some stupid, treacherous part of her leaned toward him anyway.
“So what are you saying?” she asked.
The question hung between them.
He looked at her like the answer was simple.
Like honesty, at last, might save them.
“I’m saying I don’t want to keep getting this wrong.”
Her chest hurt.
That was not enough.
That was not clear.
That was not I choose you.
And yet it was more than he had given her in years.
She hated how close she came to accepting crumbs.
“Lando,” she said carefully, “what do you actually want?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked away.
And there it was.
Again.
Always.
That silence.
The same silence that had eaten them alive since 2020.
She stepped back before he could try to fill it with something vague and beautiful and useless.
“No.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“No,” she repeated, firmer now. “I’m not doing this version of us anymore.”
His expression hardened into confusion. “I’m trying.”
“Trying what?”
“That’s not fair.”
She laughed then, but it came out broken. “You keep saying that every time reality catches up to you.”
He took a step closer. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The words landed like a slap.
Because yes, he was here.
Now.
After years of being almost brave, almost honest, almost hers.
And maybe once, that would have been enough to make her fall apart in relief.
Now it only made her angry.
“You don’t get credit for showing up late,” she said.
He flinched.
Good.
“You had years,” she went on, voice shaking now despite her best efforts. “Years of me standing there practically loving you in plain sight, and every single time it mattered, you hesitated. You chose someone else, or no one, or confusion, or timing, or whatever excuse made it easier than just telling me the truth.”
His face had gone pale under the terrace lights.
“I was scared.”
That nearly undid her.
Because it was probably true.
Because it was the first truly honest thing he had said in the entire conversation.
She nodded once, tears stinging hot behind her eyes. “I know.”
He looked at her then like that should fix something.
Like being understood had always been the closest thing to absolution he knew how to ask for.
It didn’t.
“And I was patient,” she said softly. “For way too long.”
He said her name like a plea.
She shook her head.
“No. Listen to me this time.”
He went quiet.
“I loved you,” she said.
The past tense shattered something visible in him.
“And maybe some part of me always will. But whatever this is now—whatever you think you’re offering me—it’s not enough. It was not enough in 2023, it wasn’t enough after Singapore, and it’s definitely not enough now.”
His eyes were glassy.
She had never seen him look so completely unguarded.
“You’re really done.”
It was not a question.
She looked at him, really looked at him.
At the boy she had met in 2019.
At the man he had become.
At all the versions of him she had loved and waited for and mourned while he was still standing right in front of her.
And then she did the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.
“Yes.”
He shut his eyes briefly, like the word had physical weight.
When he opened them again, he looked wrecked.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just a man arriving too late to the life he should have chosen.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And that, more than anything, made her want to cry.
Because she believed him.
Finally, completely, uselessly believed him.
“I know,” she whispered.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he gave a small nod, the kind people give when they understand they have lost something by their own hand.
“Okay.”
It was such a simple word.
So unbearably gentle.
She hated it.
He stepped back first this time.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he finally understood he had to.
“Goodbye, Y/N.”
Her heart broke so quietly she was almost impressed by it.
“Goodbye, Lando.”
And that was it.
No grand final kiss.
No dramatic chase.
No miraculous timing.
Just two people who had loved each other for too long and never well enough at the right moment.
She saw him after that, of course.
Formula One was too small, too relentless, too incapable of mercy for anything else.
She saw him across garages and briefing rooms and podium celebrations that belonged to one of them but never both. She saw him in interviews, in the corner of photographs, in the machinery of a sport that never stopped long enough to let anyone grieve properly.
And each time, it hurt a little less.
Not because he mattered less.
Because she was finally learning how to matter to herself more.
By the end of 2026, people still asked questions sometimes.
Fans. Journalists. Paddock staff who thought they were subtle and absolutely were not.
Had something ever happened between them?
Were they ever really as close as people thought?
Did she ever think about what might have been?
She always answered with the same small smile.
“We were young,” she would say.
Which was true.
And not the whole truth.
Because the whole truth was this:
They had loved each other in the wrong tense.
Always almost.
Always eventually.
Always someday.
And someday, it turned out, was not a real place.
The end.
Hi guys, it's me again. I've kept this in my draft for maybe a year now, it was just waiting to be finished. Anyways, i hope you enjoyed this. There wont be a second part on this, but i'd love to have your feedbacks ! Love you and thank you !! 💞💞
The roar of engines used to thrill her — until the day Isla Rousseau’s father’s car went up in flames, and adrenaline became terror. Isla Rousseau never wanted to step a foot into the world of racing again, but the universe had other plans. Fifteen years and a diagnosis of PTSD later, she walks into Lando Norris, not knowing, he is everything she had walked away from. As racing, grief, and memories collide, Isla must confront the past and find the courage to feel her dad‘s energy again.
Warnings: PTSD, grief, death, panic attacks, car accident, fire
A/n: Part two already… this series means so much to me seriously. Two more to go!
Taglist: @dessashippr
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Three weeks later
February - Monaco
For the second time already I visit Lando in Monaco. I like the city, the atmosphere, the sea so close by.
