Summary : if lando asked, she’d do it. that’s the problem. he knows she’d do anything for him, and he keeps asking anyway — until one misunderstanding, one missed sponsor meeting, and one final betrayal cost her everything.
Paring : lando norris x female reader
Warnings : angst, unrequited love, one-sided pining, emotional manipulation, being led on, humiliation, miscommunication, neglect, workplace fallout, getting fired, no happy ending,
If Lando asked for the moon, Y/N would have learned how to fly.
That was the embarrassing truth of her life.
Not that she loved him.
That had become almost ordinary to her, folded into the rhythm of race weekends and late nights and the humiliating little lift in her chest every time he said her name.
No, the embarrassing part was that he knew.
Maybe not every detail of it. Maybe not the nights she lay awake replaying things he hadn’t meant. Maybe not the fact that half her life had started arranging itself around his moods without her permission.
But he knew enough.
Enough to know she would stay.
Enough to know she would fix it.
Enough to know that if he smiled first and asked second, she would say yes before the question had even finished leaving his mouth.
He liked that.
That was the part Y/N hated herself for understanding.
He liked being wanted. Liked being taken care of. Liked the certainty of her, the way she was always there, always soft for him, always ready to make his life easier.
He liked the devotion.
He just didn’t care about the girl attached to it.
“Y/N.”
She looked up too fast.
Lando was leaning against the office doorway, cap in one hand, team quarter zip half undone, still sun-warm from outside. Pretty in the kind of thoughtless way that should have made a person less dangerous and somehow only made him worse.
He smiled the second he saw she was looking.
“There you are.”
Her pulse kicked.
“What do you need?”
His grin widened.
“See? That’s why you’re my favourite.”
Across the room, Mia didn’t even bother hiding her expression.
Y/N looked back down at her laptop. “You say that to get things.”
“Yeah,” Lando said easily, crossing the room. “And it works.”
He dropped into the chair beside her desk and pushed his phone into her hand.
Two schedule blocks. One sponsor appearance. One media stop. Same time.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second. “You said yes to both.”
He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Probably.”
“Lando.”
“Definitely.”
She started fixing it while he watched her do it, perfectly relaxed now that the problem belonged to someone else.
After a second, he said, quieter, “I knew you’d sort it.”
That voice.
That exact voice.
Warm enough to feel personal. Light enough to deny later.
Y/N kept her eyes on the screen. “You always know I’ll sort it.”
“Because you always do.”
He said it like praise.
It wasn’t.
It was ownership.
She handed the phone back a minute later.
“There. You’ll have to leave the sponsor thing early.”
He looked at it, relieved. “You’re actually unreal.”
Then he looked at her.
Really looked.
And smiled in that lazy, devastating way that made it feel like he had chosen her out of every person in the room.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Before she could stop herself, she smiled back.
That seemed to satisfy him.
Of course it did.
He reached out, brushed two fingers over her shoulder, and stood.
“Love you.”
Y/N froze.
Mia looked up immediately.
Lando had already made it halfway to the door.
He glanced back when he felt the silence.
“What?”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “What did you just say?”
His mouth curved.
“Relax.” He gave her a look like she was being sensitive on purpose. “You know what I mean.”
And then he left.
Mia waited exactly two seconds.
“He’s evil.”
Y/N let out a thin laugh.
“No,” she said, still staring at the doorway. “That would require effort.”
⁜
He led her on in ways that were hard to explain to people who hadn’t seen it.
Because it was never enough to be undeniable.
That was what made it so effective.
If he had kissed her once and regretted it, she could have hated him.
If he had told her outright that he liked the attention, she could have left.
If he had been careless enough to say I know you love me and I don’t care, at least there would have been honesty in the cruelty.
Instead, he gave her moments.
Little ones.
He would find her in crowded rooms and stand too close.
He would text her past midnight with you awake? and then, after she answered immediately like an idiot, follow it with need a favour x.
He would say things like I only trust you with this and you get me better than anyone here and stay with me for a sec in a tone soft enough to make her forget she was still technically at work.
He never promised.
He never had to.
Hope did all the labor for him.
One night after a sponsor dinner in Abu Dhabi, Y/N was outside by transport trying to reorganize cars when Lando came down the hotel steps with a brunette tucked under his arm.
He saw her and smiled.
“You’re still here.”
It was almost impressive, how he could make that sound intimate when all it really meant was good, the thing I need is where I left it.
“I work here,” Y/N said.
“Right.” He stepped toward her, lowering his voice as if this were something private. “Can you cover for me if anyone asks?”
Her eyes flicked to the brunette waiting by the car.
Then back to him.
“Cover what?”
He gave her that look. The one that said don’t make this difficult while still smiling.
“Just say I left early. Sponsor exhaustion. Whatever sounds official.”
Y/N stared at him.
For one awful second, he looked almost amused.
Then he softened, just a little.
“Please?”
There it was.
The tilt in his voice. The sweetness. The quiet confidence that she’d fold.
Because she always did.
Y/N swallowed. “Fine.”
His smile turned pleased.
“Knew I could count on you.”
Then he turned and walked back to the brunette without another thought, leaving Y/N standing there under the lights with her phone in her hand and her dignity somewhere under his tires.
That night, she lay in bed replaying knew I could count on you until she wanted to scream.
Not because it was kind.
Because it wasn’t.
Because it was certainty.
Because he knew exactly what she was and kept using her for it.
⁜
She asked him out on a Wednesday night.
Later, when everything had already gone wrong, Y/N would keep coming back to that moment and wondering if that had been the last clear warning she ignored.
The office behind hospitality was nearly empty. Most people had gone. The overhead lights were too bright, the air-conditioning too cold, the whole room suspended in that late-night stillness where everything felt more honest than it should.
Lando was sitting across from her desk in a hoodie, elbows on his knees, watching her rebuild the next day’s schedule because he’d changed his mind about three separate things and expected the universe to rearrange itself accordingly.
He looked tired.
Tired Lando was dangerous.
Softer. Slower. More likely to say things that felt true.
“You always take care of me,” he said.
Y/N kept typing because looking at him felt unsafe. “Someone has to.”
He smiled.
“No, but you do.”
She glanced up.
Big mistake.
He was already watching her with that unreadable softness he slipped into sometimes, the one that made her feel chosen and stupid in equal measure.
He tipped his head.
“You like taking care of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
And because she was tired too, because she was so tired of living inside things he could deny, Y/N heard herself say, “What if I do?”
He blinked.
Then smiled a little, like he thought she was being bold in a way that amused him.
“Then I’m very lucky.”
Her heart started racing.
There should have been a fire alarm inside her for moments like this. Some mechanism that said: he is doing it again. He is giving you just enough to keep you standing still.
Instead, there was only that awful bright hope.
She set her laptop aside before she could lose her nerve.
“Do you want to go out with me sometime?”
He frowned slightly.
“Out where?”
Her mouth went dry.
“On a date,” she said, because if she didn’t say it plainly now, she never would.
At that exact second, his phone lit up.
He looked down instantly. Swore under his breath. Grabbed it off the desk.
“Yeah, yeah, one sec...”
He scanned whatever message had come in, half-listening, already leaving her.
Then, distracted, he nodded and said, “Yeah, sure.”
Y/N stared at him.
“Really?”
“Mmhm.”
He was already typing.
She should have heard it then. The vagueness. The inattention. The fact that his yes had not landed on her at all.
She didn’t.
Or maybe she did and hope just drowned it.
“Okay,” she said softly.
“Text me,” he said, still looking at the phone. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”
And somehow she still went home glowing.
That was the pathetic part.
That a half-heard yes from a man who wasn’t even looking at her still felt like being chosen.
⁜
He didn’t show up.
Of course he didn’t.
Y/N sat alone at a restaurant in Monaco for forty-six minutes, checking her phone like each time might produce a different result.
Nothing.
No text.
No call.
No apology.
At minute fifteen, she told herself he was late.
At minute twenty-eight, she told herself something urgent had come up.
At minute thirty-four, she started to understand.
At minute forty-six, she knew.
He had never heard her properly.
Or worse : he had heard enough to answer and cared too little to remember.
The waitress came over with that careful smile people wore when they knew they were witnessing something embarrassing and wanted to pretend they weren’t.
“Would you like another minute?”
Y/N swallowed. “No. Just the bill.”
Her phone buzzed when she was halfway back to the hotel.
It was him.
For one stupid second, her whole body lit up.
Then she opened it.
need you to move tomorrow’s sponsor breakfast
She stopped walking.
That was it.
No sorry.
No where are you?
No I forgot.
Just need.
Y/N typed back before she could talk herself out of it.
you didn’t come
The reply took less than a minute.
to what?
She stared at the screen so long it dimmed.
That hurt more than anything else could have.
Not because he said no.
Because he didn’t even know what he had failed to show up for.
She typed nothing.
Another message came in.
seriously can you move the breakfast?
Then:
please
Then:
you know i wouldn’t ask if i had another option
Y/N laughed out loud on the sidewalk, the sound sharp enough to make a couple passing by glance at her.
There it was again.
The lie they both participated in.
As if she were the last option.
As if he didn’t come to her first because he knew exactly what she’d do.
She replied:
can’t. it’s mandatory.
He didn’t answer after that.
The next morning, he missed the sponsor breakfast anyway.
By afternoon, leadership knew.
By two o’clock, HR knew.
By two-ten, Y/N learned exactly what he had told them.
⁜
The conference room was too cold.
That was all Y/N could think at first, sitting across from the woman from HR and two senior staff members while they arranged papers in front of themselves and wore expressions that already had the decision built into them.
This wasn’t a follow-up.
This was a dismissal with good posture.
“There have been concerns,” the HR woman began, “about judgment and professionalism where Driver Norris is concerned.”
Y/N frowned. “What?”
The senior PR lead folded his hands. “Yesterday evening and this morning created a situation that we can’t ignore.”
Her stomach dropped.
“The sponsor breakfast?”
“In part.”
The HR woman looked down at her notes.
“We were informed that there may have been confusion caused by you regarding his evening plans, and that this may have contributed to him failing to attend his mandatory breakfast commitment.”
Y/N went still.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.
Literally still.
She stopped breathing for a second.
Then said, carefully, “I’m sorry. Confusion caused by me?”
The PR lead glanced away.
No one answered immediately.
That was answer enough.
Y/N’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. “What exactly did he say?”
The HR woman’s expression stayed neutral.
“That he believed there had been a misunderstanding created by you around a personal outing, and that his schedule may not have been communicated to him clearly enough afterward.”
The room went white at the edges.
There it was.
Not just that he’d missed the breakfast.
Not just that he’d forgotten her.
He had let them pin it on her.
Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because he’d been annoyed. Maybe because he hadn’t even thought through what it would do.
That almost made it worse.
Y/N laughed once.
The sound came out awful.
The HR woman softened slightly. “I understand this is upsetting.”
“No,” Y/N said, before she could stop herself. “You don’t.”
All three of them looked at her.
And because some final piece of her had already cracked open, the truth slipped out.
“He didn’t even know it was a date.”
Silence.
Immediate and complete.
Y/N shut her eyes.
Too late.
When she opened them again, the HR woman had gone very still.
“I see.”
No, Y/N thought.
No, you really don’t.
The PR lead cleared his throat. “This only confirms the blurred boundaries we’ve been concerned about.”
Blurred boundaries.
What a clean phrase for something that had ruined her so thoroughly.
By the time they said terminate your contract effective immediately, she was no longer really hearing them.
Badge revoked.
Apartment linked to role.
Access removed.
Pack your desk.
She nodded because her body knew how to perform compliance even while the rest of her was in freefall.
At one point, the HR woman said gently, “Why would you put yourself in this position for him?”
Y/N looked at her.
There were a hundred true answers.
Because he asked.
Because he knew.
Because he kept asking.
Because I loved him and he liked that more than he liked me.
Instead she just said, “I made a mistake.”
It was the smallest lie she had told about him.
⁜
She went to find him immediately.
Not because she thought he would fix it.
Not because she thought he would even be sorry in the right way.
Because she needed him to hear it from her.
Needed him to know that this one, at least, had landed somewhere real.
He was near hospitality, half-dressed for the next obligation, phone in hand, talking to someone from media while two sponsor reps hovered nearby.
He looked up when she said his name.
“Oh...hey.”
Hey.
Y/N almost smiled at that. The ordinariness of it. The complete mismatch between his tone and the fact that her life had just been taken apart because of him.
“I need to talk to you.”
He glanced at the people around him. “Can this wait? I’m about to...”
“No.”
That got his attention, briefly.
He stepped half away from the group, enough to suggest privacy without actually giving it.
“What happened?”
Y/N stared at him.
Then said it plainly.
“I got fired.”
His brows drew together.
“For what?”
She actually laughed.
There it was again. The confusion. The pure, undisturbed confusion of a man who had moved through his day never once imagining that another person’s world might have collapsed under the weight of his convenience.
“For you,” she said.
That made him frown. “What?”
“I got fired because you missed the sponsor breakfast. Because HR thinks I mishandled your schedule. Because apparently you told them I confused you about your evening plans.”
His expression changed.
Not enough.
Just enough to say he understood this might become inconvenient.
“Y/N, I didn’t...”
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Actually looked down.
At his phone.
While she was standing there trying not to come apart.
Something inside her went very quiet.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “One sec.”
He typed a reply.
One sec.
That was the line her mind would come back to later. The thing that would hurt in all the empty places long after the rest of it blurred.
Not the firing itself.
Not the date.
Not even the blame.
One sec.
As if devastation could hold.
As if she still existed in his life as something that would wait until he was finished with the important stuff.
Y/N let him finish.
Then, when he looked up again and said, “What were you saying?” with the faint impatience of someone trying to catch up to a conversation he’d half-missed, she just looked at him.
Really looked.
At the charm.
At the carelessness.
At the almost-boyish confusion that had gotten him forgiven by too many people for too long.
At the man who knew she would bleed for him and still found ways to ask for more.