But the thing I like most is him. I‘d travel to any place in the world if it meant to be able to be surrounded by his soft temper.
Sitting at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools, I watch him across the room preparing pancakes for breakfast. Every once in a while, he looks over to me, a grin immediately growing on his face.
When he places the plate with hot pancakes in front of me, I smile. „Lando!“ A laugh escapes my lips and I smack him playfully on the arm.
„What? Only the best for my girlfriend.“ He acts hurt, but the blood rushes into his cheeks as he reaches for the sirop d’érable (maple sirup). The heart-shaped pancakes in front of me, my stomach curls in… love. Warmth. A feeling I have been surrounded by ever since that night in the club.
We never officially talked about starting a relationship. But somewhere between my first visit in Monaco and the thousandth movie night in my apartment in London, it just got fairly obvious to us both.
With him, it feels like breathing. Taking a deep breath on a sunny Saturday.
The word girlfriend still makes me blush like a teenage girl, though.
„Thank you.“ I blink at him.
“Need to make the most of it when I have you here, don‘t I?“ He walks past my chair and pressed a quick kiss to the top of my head, while I start eating my breakfast.
Lando got up a lot earlier, went to the gym and trained for the upcoming season.
During the last weeks of his winter break, it was easy to forget that I am falling in love with a racing driver. Besides the pictures of him with his car and the helmets displayed everywhere, he doesn‘t make it too obvious that he races cars for a living. But now that every conversation he has with other people shifts more and more towards Formula One and the season opener in Australia, it gets hard to ignore.
Even for me.
Lando returns from the living room, a book in his hand. He sits down next to me and when I see the cover of the book in front of him, I let out a happy squeal.
„That‘s…“
„One of your books, yeah. I thought you wouldn‘t mind.“ A cheeky grin grows on his face.
„You stole it from my bookshelf?“ I act upset, but the smile on my face tells a different story.
He nods. „Last week in London. But this is really good.“
I shake my head in disbelief. „Lando Norris turned into a Romance reader. Who would‘ve believed it.“
He shrugs. „I don‘t care what others think. I‘ll even walk through the paddock with it.“ He winks at me playfully.
We sit there quietly, I eat the pancakes, he gets lost in between the pages of one of my favorite romance novels.
And the race weekend stands between us like an elephant.
We haven‘t spoken about it. Yet.
It was like we were lost in our own world filled with laughter, movies and getting to know each other that we forgot about the one thing that is meant to keep us away from one another.
„Isla, I…“ He takes a deep breath. „I wanted to ask you something.“
I don‘t look up from the plate in front of me.
„Would you like to come? To the first race? Not to… show you off or anything. Just— It would be nice to have someone there that knows— knew— this world. This crazy… racing world.“
He stumbles across the word racing, his voice cracks.
And for me, everything goes silent.
I‘ve never been to Australia. It could be a new start. Fresh.
But only thinking about the garage, the smell of fuel and old tires. Cars rushing past me. My chest tightens.
I squirm uncomfortably in my chair.
When I let out a sigh, I feel his hand touching my leg. „Hey. You don‘t need to. If it‘s too much, I understand. Racing can be— a lot.“
I look up at him, his understanding gaze resting on me.
The pressure inside of me, to be normal, to be brave, it disappears with his presence next to me. Comforting.
„I‘m not ready. I think.“ I let out a shaky breath, getting lost in his hazel eyes. „It‘s too much.“ The last words are not much more than a whisper, but he hears them anyway. Comme toujours.
„That‘s okay.“ He presses a soft kiss to my temple, his big hands cupping my face. His touch leaves behind a trace of shivers on my skin.
I smile hesitantly.
„Isla.“
„Hm?“
„It‘s okay.“ He chuckles. „You don‘t need to come.“
I study his face. Search for evidence that he is lying. „Really?“
„Really.“
Just slightly, I shift my weight towards him until my head rests on his shoulder. My favorite position. His hands trace through my strands of brunette hair and a weird feeling of trust echoes through my body.
Like I would trust him with anything. Even with my heart.
Silence builds between us, a quiet space that is just made for us. For existing.
I play around with my necklace, the one that is equally a part of me as my hair or my fingernails. It belongs to me.
Lando notices. He gently takes the pendant in his own hand and rubs over the rough fabric. Then looks at me, my head still lying on his shoulder. „Did he give that to you?“ he whispers.
I shake my head. „My dad‘s engineer made it for me after his death.“ I hold it higher, study the light blue fabric. „It‘s a piece of his race suit. From the sleeve.“ My throat tightens, my vision gets blurry. I‘ve never had to tell anyone about this necklace.
Because nobody asked. „I always held onto his sleeve. That‘s why Thierry picked that piece I think.“
„It‘s beautiful.“ Lando still looks at the necklace like it‘s art. Then his gaze flickers up to me again. „Can I ask you something else?“
I nod slightly, not leaving my safe space on his shoulder.
“What‘s your favorite memory? With your dad?“
My heart skips a beat. Just like it always does when somebody mentions my dad.
Thousands of memories flood my mind, but one stays prominent. The one I have been keeping closest to my heart. “One day, he allowed me to sit in his race car with him. He was just about to drive out for a private training session with his team and Thierry lifted me onto his lap.“ A nostalgic expression covers my face. „I gripped the steering wheel and turned it, amazed that the tyres followed my movements.“ I chuckle. „That‘s when my dad decided he is going to take me karting.“
Lando‘s eyebrows shoot up. „You were a karter?“
„Oui, local Belgian Karting Championships. I was addicted to the speed, to the battles. And of course spending time with my dad. I felt insanely cool, knowing that my dad is Mathiéu Rousseau, Le Rouge.“
His hands brush over my arms, draw circles. „Do you miss it?“
I sigh. Hesitate. Camille thinks so. „It doesn’t matter. Because I couldn‘t do it without him. It was our thing. I still feel shame that I stopped though. He would‘ve wanted me to continue. Be the first woman in Formula One, who knows?“ I smile, look up at him.
“He would be proud of you, no matter what.“
A knot in my stomach tightens as I nod. „I think so too.“ I play with the hem of his soft shirt. „He would‘ve loved you.“
He blushes. „That‘s good to hear.“
In my head, I hear the words that my dad would‘ve said about Lando. Il a cette énergie, Petite Rouge. Il est magnifique. (He has that energy, little red. He is magical.)
The roar of engines used to thrill her — until the day Isla Rousseau’s father’s car went up in flames, and adrenaline became terror. Isla Rousseau never wanted to step a foot into the world of racing again, but the universe had other plans. Fifteen years and a diagnosis of PTSD later, she walks into Lando Norris, not knowing, he is everything she had walked away from. As racing, grief, and memories collide, Isla must confront the past and find the courage to feel her dad‘s energy again.
Warnings: PTSD, grief, death, panic attacks, car accident, fire
A/n: And that the end! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think about this. It was a hell lot of fun writing it in the first place and I hope you liked it too.
Taglist: @dessashippr
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Six years later
July - Spa Francorchamps
Just in time for the last few laps the sun shines down on the most famous corner, the Eau Rouge and reflects on the wet surface.
I look up to the corner down at the barricade, a smile building on my lips.
It‘s been 21 years since my father‘s car went up in flames and I had to watch him burn in the flames, standing at exactly the same place as right now. And even though there is still a tightness in my chest, it doesn‘t consume me, not anymore.
I worked a lot on my PTSD. Together with a therapist, but also with Lando. He helped get in touch with racing again, I visited him at countless of his own races, saw him win Silverstone, Abu Dhabi, Monaco and so many more.
There‘s just one that has been missing that would mean the world to me.
And that is about to happen.
“Ms. Rousseau-Norris?“ A middle-aged man walks up to me, redness building on his cheeks as he calls me out. I got used to people reacting to me this way over the six years of dating Lando. The media seems to be obsessed with a love story between a Rousseau-daughter and Lando Norris, Formula 1 World Champion.
I nod. „Yes?“ The light blue dress flows softly around my legs, the right warm breeze you need in the hot, sunny weather.
„Follow me right up, please.“ The man guides me closer to the barricade and already hands me the heavy flag with the black-and-white boxes on it.
Excitement mixed with nervousness pulls at my stomach. I don‘t feel ready. But this is what I have waited for all my life.
A camera is pointed at me and I shyly wink at it. I know what the people will now read on their screens. Daughter of Mathiéu Rousseau’s, local hero and racing driver, and the wife of Lando Norris.
A smile tucks at my lips at the thoughts.
„Okay, so what you are going to do, you wait for my signal and then you swing the flag like this, alright?“ He shows me the movement that I grew up seeing whenever I was there to watch my dad race.
I nod, pretending that this is completely new information to me.
Then, the only thing we have to do is wait.
The cars rush past us, the commentators announcing the last lap of the grand prix.
My heart starts beating faster and faster the longer it takes, but then the moment arrives.
It‘s Lando‘s papaya-colored car rushing down the straights, my stomach curls at the sight of him. Winning my home Grand Prix.
„Now.“ The advisor gives me the signal and I wave the flag.
Like it‘s the one thing I have waited for all my life. A laugh escapes my mouth.
You see Dad? This is for you.
And in my ear, I think I can hear him laugh beyond the roaring of the cars.
Lando‘s car takes the Eau Rouge one last time for his post-race lap and for a minute, there are these pictures of the exploding car in front of my inner eye.
But they disappear. It‘s my Lando. He won.
I give the man the flag back and rush down to Parc Fermé, eager to get the best place. I encounter many of the Mclaren employées on my way, Lando‘s mechanics and engineers, celebrating his win together with me.
Standing in parc fermé, seeing him get out of the car, holding his fist up into the air, my heart jumps. Celebrates.
I grip my necklace, the rough material grounding me, reminding me that this is for Dad as well. Everything is.
And then he comes running over to me. His helmet already off, he hugs me tightly, like his life depends on it.
„You won!“ I scream, a tear running down my face.
„This is for you, Isla. And for him.“ He whispers closely into my ear, his sweaty curls tickling my cheek. He wipes the tears away, cupping my face. We stare into each others eyes and for a second, the noises, the cheers, they all disappear. It‘s just us.