“I said,” she told him quietly, “I got fired.”
He stared.
Then glanced over her shoulder because someone from media had just called his name.
He was already leaving again.
Even now.
Even here.
Y/N felt the last of her hope die so cleanly she almost mistook it for relief.
“That’s insane,” he said absently. “I’ll talk to someone.”
“No, you won’t.”
He frowned, distracted. “Why are you doing this now?”
That almost made her laugh.
Doing this now.
As if heartbreak had scheduling etiquette.
“Because you blamed me.”
“I didn’t blame you.”
“You let them.”
“That’s not...”
“Lando,” the media guy called again, closer now. “Now.”
He turned his head, annoyed.
Then looked back at Y/N.
And in that pause, that tiny split second where he clearly wanted this conversation to be over because he had somewhere else to be, she finally saw him as he was.
Not torn.
Not secretly in love.
Not scared of what she meant.
Just inconvenienced.
By her feelings. By her firing. By the timing of a mess he hadn’t meant to make and didn’t especially want to clean up.
He had always known she’d risk it all for him.
He’d just never thought that might become his problem.
Y/N stepped back.
He said her name, but only because she was moving away.
She smiled then.
Small. Sharp. Done.
“You should go,” she said. “You’ve got media.”
Something flickered across his face.
Guilt, maybe. Or annoyance. Or just the discomfort of being seen too clearly for the first time.
“Y/N...”
But she was already walking.
And the awful, perfect thing was that he let her.
Of course he did.
Because he always thought there would be time later.
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."
in a perfect universe, their son is born a couple days overdue after an intense but otherwise normal labour. this, however, is not that reality.
﹙ 🍼 ﹚ 𝒻em ! oc ✴ husband , dad ! lando ◟ 🥨 oneshot , heavy angst. set in 2030-ish, timeline's a mess ◜ᴗ◝ word count. 6.8k radio. trigger warnings: this one contains descriptive mention of difficult childbirth experiences (blood loss, nausea, pain) and so many medical terms that are unfamiliar to me. if google has led me astray, please overlook the inaccuracies. to the anon who kinda requested this, enjoy! ／ 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘.
Lando likes to think he’s plenty familiar with surprises.
They are the kind of necessary evil that comes with his job description. The best way he can explain it is like the expectancy of getting burnt once or twice as a fire fighter, or the promise of hitting turbulent waters when a ship’s radar spots an approaching storm.
Still, as often as he lives between the few hundredths of seconds cooped inside what is an engineering marvel in theory, nobody likes bracing for impact.
There's one sentiment his performance team has drilled into his head ever since he was barely reaching his peers’ shoulders in F3 and outperforming them twice as frequently; it is easy to forget all the risks and fears when everything is going swimmingly, but complacency always comes with an overhauling stop.
It begins on a chilly February night, sometime between arse o’clock and dawn, when Evelyn shakes him awake.
“What– What is it?” Lando sputters, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He reaches to the other side of their bed where she is already sitting up, legs crisscrossed with both hands on her bump. “Ev, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she says, in a strained voice. “I woke up and the whole thing just– hurt so bad.” Evelyn looks up at him, and Lando thinks it’s possibly the most scared he has ever seen her, blue eyes glassy and every bit searching for answers. “He’s too small, Lan. He can’t– he can’t come yet.”
The overthinker in him should be on the cusp of overdrive and for someone who keeps certainty in a vice grip, being unsure is probably the worst thing he can be. But at that moment, hearing her breath catch, shaking hands reach out to him almost helplessly, Lando doesn’t think – just pulls Evelyn forwards into his arms.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he says like a mantra, maybe trying to convince them both as he runs his palms slowly up and down his wife’s back while she gets her breathing under control.
The thing about Lando is that his brain nitpicks the most ridiculous nuggets of information to store away for later. Mostly they are completely useless when they resurface, but this time it comes to his aid somewhat: though far from the ‘ideal’ situation, he’s tried reading enough parenting books to know that otherwise healthy babies at thirty-five weeks survive maybe ninety-percent of the time.
But Evelyn doesn’t need pragmatism right now. She’s clearly terrified and that means he absolutely cannot be.
“Here’s what we are going to do,” he starts, impressed by how composed he sounds, at least to his own ears, “I’m going to ring the neonatal unit and we will drive down there right now to get you checked out. Alright?”
Evelyn nods, still a bit out of it. But now that she has a task, she can focus on something other than the worry. Or she tries to. As soon as she gets to her feet, she crumples back onto the duvet again.
Lando catches that from the corner of his eyes, instantly abandoning his phone on the nightstand to cradle her head. Her eyes are screwed shut, face twisted. “Talk to me, baby. What hurts?”
“Everything,” she chokes out, a barely stifled sob wedged inside her throat. “I feel like I could throw up and– and– why the fuck did you turn the heater up so high?”
He didn’t. The temperature on the remote display is still the comfortable warmth they’d gone to bed with. Lando swallows dryly over the alarm bells blaring inside his head growing louder, pressing a kiss to her temple only to recoil immediately. She’s burning up.
“M'going to take you to the bathroom, yeah? I think a shower might help, but let me know what you need. Anything.”
Evelyn might not be in the best state to broker an argument but she seems on board with the idea. He runs a lukewarm bath instead, afraid she might fall standing under the shower. It's the next best thing to letting her swim in ice cold water, while he chats with the frustratingly calm OB office’s receptionist all while his heart threatens to combust.
He’s aware enough to know the list of hyper specific symptoms that they grill him about are not a good sign, not when he’s still trying to soothe Evelyn with the vague idea of everything being fine. The conclusion to that call is for them to meet at the nearest hospital since it’s past midnight and the clinic is closed.
Lando hovers in the doorway, ruminating with that information as he watches Evelyn dress herself clumsily. He would have helped but she needs this. The sense of control in a situation that is slowly spiraling out of her hands.
When she spots him, the comb running through her ruffled brown hair freezes. She looks like a deer in headlights. “Can you check the hospital bag? I know we finalized it but… but if–” the rest of her words get lost when he surges forward, squeezing her as gently as he can into an awkward hug with her swollen tummy between them.
He presses a hand on the underside of it — that usually helps — feeling a dizzying amount of emotions as Evelyn buries her face in the crook of his neck. Because fuck, there is a very real possibily that this is it.
They might actually be parents a lot sooner than they expected.
She doesn’t let him go when Lando loads their things into the car, sitting on the passenger side wrapped up in a fuzzy pink shawl and cream colored maternity dress that fittingly resembles a beacon in the darkness. She does not let go of his hand for the whole ride either, and it helps him in ways he cannot voice.
He did need it, because the next sequence of events is nothing short of a rollercoaster.
When they make it to the hospital, they are immediately brought to the OPED where their usual doctor meets them with a retinue of nurses. The first thing they check Evelyn for is her blood pressure and, by the looks on their faces, it’s not what they expected it to be. They go through all the standard procedures then, like taking her blood and urine samples for running labs.
But to Lando’s and – most importantly – Evelyn’s disappointment, they don’t administer any drugs for her upper abdominal pain that, in her words, has now escalated from a manageable five to a daunting eight.
She is not in labour but Lando has no qualms offering her his hands to crush as another bout of piercing pain washes over her, evident by her ragged breathing. Against all logic, he wonders how he will ever be forgiven for inadvertently causing this.
“You’re a freaking legend, you know that?” he whispers, bringing their joined hands up to his lips, using the cold towel they'd requested to wipe away the sweat on her brow.
Evelyn shakes her head, smiling wryly. “If this is what it takes to be one, it’s a terrible deal.”
He snorts, carding careful fingers through her hair. She closes her eyes upon habit, chasing the warmth of his skin. “How are you actually feeling?”
“You want me to be honest?” Lando nods earnestly. “Feels like I need to take a massive shit.”
It’s such a bizarrely normal concept in an environment that feels anything but—what with all the bazillion monitors on the walls and five different drips needled into Evelyn’s arms—it makes him crease up. She takes the opportunity to swat him upside the head.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh. You won’t be when I actually shit during delivery.”
Lando sobers instantly. “Wait– is that normal?”
She rolls her eyes. “According to our mums, uh-huh!” She tries to shift her arse on the mattress, hunched over because even laying down hurts, reaching up to him only to wince. Lando leans down, happily accepting a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry for ruining the night,” she whispers.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he shuts it down immediately. “Always better safe than sorry.”
“Yeah, but I probably lost it over some Braxton Hicks. It's stupid.”
Just when he is about to launch into the world's most poorly worded speech that, no, nothing about her or their baby is ever going to be stupid, especially when it concerns their health, the main doctor ‘assigned’ to them walks in.
She's in her mid-fifties if Lando were to guess, a pleasant face riddled with smile lines and a soft European accent that oddly reminds him of his mum. The last he'd seen of her was a video call some days back where she insisted she and Katie—Evelyn’s mother—were happy to come over to help in their Woking flat once Lando's sim sessions got more frequent as the season opener crept closer.
Dr. Carter—or Jenny, as she introduces herself—is armed with a serious looking clipboard. “I'll get straight to the point. We ran some necessary tests because your OB-GYN suspected it, and they mostly all came out with results showing signs for Preeclampsia.”
Lando glances sideways, catching Evelyn's eyes as she speaks, hesitant and audibly panting now. “That's– so, what does that mean, exactly?”
He takes her hand in his, soothing a thumb over her knuckles. “The nurse mentioned something about giving her magnesium which was causing the heat flashes? Was it to help with that, then?”
Jenny nods, addressing Evelyn directly. “We also tried a few doses of different medicine to lower your BP but it is still high. You also have some prominent symptoms like protein traces in your urine and, well, the abdominal pain.” She purses her lips, “It’s severe enough that we might have to think about inducing labour.”
Funny how all it takes is a light breeze to knock a trail of dominoes off their predestined trajectory. Lando is not much for euphemisms, but sitting here right now, he feels a breeze could knock him over too.
Twenty four hours ago, he was joking with Max how soon they could take their boys karting, Evelyn and Pietra chiming in with various renditions of ‘absolutely fucking not’. And now… now he might be a father in the next twenty four.
It's his wife's voice that once again snaps him out of a daze. “But I'm still not to term. What about the baby?”
The hot rush of shame that courses through this body is a nasty wake-up call. He can't do this right now, can't spiral into a pathetic mess of self pity when they are quite literally talking about Evelyn and the baby's safety. They come first, they always come first.
“Baby's vitals are normal for now,” Jenny assures them. “Normally in Preeclampsia patients, a growth restriction for the fetus is common, so he is on the smaller side but thankfully not by much. That might be why your two-week checks did not catch it earlier.”
Lando finds his voice again in the midst of the hurricane inside his head. “And if she chooses to go for the induction, will it ease some of the pain?”
Jenny goes quiet momentarily. “Mr. Norris, I'm afraid it is less about ‘choosing’ in this scenario. Frankly, induced labour is the only cure we can offer. Before this escalates into both mum and baby being at serious risk.”
If Lando had thought he'd known fear, the universe has chosen once again to personally craft his worst nightmare in hopes of humbling him. But he puts a lid on it, ignoring his heartbeat thundering against his ribcage, because Evelyn has gone eerily still, tripping over words, “But… I...”
He grabs her hand before she can pull it away, coaxing her into a sideways hug before she crumbles. “Baby, look at me.” Her eyes are blown wide open, red rimmed and terrified. It tugs painfully at his chest yet all his efforts are going into keeping his voice level right now, cupping her face. “Sweetheart, you'll be okay. Both of you.”
Evelyn, however, is done taking things lying down and she shoves him off. “Lando, this wasn't the plan!” Her breathing falters as she yells, then the smallest beads of tears trail down her flushed cheeks. “I'm not even– What if it is painful?”
That scares him more than anything, how small and utterly defeated she sounds.
“You will have options,” he insists but that's a joke compared to the gravity of their situation. “Painkillers, epidural, the whole lot if you wish. She can do that, right?” Lando throws a glance at the doctor who nods in compliance, busying herself with the data to give them their privacy.
He takes that as cue to kiss the top of Evelyn’s head, her cheeks, before finally gently kissing her lips. Trying to get her to match his inhales and exhales. “See, you can. You can do anything, my brave girl.”
The amount of paperwork they have to go through is honestly a blessing. Not that you'll ever catch Lando saying that in any other situation but it successfully takes their mind off the impending notion of actually beginning the induction procedure.
Their private suite is a beehive in the meanwhile. Nurses who check in on the BP machine's cuff every ten minutes, a multitude of specialists from neuro and cardio that all ask the same questions about her medical history even if they are already listed in Evelyn’s records to the point Lando starts assuming they're talking for the sake of it.
Her pain doesn't get any better, but it's not like she is in a position to move around much. Even as Jenny finally confirms that they have started her on Cervidil, Evelyn only throws up a hand in a half-wave. “Cheers. So, should I stay on the bed, or…?”
“I'd actually prefer if you could move around a little because it speeds things up. However, in your case, it won't be wise to stress yourself out.”
Lando knows that at this stage, the things he can do are numbered. He should probably let the family know, for instance, given they also were not prepared to meet the first grandson on either side for at least a month. And the other most important thing is making sure Evelyn is okay in any capacity.
He won't lie that the second idea doesn't draw a blank in his mind. He's endlessly grateful to the staff at the hospital and how calm they all are, even if the subtle murmurs he catches between nurses paints a picture that something like this is not seen every other day. Hell, even the ‘rookie’ is a picture of professionalism despite the way his eyes go wide in recognition when he enters the room.
The midwife they are assigned is a lovely lady named Sarah who has objectively the most adorable Scottish lilt and a wilder mess of grey-flecked red curls than even Lando's bedhead. Evelyn seems to find her endearing; and when she categories someone under ‘instantly likeable’ she gets chatty. By the end of an hour and half, when Sarah comes to check in on Evelyn, she doesn't even fuss as the woman confirms that while she is contracting, her dilation is a rather slow work in progress.