The roar of engines used to thrill her — until the day Isla Rousseau’s father’s car went up in flames, and adrenaline became terror. Isla Rousseau never wanted to step a foot into the world of racing again, but the universe had other plans. Fifteen years and a diagnosis of PTSD later, she walks into Lando Norris, not knowing, he is everything she had walked away from. As racing, grief, and memories collide, Isla must confront the past and find the courage to feel her dad‘s energy again.
Warnings: PTSD, grief, death, panic attacks, car accident, fire
A/n: Just the epilogue to go… I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did so far. This is such a huge milestone for me. I have never written a fanfic until the very last part.
Taglist: @dessashippr
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Six months later
January - Silverstone
The pit lane is almost empty, only the sporty, black Mclaren experience car in front of us and Lando‘s hand in mine.
In the back, there are few Mclaren and also Silverstone track employees, but they don‘t really look out for us.
„Are you sure you wanna do this?“ Lando asks me one more time, I can spot the worry in his hazel eyes.
Since that day at Spa I haven‘t been to another race.
It watched them all from afar, my sofa in London, his living room in Monaco when I needed to feel closer to him, but always from somewhere safe.
There were days where I needed to turn the TV off. The walls seemed too close. The papaya of the car was too bright. Just too much.
But the late-night calls after the races made it better.
We talked. About the PTSD. And about the triggers. We grew. Together.
And I didn‘t feel anxiety circling through my blood when somebody mentioned racing. It is a part of me now. Or again.
„Yes. I need this.“
I asked him to organize a private track day with Mclaren at Silverstone. I wanted to come here.
To watch him drive. With me on the passenger seat. Just one last thing I needed to prove to myself that I was strong enough.
Even thinking about this makes it hard to breathe though.
But so much has changed. And I know deep down that this is what I need. For myself.
But also for Dad.
It‘s like he was the one speaking through me when I asked Lando for this. For the hot lap. With him.
I sat next to Lando driving one of his sports cars on the normal road and I felt— safe. Carried. Held.
I don‘t remember when exactly the thought crept in of wanting to do a hot lap. It just made sense.
I breathe loudly next to him. He caresses the back of my hand with his thumb, drawing slow, relaxing circles.
„Deep breaths, alright?“
I nod, closing my eyes for a minute.
It‘s gonna be fine.
I. Need. This.
A weird mix of excitement and nervousness curls in my stomach, increasing the knot tightening.
A woman from the Silverstone staff hands us the helmets. The fabric of the inner side feels soft against my ears, comforting in some ways.
I struggle with closing it, my hands shake too much. So Lando helps. His hands feel cold on my chin. January in the middle of England even makes a racer freeze.
A smile tucks at his lips as he studies my face with the helmet on. „Suits you.“ There is a melancholic look in his eyes that doesn‘t quite make sense to me.
„What?“ I laugh, nervous.
„It‘s just— you look just like in these pictures that you showed me. From karting, you know?“
A lightning of electricity runs through me at his words. Karting.
I‘m still sad I didn‘t continue back then. Dad would‘ve wanted it. But I am here now, for him in some ways.
„Lan, can you take a photo of me? I need something I can send to my Mom.“ Who is dying a thousand deaths knowing I am here.
We take quickly take a selfie. It isn’t beautiful. But it’s us.
Opening the car door, the handle feels too heavy in my hand and sinking down in the seat, my stomach drops. The memory of me in my Dad‘s racing car appears in front of my inner eye.
Can you see me, Dad? This is for you.
Lando starts the engine, the car comes to life. I inhale shakily at the feeling of the vibrating car under me.
He looks over at me, I feel his gaze resting on me. Only one second later, his hand finds itself on my leg. Warm. Safe.
I smile at him, hesitant.
„You sure?“ He asks one more time.
I nod, fight the upcoming anxiety.
I want this. And I need this.
„Okay, ready?“
I nod again, a determined, almost stubborn look covers my face.
He starts driving, leaves the pitlane. And then we‘re on the circuit.
Once he hits the gas pedal, it feels like flying.
Like something moves to the right place inside of me.
This lap. With him. It is the missing piece to the bigger picture.
We drive, corner for corner. The G-forces pull on my body, my neck, but I don‘t care.
I think back to my dad. That‘s what he felt every time he sat in the car. That‘s what he felt going up Eau Rouge.
„Tu sens l‘énergie, ma Petite Rouge?“
Something clicks.
I feel it.
The energy.
Him.
It feels like a part of him is with me in the car, watching over me. Watching what his little girl achieved.
The vibrations of the car travel through my body, become a part of me. Settle in my heart.
Every once in a while, Lando‘s gaze falls on me, but I barely notice.
Too gone in the memories. The early ones, from karting. The later ones, with him in his car. Track walks.
His hand in mine, we walked through the paddock thousands of times and knowing that I will never be able to do that again, hurts. More than I want to admit. Then, there‘s his voice in my ear. The Belgian accent that I inherited.
L‘énergie.
Now I know what he meant.
This. This is my own version of the energy he told me about ever since I was a little child.
I found it. In Lando.