“It's because I have the drugs,” Sarah chimes jovially when Lando teases Evelyn about her amiability. “Speaking of that, we are saving the Pitocin for the last stages of labour if everything goes according to plan. And you have the gas, obviously,” she taps the giant tank on the side of the bed, the pump already in Evelyn’s grasp. “Baby is the right side up, so that's an added relief; saves me from breathing down your neck. See how you get on for the next couple hours. If you need anything, Lando can get one of us from the desk.”
The contractions don't become obvious till it's pushing six a.m. and first light has broken past the cloudy English sky. Evelyn waves him off when he hovers, but it is hard not to when she clamps down on his hands like they are her lifeline, heaving into the side of his neck.
She says they are not any worse than the pain she was already experiencing. Lando thinks that is not the consolation Evelyn believes it to be.
Regardless, her nausea seems to have subsided somewhat after she took one look at the bacon baps that a nurse brought over on a lunch trolley and threw up over the side of her bed, with him scrambling to hold her hair back, drawing imaginary circles on her back.
“Kid's definitely a picky eater,” she chirps, between an interim of pain as he finally drops the bomb in their family group chat.
Lando shoves his phone inside his pocket, ignoring the barrage of question marks and exclamation marks piling in. He grins, “So, he has good taste. Although, if he ends up picking fish over meat, I might have to disown him.”
Evelyn laughs—well, that's the general idea, but everything fucking hurts, in her rather eloquent wording, so it comes out a grimace. “If he wants to taste the wondrous world of sushi, who are we to stop him?”
“I will,” Lando deadpans. “Happily. In fact, I am banning anything from under the sea from our house forever. Effective immediately.”
“What will we tell him when he asks what Flounder tastes like?”
“You psychopath! We'll tell him 'fish are friends, not food!'”
The joking does its job, alleviating some of the tension, but nothing can actually take her mind off the cramps wracking through her whole body. When the next jolt comes, Evelyn's hands are dug straight into Lando's joggers while he quickly twists the cap onto the bottle of water he was holding for her to drink from.
“You're doing so good,” he murmurs, sticking close to her since the warmth and soothing touches seem to help even a fraction. “Just a couple more hours, and then bub will be here.”
“Oh, who could have fucking guessed Lando Norris’ son would make a dramatic entrance?” she moans. Exhausted beyond belief yet still holding herself together with sarcasm. As they say, to each their own.
He finds it in himself to smile. His son. Who will be born in less than a day, ideally. And if there was ever a more appropriate time to think ‘everything will be just alright’, now is as good as one.
Active labour, Lando learns, is a separate level of gnarly.
If the beginning of induction was figuring out a maze, this is like figuring out a maze without a proper map, blindfolded, and someone has taken the liberty to spin you around a couple times just to throw your sense of direction out of whack.
Evelyn has remained almost fully soundless while dealing with it, her only constant demands being that he stroke her hair and her sides when the ache gets particularly bad. Although Lando is not sure her silence is a good thing, his tasks are abysmal compared to anything her body is going through at the moment. He is ready to help in any way he can to make the experience bearable.
“D'you want the epidural?” he asks when a strong contraction makes her body shake. It's painful to see her go through from a spectator's standpoint, Lando can't imagine what it is to feel it happen. “I'm not trying to convince you anyway—but would you want it?”
He's also halfway on the bed now, holding her through another bout of shivers. “I don't know mate,” She grits out, gulping in nitrogen-infused air. “Ask me in like– fuck– an hour.”
Evelyn throws in the towel around ten o'clock, right when the doctor stops by to make sure she's dilated enough. “Putain de merde–! How fast can you get that needle in me?”
“I will speak to the anesthetist,” Jenny says, taking the string of french expletives on the chin, her eyes fixed on the foetal heart rate monitor with a prominent crease between her brows.
Lando, against all logic and mental fortification he'd practiced for this exact moment, feels the dread pool into his gut. He tries to shake it off at first. The baby's cardio results came out fine and his heartbeat is in the steady one hundreds. Everything is perfect… right?
His doubts get validation when Jenny faces them again, gnawing at her bottom lip. “I'm going to have you turn on your side, Evelyn, if you please.”
“What? Why?” She perks up, the doctor's orders cutting straight through the haze.
“Baby's heart rate is a tad higher than we'd like. He might be getting distressed and trust me, that is the last thing we want.”
“You gave her a lovely gaff, now he doesn’t want to leave,” Lando quips. Thankfully, she thinks better than to smack him for his efforts to keep her from spiraling. That, or she sees right through the façade, at the nervous wreck he is underneath. “Look at it this way, Ev, you won't have to bother with laundry for a while.”
“Lucky me,” she sing-songs begrudgingly, before an expression that is crossed between concern and disgust lands on her face. “Yeah, we will need a change of sheets. Either I have spontaneously pissed myself or that was my waters going.”
He chokes on a chuckle, forcing himself to relax, as the doctor smiles tightly, “What a dignified process indeed.”
Evelyn huffs, taking a breath from the gas pump as another contraction ramps up. And Lando is so horribly gone for her that he might give up everything for her to be able to laugh properly again. She sighs, making grabby hands, “Fine, yeah, fuck it– Lan, please?”
He leans over her, intent on trying to lift her comfortably enough to strip the ruined sheets and help her turn — when he sees it.
The puddle of blood soaked through the hospital gown all underneath Evelyn.
Not many can say they have shunted into a metal wall on what is essentially a rocketship and walked away to tell the tale. It's nary an inconsequential tidbit, but most people don't live to do so afterwards, or would much rather clutch caution to their chest in favor of not taking chances at tempting fate.
It's all the same here, really, if he's feeling particularly imaginative: the screech of metal, wheels barreling faster than reason and the all-consuming numbness that takes root inside his brain. Just like watching a wreckage in slow motion, Lando cannot fucking look away.
A bunch of things happen in rapid succession when he stumbles back from the bed, transfixed on the blood coating his palms, dripping thin lines onto the pristine tiled floor. The uptake is a gross understatement, the trickling horror that oh God, the pain on her belly, where I was rubbing.
Jenny runs to the emergency call button on the wall and starts banging on it with all her might and soon a whole crowd floods into the room. He's vaguely aware of the ruckus being made but none of the complicated medical terms traded like a grenade between the medical professionals actually registers. All Lando can do is stare at Evelyn who has gone really fucking pale.
It's almost like he is standing in the middle of a burning house, angry flames lapping at his ankles. Except he isn't and this isn't a ‘worst case scenario’ imagined in a fucking simulated strategy run. It's real life and he's right there and, holy shit, he's terrified.
Lando steps aside to give Sarah space when she charges towards them, acting like a shield between Evelyn and whatever is happening at the foot of the bed.
One of the nurses is lowering the panel there, urging Evelyn to lay down as Sarah starts speaking in a measured tone, “Love, you might be having something called a placental abruption. It's when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall and it might cause us some complications. It's unfortunate, but highly common in those who show signs of severe Preeclampsia — or HELLP syndrome as it's called. We are going to put you to sleep for a bit, okay, dearie? And when you wake up, you will have your baby boy.”