The green, the grandstands, they fly past us in a blur and I can‘t help, but yelp a few times. I grip the door.
It‘s a blur. A good blur, I think.
We reach the straight again, he slows the car down. And I believe it is fate.
Fate, that brought me to this club in London over a year ago. Where I met him.
Thank you, Dad.
It is only when the car nearly comes to a stop that I notice the tears on my cheeks. Hot tears, streaming down my face. I wipe them off, stare at the wet streaks on my fingers.
I breathe. A little more free than before stepping into the car. Like somebody took weight off of my chest I had carried for years and years.
I sniffle, meeting Lando‘s gaze. When he turns the engine off, I almost seem to miss the vibrations.
The look in Lando‘s eyes changes suddenly when he sees my red face. The tears. „Love, are you okay?“ There‘s so much worry in his voice, it rips my heart out.
“It was amazing, Lando.“ I close my eyes, feel more tears beneath the surface. „So, so amazing.“ My voice breaks, a sob escapes my throat.
The picture of my dad doesn‘t leave my mind. He‘s here, I can feel it.
The expression on his face grows softer. Quickly, he gets up from his seat and runs around the car to reach my door. He helps me get out of the car and the minute I stand on my own legs, he wraps his arms around me. Tightly, but never too tight.
I bury my face in his neck, sobbing. Overwhelmed.
„Thank you.“ I whisper.
„Always, Petite Rouge.“
The nickname catches me off guard. Out of his mouth, it sounds different. But good different. Just so damn right.
I let go of him for a second to look into his eyes. Drown in the golden hazel.
„I love you.“ The words just slip past my mouth. I don‘t even notice what I just said until I see the startled look on Lando‘s face.
A moment of silence builds and embarrassment floods my mind.
„I— I‘m sorry. I didn‘t want to…“
„I love you too, Isla.“ He interrupts me, the biggest smile on his face. But his eyes betray him. Tears reflect in the bottom of his eyes. „So, so much.“
He loves me.
Me. Isla. The girl that is scared of racing.
Was. I correct myself. Was scared of racing.
Before I can respond to his words, he presses our lips together in a soft kiss. His lips meet mine, warmth builds in my stomach, reaches my heart.
The roar of engines used to thrill her — until the day Isla Rousseau’s father’s car went up in flames, and adrenaline became terror. Isla Rousseau never wanted to step a foot into the world of racing again, but the universe had other plans. Fifteen years and a diagnosis of PTSD later, she walks into Lando Norris, not knowing, he is everything she had walked away from. As racing, grief, and memories collide, Isla must confront the past and find the courage to feel her dad‘s energy again.
Warnings: PTSD, grief, death, panic attacks, car accident, fire
A/n: This was my favorite one to write, but it still hurts my soul <3
Taglist: @dessashippr
Series Masterlist
Lando Norris Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Six months later
June - London/Austria
My bedroom in London is already dark, when my phone on the nightstand lights up because of an incoming call.
Lan <3 the caller ID reads and I am fast to grab it and take the call.
„Bonsoir, petit fou.“
I am greeted with his soft laugh. „You still haven‘t told me what that means, love. It‘s mean when you have a nickname for me that I don‘t even understand, you know?“
I chuckle. „What are you gonna do? Check google translator?“
We both laugh and for a minute it feels like he is right here next to me and not in Austria. Silence grows as both of us don‘t know what to say. „Tu me manques.“ (I miss you.)
„I know.“ he answers. I taught him that phrase once during our nightly calls and since then I keep using it again and again. Sometimes, French seems more intimate. Deeper.
“Isla, I…“ I know what he is going to say.
„You won.“ I interrupt him.
We don‘t speak about the races. Or the results. Only when something happened that upset him. And that used to be enough for me. But when he won Monaco a few weeks ago and I only learned through his instagram post a few hours later, it bothered me.
So I started watching the races. Subscribed to F1TV. Behind his back. I didn‘t want him to ask questions. What this means for my relationship to motorsport. And foremost, I didn‘t want him to worry.
It‘s enough when I need to sit at home every other weekend, knowing damn well that he is driving a car at 320 km/h and I can only pray. That there is no fire. No stab in my heart.
„You… know?“ He seems surprised. But happy-surprised. „But… how? I mean… I haven‘t posted yet.“
„I… watched it.“ I let out, my grip tightening on the phone.
„The race?“ He breathed, a chuckle following his words. „You watched the race?“
I shrug, until I remember that he can‘t see that. „I‘ve watched all the last races.“ I play it down, like it‘s not a big thing.
„Wait, really? Since when?“ Excitement spills out of him and a smile covers my face. Hearing him happy, not only because of a race win, but simply because of me, it allows warmth to travel all across my body.
„Since Monaco. I… couldn‘t live with the thought of knowing you‘re out there driving and I don‘t know how you‘re doing.“ My voice grows quieter with each word.
I don‘t hide from him. I always tell Lando the truth. It‘s a promise I made to myself. If this is meant to work, I need to be honest. With all of my struggles. All my thoughts.
„Love, that‘s… you‘re good though, right? Are you…“
panicking. Is it too much?
We both know what he wanted to say. But he stopped himself. Because I wouldn‘t handle it well. Because he knows.
„I‘m happy. For you. I mean, the way you defended against Oscar? Proud of you, petit fou. Nothing like my old karting moves.“
He chuckles, but I can feel the tension through the phone. He is worried. Exactly the thing I didn‘t want him to be.
„Lan?“
„Hm?“ He sounds distracted.
„Don‘t overthink it, yeah? I‘m just a girlfriend who wants to support her boyfriend doing boyfriend-things.“ I try to let it sound casual.
„Yeah, but… It‘s different. With you.“
I sigh, knowing damn well what he means. And for some reason frustration builds inside of me, impossible to hold down. „I want to fight the PTSD. I don‘t want it to control my life. And most importantly, I want to share your passion with you. Even when it scares me to death.“
“That‘s brave, love. I‘m proud of my girlfriend.“
I tilt my head. „Merci.“ I whisper.
And as silence builds between us again, I remember what I had thought about for a while now. Before I can hesitate a second longer, I use all of my courage as Lando had just called it and ask: „Lan, do you think… I could come to one of your grand prixs any time soon?“
He stays quiet. Too long.
I fumble with the hem of the heavy blanket on top of me, giving my nervous hands something to do.
„Do you… want to? Am I pushing you? Isla, I don‘t want to make you feel like you need to come. It doesn‘t mean that much to me.“
Ever since the start of our relationship where he asked me to come to a race with him, we never spoke about it again. In between these six months of getting to know each other, he has learned every single trigger for my PTSD. He has helped me to dance around a meltdown. But that can‘t be reality. Living on the edge. Ignoring.
I need to change. Something. Anything.
„You‘re not pushing me. I want to, you know, see more of the world you‘re living in. And… I do miss the cold garages.“ I try to laugh, ease the tension.
Lando stays silent again, although his thinking is so loud, it feels like I can almost hear his thoughts. He sighs and I already start worrying if I am asking too much from him when he speaks up: „If you want to, I‘d love to have you there. But… whenever it‘s too much, you need to tell me, okay?“
„Thank you, Lan. Really.“
———————
July - Spa Francorchamps
The Spa Francorchamps paddock isn‘t comparable to what it used to be like with dad. All the people screaming Lando‘s name and his bodyguard pushing us forward, framing us from both sides the best he can. It‘s overwhelming to say the least.
The only thing that stayed the same, is that I have someone's hand to hold.
It‘s not the big, warm one of my father, but it‘s Lando‘s hand that fits into mine like it was meant to be there all along.
I cling onto him like my life depends on it as we walk past the barricades. And once we reach the paddock, scan our passes, I start to recognize a little more. My throat tightens when I think about the times I have walked on the same ground. And the last time I did.
Lando notices. „Too much?“ he whispers into my ear, but I shake my head.
It‘s just friday. Practice day. Lando convinced me to start slow. With the day that is the least crowded. So he can watch out for me, especially because he doesn‘t even have to drive the first free practice, one of the Mclaren Junior Academy drivers is taking over his car.
He is going to be here.
I am not alone.
My gaze wanders around the paddock, watching all the different team motor homes. Red, green, blue and papaya. We walk towards the door of the Mclaren hospitality, when suddenly Lando stops.
Another man stands in front of him, a big smile on his face. He wears a blue team kit, Atlassian Williams, I read. That must be Carlos.
Lando has told me much about his past teammate, a good friend. Carlos points to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. „You brought her? Finally?“ He asks, clearly excited, a strong spanish accent in his tone.
I can‘t help but laugh, as he greets me with a handshake. „I‘m Carlos. And that man can‘t stop talking about you, do you know that?“
“Isla. Only good things, I hope?“ I look over at Lando, redness creeping up his cheeks as Carlos‘ words.
„Claro que si!“ His gaze wanders between the both of us. „Have a good time, yeah? Enjoy the racing.“
My stomach tightens at his words and for a second, my mask drops. Lando squeezes my hand tighter. I make a step closer to him.
“We will. And you have fun driving, you muppet.“
We leave Carlos behind us and just within the few exchanged words, the paddock already got more crowded. Every mechanic, every engineer arrives early to prepare everything.
That‘s how it always has been.
Thierry appears in front of my inner eye and I want to ban him from my thoughts. He lost so much with my dad‘s death as well.
Stop. Not today. Too hurtful.
Lando guides me through the transparent front door of the hospitality and silence greets us. He looks at me, studying my face. A soft, reassuring smile tucks at his lips.
For a second, it‘s just us. It‘s like all the people around us don‘t even exist. Not the hospitality workers, not the marketing experts. Just us, his hazel eyes and his hand in mine. And everything is okay. Not scary.
But the tightness around my heart I woke up with this morning won‘t disappear.
„Shall I give you a tour?“ Lando breaks the moment.
I nod. Distraction. Good idea.
——————
We walk past everything that he is allowed to show me. I visit his messy driver room that he spends the most alone-time in, the garage and am even allowed to touch his papaya-car with the number 4 on it. He introduces me to a hell lot of people whose names I have already forgotten, but hearing him say „my girlfriend Isla“ so many times doesn‘t fail to make my heart skip a beat. And the smile growing on his face every time tells me that he feels very similar.