Evelyn, though, barely hears any of it. Her gaze snaps towards him instead, piercing through the uproar as she croaks, reaching for him, “Lan… what's happening?”
And that one sentiment, merely a throwaway breath in the storm—the confusion and mortification cementing the fact that they are in a room full of strangers and all of this is happening too fast, and the only person she trusts is Lando—urges him to take the plunge.
He's by her side in a blink, grabbing her hands that have become awfully cold, kissing them fervently between blowing on them for warmth. “I'm here. It's okay. Nothing will happen to you. You're okay.”
He hopes that is the case. Maybe if he repeats that enough times, it might ring true. But really he has no clue and the only thing he can do is hold onto her as they finally start rolling her bed into the hallway, towards the operation theatre. He doesn’t dare focus on the flurry of people working on her lower half, thinks he would not be able to digest it.
Lando is no stranger to injuries. Hell, he basically grew up with bruised limbs from wheelspins and bumping into people on karting tracks. He's familiar with hospitals too, from the amount of times his teenage ambition had resulted in broken bones or a cracked skull. But none of that comes marginally close to seeing Evelyn openly sob.
And he can't do anything to help. He's completely useless.
“If I'm not,” Evelyn says, suddenly slurring, “If it's between me and Baby, you need to– to make sure he's okay.”
Lando's stomach churns. That ‘if’ is not a possibility he is willing to accept. “Don't,” he mumbles, brushing the hair away from her face, “Don't say that.”
She shakes her head, resolute even when her lips quiver. “Promise me.” Evelyn looks to Dr. Jenny, “Bubba… is the priority.”
And he adores that about her, her ability to make something out of any disastrous situation but that stubbornness feels like a hacksaw on his fraying nerves. He wants to scream and cry knowing everything would eventually get drowned out.
The doctors are not feeling any better about her progress because suddenly they're off on a run and the last thing he sees is Evelyn’s eyes fluttering shut as they fly past the swinging doors of the OT. Lando is left alone with the sickening rust of blood—Evelyn’s blood—all over him and the sterile walls of the hospital closing in with a silence that might suffocate him.
There is a midwife rubbing his back but he doesn't notice until he's slumped against an empty row of metal chairs. He has never been more aware of himself yet so numb to everything around him. She is saying something, maybe, but the whistling inside his ears refuses to die down. He asks her to repeat herself.
“Do you have anyone you can phone, lad? You don't look very good yourself.”
He takes her word for it, only thinking for half a second before retrieving his phone, screen smearing red. The lump in his throat is painful as he goes through the contacts list on autopilot, arriving on a familiar name.
The call rings once, twice, thrice before the line connects. There is absolutely nothing holding him back from spilling over his roughened edges at the staticky whisper of his name.
Alone, with his head leaned on the cold plaster, Lando cries. “Dad? Daddy– I need help. I don't know what to do.”
He is not sure he can ever walk away from this grinding shunt, in case it goes sideways.
The concept of time blurs after that and Lando's not completely sure when exactly his dad storms into the private suite of the empty L&D ward. It has no trace of the nightmare that had transpired earlier; the floor has been scrubbed clean as were his hands upon the insistence of the midwife who refused to leave him to become a contamination hazard.
The moment he stands up from the tiny brown sofa off to the side, his dad crushes him into a tight embrace.
He thought he was done with the waterworks, that he can't possibly have any more tears left to cry before he started pulling out his own hair, but the moment he gets a whiff of his dad's colonge—the same one that he's kept since Lando only measured up to his waist, being tucked in a warm hug after a bad result or on a nasty sick day—he breaks again.
His dad doesn't bother with empty words, just holds him until Lando pulls away on his own accord. Only then, he asks, “What have they told you?”
Thing is, Lando should feel ashamed. For all the people who call him ‘too soft’ or ‘too sensitive’, he's doing everything to prove them right, running into the safety of his dad's presence that somehow always feels larger than life.
But even he can’t act like a complete embarrassment. When he's got no fucking clue if they're going to make it past this day intact.
“Ev's pressure won't come down so they wanted to monitor her,” he starts, cringing at his dry throat. “But then she almost– she almost hemorrhaged.”
His dad purses his lips, an arm coming round Lando's shoulder to squeeze him. “Placental abruption?” he guesses and Lando nods, mildly surprised. It must show on his face because his dad cracks a tiny smile. “Your mum used to fixate on all the worst outcomes when she was having you lot. Said it made her prepared, that crazy nut.”
Then he straightens up, looking at Lando with so much fondness and single-minded determination that Lando feels untouchable, “She's going to be okay, you hear me? Both her and Baby. We are going to get her the best treatment available.”
Lando cannot manage anything more than a nod. He's inclined to believe him, but he also needs to be realistic. Serious conditions that lead to a person bleeding out without signs can't be normal. And the look on her face… Christ, it might haunt him for ages. Because a person like Evelyn who hates losing grip over her autonomy will be every definition of spooked when she comes to.
When, not if. The alternative does not fucking exist far as Lando is concerned.
His dad goes quiet after a while, probably on the phone with his mum. He must have violated a dozen speed limits to get through the mild snowstorm outside in a measly fifty minutes.
And when Lando imagines his family waiting around anxiously for any news, he also feels a twinge of jealousy. It's unfair is what, that him meeting his baby – his and Evelyn’s baby – had to be paired with a gutpunch.
Doesn’t he deserve one single piece of normalcy—the same mercy that all his siblings were granted unconditionally—when his whole life has been bent and warped to meet a bazillion superficial expectations already? Now it feels like a cosmic joke.
Lando doesn’t get to dwell on it however as, some ten minutes later, Sarah appears in the doorway. He jumps to his feet, eyes searching her perfectly practiced smile like a starved animal for scraps.
“Congratulations Dad,” she says cheerfully, “you have a handsome baby boy.”
And– that’s the funny part isn't it, Lando doesn’t know what to think. He had imagined those same two sentences about a dozen times and in every single conjured instance, Lando would have been there to see him getting lifted to Evelyn’s chest, hearing his cries as his son took his first breath. And now it's like someone had taken a sledgehammer to a shiny glass daydream.
“That's good.” His dad speaks on his behalf, probably sensing Lando is more than a little out of it. “How is he?”
“He is doing well,” Sarah assures him when Lando finally looks at her with laser focus. “Exceptionally well, actually. Premature babies are on the smaller side as you would imagine, but Baby is a decent 2.8 kilos. We are still keeping an eye out for signs of respiratory distress, just to be safe, so the doctors are keeping him on the CPAP through the night. But since the placenta had not fully come off, we don't think he has any oxygen deficiency.”
His dad claps him on his shoulder, chuckling, “Seems like you've got an overachiever in your hands, mate.” And, well, if that is one positive note in this mess, Lando will latch onto it greedily.
“And Evelyn? How is she?” His dad asks, once again saving him from the torturous process of picking words.
“Still in surgery. Evelyn hemorrhaged a couple more times during the procedure; it is unlucky but not an uncommon side effect when paired with the level of hypertension she has. She's lost about two litres of blood.”
“Fucking hell,” Lando says—and look, he's not particularly proud of those being his first words upon hearing about the birth of his child but it sums it up pretty well. He feels like an untethered kite, drifting aimlessly till five flavors of conflicting emotions take reins over his vocabulary. “That's not good, is it?”
“It is not ideal,” Sarah replies. Which, in his experience with media training, could mean a thesaurus worth of trouble. “The good news is, they are finishing up at the OT soon. She will feel rough for a couple of days but overall, things are looking up.”
Lando's not sure exactly what does it; the mounting adrenaline which had steadily reached a dangerous slope coming crashing down at the first glimpse of consolation not based on well wishes and manifestation alone– or the fact that he is running on virtually no sleep or food for the past fifteen hours.
But he's glad for it, when he slaps a hand over his mouth, knees buckling before his dad physically wrangles him towards the sanitization sink—at least he's somewhat functioning.
He braces his hands on the metal, heaving into the basin, but nothing comes out except the sting of bile behind his tongue. Lando closes his eyes and breathes, allowing himself this one thing, knowing he doesn't have time to cower. They've got this far, after all; would be a shame if he got cold feet now.
Lando turns to Sarah, all hesitation going down the drain as he finally enunciates the words begging to be freed, “Can I see my son?”
He thought it would be strange to say out loud, yet now that they have shared the same world for an hour, the notion comes with a sort of unsaid necessity that borders on frenzy.
Sarah picks up on it, smiling kindly, “Thought you'd never ask.”
As they walk towards the peds wards, the arid walls of the hospital taper off into brighter colors. They pass by a nursery with scattered toys, building blocks and painted animal caricatures keeping vigil over the unrestrained laughter spilling out. When Sarah halts before the pink double doors saying, “Here we are,” Lando thinks his impatience will get the better of him.
They have to stop and wash their hands first; Sarah assists him there, leaving his jacket on hooks and telling him to roll his sleeves up, doling out soap that smells of artificial strawberries. His dad lingers at the threshold like he's unsure what to do, but Lando asks the midwife to hand him the turquoise smocks, too. Call him the world's most pathetic man, but right now he cannot do this alone. His dad stares at him with an emotion Lando is too tired to comprehend, so he drops his gaze.
The world on the other side of the door is filled with whirring machines, mechanical beeps, and soft human voices — adult words and baby cries. Some areas are sectioned off with blue curtains for privacy, others are left open for anyone in the room to see. There are several clear cradles lining both sides of the room; most of them are empty but a few hold very small infants.
Sarah expertly navigates, leading them in front of the last clear cradle, nearest the row of high windows in the back of the room.
Lando's breath catches in his throat, and– he doesn’t actually know what he was expecting, really. Like this whole shitstorm was building up to some grand seismic event, but in reality it feels like jumping off a mountain only to land on clouds.
He's tiny, is the first thought Lando can make sense of — tiny and thin, dwarfed by the white knitted beanie on his head which smothers a lot of fair curls peeking out. There are tubes and wires taped to his red skin. Tubes and wires that run out the sides of the cradle to machines that tell Lando nothing he understands, but his baby is here and he's perfect.
"Hi, bubba," Lando whispers, his voice breaking over the endearment, and his dad runs his fingers up and down his arm soothingly, never releasing his hand from a tight grip. “Oh hello, my love. How are you?”
There are voices he vaguely realizes must be staff, but he's entirely too focused on the little boy squirming before him. He's never been more grateful to his dad more than the moment he releases Lando and handles the talking. All Lando's capable of doing is sitting in the cushioned chair next to the cradle and staring at this little person who has been at the center of a hurricane for so long in complete awe.
Their conversation fades into a nondescript background thrum as Lando watches his son stretch his thin legs, his tiny feet lashing out at invisible enemies, his little hands flapping about as he wriggles into a more comfortable position.
Lando doesn't know whether to laugh because he's here and whole, or to weep because Evelyn — his sunshine, the mother of his child — isn't. She's somewhere else in this labyrinth of a building, fighting for her life.
“Your mummy was so excited to see you first, you know?” he murmurs. “She should be here.”
"Soon," his dad replies, and Lando presumes the medical personnel have left them alone if he's back by his side again. “She's just as stubborn as you are.”
If Lando could spare a second to look up, he'd see nothing but unmistakable pride on the man's face, witnessing a sacred rite of passage. But he doesn't, because that's how it's going to be from now until forever — Lando can't look back. He needs to be that unshakable pillar now, standing between anything that tries to affect his heart beating outside his own body, his beautiful baby boy.
Lando does laugh at that, inhaling deeply to mask a sniffle; the fond caress on his cheek says he failed there too.
He reckons at some point he has to start using a proper name in place of ‘the baby’, but… hasn't Evelyn earned the right to call dibs? To say it first, the name they had selected together over weeks of bickering and poring over lists on the internet.
It's unfair that he gets the privilege but Lando hopes she won't mind.
He hears Sarah's giggle and then the woman is crouching next to him, taking his hand in hers. "Here. Say hello," she tells him and leads his hand into the cradle through a circle cut into the side.
He tenses and it must be obvious because his dad squeezes his shoulder again. "Hey, it's okay. You won't hurt him."
He looks at him and then at Sarah, and her smile is encouraging. "You're sure?"
"Positive. It is good for him, actually."
Hesitantly, Lando reaches into the cradle, nudging one very small hand with his finger. Almost instantly, tiny fingers cling to his large one with a grip that is astonishingly strong for someone so small.
"Whoa," Lando breathes, then, “Fuck… nice to meet you, Ezekiel."
Ezekiel makes a noise, his face scrunching up briefly while his free arm flails. His feet kick out for a moment just as he yawns and Lando feels as if his chest is an open wound, a tidal wave of primal protectiveness bleeding out for this precious boy.
“You don't really like it, huh?” He doesn’t try to blink back the tears anymore, letting them fall. “That's alright. We can figure something out when Mama wakes up.”
It's a strange concoction of sadness and relief; eight long months of walking on eggshells just to reach the only conclusion that's ever actually mattered. Lando smiles, stroking over the swell of the cutest puffy cheeks, the part the mask on his breather doesn't cover. “Dada loves you so much, Zeke. Welcome to the world.”
𝒏otes. ✰ i am so so sorry for making you guys go through this but i had this planned since the origin of this story. now, there will be a continuation to this covering their experiences as parents of an infant — aka more angst — but i hope this gave you guys a little insight on why baby Z was decidedly kept an only child. per usual, i'm thankful for any comments/likes/reblogs. talk to me about what you enjoyed about this 🫶
Summery - You wear Lando’s hoodie for the first time. - Fluff 💕
Warnings - None.
————————————————————————
You had spent the afternoon at Lando’s flat while he was out for simulator training. The plan was simple: wait for him, maybe order food later, and try not to get too lost in the endless maze of motorsport documentaries he had queued up.