And then it comes to the pitlane. Because it is so early on a friday morning, it is nearly empty, only the staff of different teams rushing past.
The second I walk out of the Mclaren garage onto the pitlane, it is like I am stuck in a past memory. I switch the papaya of the engineer‘s shirts for light blue. My head exchanges the modern barricade with the old rusty one that I clung to as a child, pretending I can still smell the metallic scent on my hands. We walk across every garage and as much as I try to stop myself from looking at the track, I can‘t.
Immediately, I spot Eau Rouge.
And in my mind, there‘s fire. I still see the fire ball from the explosion, feel the soft fabric of Thierry‘s shirt under my fingers, when actually it is Lando‘s arm I am gripping tightly.
I start to lose myself in the memories, my vision blurs.
But before the panic can take control, he‘s there.
„Love, Isla. Hey, I‘m here.“ I can‘t stop staring at the corner. The corner that killed my dad.
I hold back the tears, but the ringing in my ears doesn‘t disappear. Not immediately.
„It‘s… strange. So much has changed, but at the same time everything feels the same.“ I tell Lando, my gaze still resting on the Eau Rouge.
I hear mechanics working on the cars, the sounds of different tools being used reaches us, but my mind blurs it all out. In my head, there‘s only the memory of shouts from the workers trackside, screaming for a fire extinguisher and for somebody to call an ambulance.
Lando squeezes my hand. Pulls me back into reality. „It‘s okay. It‘s normal that it makes you feel like this.“
Is it though?
In moments like this I become hyper-aware of my PTSD diagnosis. It makes me different from other people. Weaker.
But I am here to change that. I am here to beat this part of me that tells me I can‘t do it.
Right now, the goal seems a bit too big, too scary.
Throughout the morning, Lando tries to spend as much time with me as he can, but the later it gets, the more busier he is. Social Media duties, content that needs to get filmed that they couldn‘t quite get finished yesterday.
But somehow, he still makes sure to check in on me.
Only when the first free practice of the weekend comes closer, the paddock becomes the busiest and so is Lando. They expect him to sit at the pitwall, watching over the data of Oscar and their academy driver during the session.
He walks me to the space in the garage where I can spend my time and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. His warm hand cupping my face seconds before he needs to leave, he whispers into my ear: „So proud of you for pushing through. You‘re the bravest.“
And as much as I would like to believe him, I feel everything, but brave. The smell of fuel, the hectic energy in the garage, it all reminds me of my past.
And with it comes so much grief. Darkness that drains me.
I hide it in front of Lando, though. I can‘t allow to distract him from his work. He has already done too much for me.
He leaves for the pitwall eventually, leaving me behind in the garage.
It feels like I am watching the situation unfold from the outside. A passive observer, watching over all these busy people, a clear job in their minds. While I just stand there. Doing nothing.
Thoughts spiralling.
The session starts. The first car is sent out. Heated up tires.
I think I am fine. The sounds of the cars firing up and heading out of the garage sounds almost like an old lullaby that I grew up with.
That somehow ended in a nightmare.
I watch the big screens in the garage during the first few minutes, when I hear the first car rush past us on the straight.
And looking back at it, that‘s what triggered it.
My hands start to shake, I lean against the wall beside me to steady my collapsing nerve-system.
My thoughts become too much inside of my head.
Fire. Smoke.
„Daddy!“ „Petite Rouge.“
Fire.
„Bring the girl in. It‘s not looking good.“
Too many memories.
Something cuts through my chest. I am bleeding.
My head spins, my legs feel like they are going to give out.
When an unfamiliar face appears in front of me.
„Hey, are you okay?“ The woman dressed in all-papaya asks me in a polite, but slightly worried tone. „You look a bit pale.“
I shake my head, another wave of dizziness hitting me.
My hands tremble, I press them against my sides.
I don‘t want to lose control. I can do this.
No, I can‘t. I can‘t be strong.
„Okay, um… can you… talk to me?“
I let out a whimper, my brain feels fuzzy, like clouds grew inside of it.
„No… got it. Different idea. Let‘s sit down together, yeah?“
The woman says too many words at once. I can‘t follow. A sudden headache makes it feel like my head is going to explode.
My vision blurs, turns white.
So bright.
The woman helps me sink down against a steady, cold wall in my back.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The lighting hurts.
In the distance, I still hear the cars. The roaring engines. Downshifting.
„Petite Rouge veut regarder Le Rouge.“
The woman disappears, I am left alone.
My whole body starts to shake, I have lost complete control over my muscles.
And I am cold. So cold.
Muffled words exchanged next to me. Nothing reaches my cloudy brain.
Then, a familiar face. Familiar hand in mine.
Lan. My Lan.
„Isla. Hey, hey, hey.“ He wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest. „You‘re ice cold.“ He mutters under his breath, his heart beating irregularly right next to my ear.
He exhales and stills for a minute. I cling to him like a toddler that just fell onto their knees.
„Okay, focus, Norris.“ He whispers, inhaling sharply. „We‘re gonna get you somewhere safe, now. Right, Isla?“
I nod, hazy gaze. Everything feels heavy. Like I am dying.
I yelp when I feel his hands grabbing first my legs and then my shoulders. Then I‘m in his arms, he carries me.
My head falls against his chest and I grip his hoodie anxiously. „Lan, make it stop.“ I whisper.
„What, love. What?“ His voice is in distress. I feel his hands trembling as he holds me up.
„Too bright.“ I let out.
„Close your eyes. Close them, for me.“ His voice is gentle, but I can spot the worry beneath his words.
I have lost all my orientation, until we finally reach a room that I can quickly identify as his driver room. He sits me down on the expanded couch that he can use as a bed.
I lean against the wall and hold onto his hand. I need his warmth.
His hold.
My eyes still closed, I hear Lando mumbling. It feels like he is miles away. My hearing fades with every word he is saying
„Shit, Isla. What should I do?“
I want to open my mouth, say something.
But it takes every strength of my body to stay conscious. To keep a little bit of control.
Only a whimper escapes my dry throat.
My fingers tingle, like they aren‘t even mine anymore.
I feel the mattress shift under his weight. Then I get pulled into his lap softly.
Lavender. Ciderwood. Safe. Lando.
I take a shaky breath.
He strokes through my hair lazily, his warmth travelling through my entire body as everything calms down a little bit.
“Let‘s breathe together.“ he whispers close to my ear.
„In…“ I feel his chest tightening under my body.
„Out.“ I try to match him, but it doesn‘t work.
It never works.
I stay like this. Curled up in his arms. And somehow, the world doesn‘t feel so scary anymore.
My trembling stops. My heart slows.
And eventually I drift off into darkness. With Lando beside me.
———————
My eyes flutter open and I am greeted by dimmed light. Every muscle in my body protests as I try to sit up, but Lando‘s gentle hand keeps me in position.
In his lap.
„It‘s okay. Take it slow.“
My throat feels dry, like I swallowed bricks. Or had a panic attack.
Guilt floods my body, my soul. My heart.
Lando grabs a water bottle from the shelf beside him, opens it and lightly holds it in front of my mouth.
„Small sips.“ He advises me and I feel the cold water run down my throat as I nearly choke on it.
My brain is still in a hazy state, not every part is working yet. I let myself fall against his steady chest again, inhaling his scent that allows me to breathe. To relax.
„You scared me.“ He says. Whispers.
I swallow the tears bubbling from beneath the surface. But I can‘t stop the shame. Or the guilt.
Emotions take control over my body that I thought I had banned forever.
„I‘m sorry.“ I mumble against his soft hoodie. He draws lazy circles over my back.
„Don‘t apologize. Ever.“
His words don‘t reach me. Not really. „I‘m weak.“
“You experienced trauma.“
Now I can‘t stop the tears. They blur my gaze, heat my face up and intensify the guilt. Ripping my heart out. Too much.
Tired.
So damn tired.
„Hey, don‘t cry.“ He wipes the tears away with one swift motion.
„I just— I hate this. I hate PTSD.“ A broken cry follows my words and his grip on me grows tighter.
Not uncomfortable. Just safe.
“I understand. You‘re still so fucking brave, love.“
I sniffle, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning in his driver room. A consistency I find comfort in.
I stay silent, too exhausted to speak.
„Can I ask what triggered it?“
I shrug. Shift in his lap. „The car rushing past. Up Eau Rouge. I think. I remembered the chaos. The smell. And the noise when it… when it exploded.“ My throat tightens at my words, not familiar with talking about it. The accident. That killed him.
It‘s almost ironic that I am at this track. Crying, in the arms of a racing driver.
Dad, can you see me?
„And…“ I hesitated, scared he might get thrown off by my honesty.
„Yeah?“ he asks gently. Not pushing. My heart clenches.
„I heard his voice in my head. He repeated the nickname he had for me.“
He exhales, waits for me to continue.
“Petite Rouge, he called me. Because his engineers gave him the name Le Rouge. He was always the fastest up the Eau Rouge.“
„Isla, that‘s…“ his voice cracks. „Beautiful. Petite Rouge?“ He tries mimicking my belgian accent, but fails miserably.
„No, Petite Rouge.“ I repeat. Emphasizing the t and the soft g. A little laugh escapes my throat. „You‘re not allowed to use that though. It‘s reserved.“
And it breaks my heart every time I hear it.
But something about the way his voice sounds when the two words roll off his tongue, does something to me. My stomach curls. Warmth travels through me.
Silence builds between us, but being held by him, feeling his hands on me, it could never feel uncomfortable.
I just exist.
„What can I do next time? If it happens?“ he asks quietly.
„Just— be there. Hold me. You did everything right.“
He sighs, clearly not happy with my answer. „I felt so useless.“
His fingers travel over my bare arms, leaving behind a shiver. „I wanted to help, but didn‘t know how.“
„Nobody can help, petit fou. That‘s just how it is.“
He groans. Protests. „I don‘t like that. I want to be there.“
I chuckle. „You are there.“ In the best way possible.
„Am I?“ The worried tone in his voice tells me that he means it.