At some point, you had gotten cold. His flat was modern and sleek, but the heating clearly had a mind of its own. You padded toward his bedroom, pulling open the wardrobe with only the slightest pang of guilt. If he could leave you alone surrounded by all his things, he couldn’t possibly expect you not to snoop a little.
That was when you found it. His hoodie. Soft, a little worn, carrying that faint cologne-and-fuel scent that clung to Lando himself. You slipped it on before you could think twice. It was huge on your small frame, sleeves hanging past your hands, but it was warm—and, it felt safe.
By the time Lando came home, you were curled on the sofa, hood pulled up, one sleeve tugged between your fingers as you scrolled through Netflix. You didn’t even notice him walk in at first.
“Hey—” he started, shutting the door behind him. Then he froze.
You looked up, startled. “What?”
Lando’s eyes narrowed, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Is that… my hoodie?”
You blinked, feigning innocence. “…No?”
He dropped his gym bag on the floor and walked toward you slowly, dramatically, like a detective closing in on a suspect. “That is definitely my hoodie.”
You tugged the hood over her face, feeling it heat up, “Might’ve borrowed it. Temporarily.”
“Temporarily,” he repeated, sliding onto the couch next to you. He reached out, pulling at one sleeve that was way too long for your arm. “Baby, this thing is swallowing you.”
“It’s cozy,” you defended, not wanting to surrender the item of clothing.
“And it smells nice.”
His grin widened. “You mean it smells like me.”
You rolled yours eyes at that, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
But his hand didn’t leave your sleeve. Instead, he played with the cuff, tugging it gently, almost like he couldn’t help himself. “You look… really cute,” he admitted, voice dropping a little. “Like, unfairly cute.”
Your stomach flipped. You tried to act casual, though your cheeks burned. “Guess I’m keeping it, then.”
Lando groaned, throwing his head back. “That’s my favorite hoodie.”
“Was,” you corrected, smirking. “Now it’s mine.”
He turned to you, mock-offended. “Unbelievable. You steal my hoodies, you eat half my snacks, you hog the blanket—what do I get out of this relationship?”
You simply leaned into his side, the hoodie bunching up between them. “Me.”
For a beat, he went quiet. Then, softer than before, he murmured, “Yeah… fair enough.”
And even though he pretended to sulk about it for the rest of the evening, Lando didn’t stop smiling every time he caught you tugging the oversized sleeves over your hands.
hey lovely i love your works so much especially the angsty one shots they're jusy chef's kiss 💞💞😭 i was wondering if you could make a series of angsty lando texts? not ex reader maybe they just took a break but it's really bad because he did something petty to get her attention. and so then afterwards he manages to convince her to meet up........ im blanking now but i trust you with the ending
even though i shouldn't after what you pulled on delayed gratification. lol.
- 💞
Let’s call it | LN⁴
.✦ ݁˖ summary ──── In which two weeks apart and a public scandal it’s enough to bring them back together. Sort of.
.✦ ݁˖ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader
.✦ ݁˖ rating ──── explicit
.✦ ݁˖ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, fake texts, angst, tension, descriptive language, swearing, push-and-pull behavior, arguments and heated conversations, implied emotional manipulation, unclear relationship status, longing, ‘right person, wrong time’ vibes, soft intimacy, internalized conflict, emotional dependency, toxic relationship dynamics, power dynamics, graphic descriptions of sexual acts, light marking, oral and manual stimulation, huge hands Norris™, unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, overstimulation, intense orgasms, messy bodily fluids, elements of aftercare.
.✦ ݁˖ word count ──── 7.3k
.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Apr. 16, 2026
.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This one haunted every corner of my brain for at least a month straight and it was a BITCH to edit. I have nothing left to say except lower your screen brightness if you’re reading it in public. Kachow ✌🏼
It was like I was a tree attracted to axes.
Steve Maraboli
LANDO IS ALREADY there when she rolls in, the purr of her engine cutting through the silent parking lot. The headlights sweep across the concrete walls in a smooth arc, landing on him by the time the car stops. She thinks it’s borderline idiotic how quickly her heart reacts at the sight of him, but she hasn’t seen the man in weeks, and the fact that he’s on time for her makes it all a bit harder than it already is. Mainly because Lando was rarely on time, and that used to annoy her a lot.
Whatever this might be, she understands right away that it’s far from casual, because it’s not one of their usual attempts to apologize and move on. It’s serious than it’s ever been, since it’s the first time they actually kept the distance, even though it didn’t last as much they’ve agreed on.
Seeing that Lando chose to listen before a single word is spoken, makes her chest tighten with a cautious kind of hope. Because of that, maybe, beneath all the damage and missteps, they still know how to meet each other halfway when it actually matters. Which is good news and danger zone in one.
He’s dressed accordingly, too: dark trousers, clean sneakers, and a coat pulled close against the cold, with its collar turned up to shield his neck from the bite of the night air. He leans against the edge of the curb, hands shoved into his pockets, breath fogging a little when he exhales. Once he notices her, Lando straightens and nods, then pushes off from where he’s standing, circling the front of the car instead of cutting close.
Opening the passenger door to slide in, he lets a quiet ‘hey’ slipping through his lips.
“Hey,” she copies his tone. “All good?”
Lando nods again. “Yeah, let’s go.”
A few minutes later, Monaco slides past in blurred reflections and the occasional flash of the darkened sea. Inside the car, the heater is turned on minimum, yet the space between them stays as cold as the winter air. Her hands move smoothly on the wheel, precise without being tense, even when another car noses in too close, or a horn snaps too loudly behind them. She has industrial quantities of patience when she drives, which forces Lando to bite his tongue at the thought because it’s true, and because she’d never let him live it down: she is, in fact, a better street driver than he is.
Where Lando gets restless when someone cuts him off, she stays composed, and when adrenaline needles under his skin, she remains calm. She’s everything he isn’t behind the wheel in places like this, yet somehow that doesn’t bruise his ego. It makes him smile, instead. There’s something very particular about the way she owns it, confident enough to be loud and proud without ever needing to prove herself, and he realizes he’s always trusted her most when her hands are right there, steering them both forward.
Both literally and metaphorically.
“You look good,” he says, searching to break the heavy silence.
The girl doesn’t look at him, but still has to point out his failed attempt, “I’m in sweats three times my size.”
The conversation dies where it stands and, luckily, Lando gets the hint. He presses his lips in a thin line, turning his head toward the window on his side with a sigh. If he had the slightest idea where the night was heading at before he got in the car, now he has no clue. She’s colder than he expected and suddenly, the memory of what he’d done hits him with embarrassing clarity: trying to win by playing games won’t work when the other person chooses not to play. Simple as that.
He ends up resting his chin in his palm, elbow braced against the door, pretending he is interested in the succession of images that passes them. Soon, his fingers tap a few times before he starts fidgeting, absently brushing the edge of the console, or tracing the seam of the leather in order to anchor himself in the texture of the car instead of the rejection.
He clears his throat on the verge of exasperation, looking back at her. “So, how are you?”
“Small talk? You wanna do that?”
“I’m trying, alright,” says Lando with a hint of frustration finally cracking through.
“What? To be civil?” she signals, turning onto a quieter street.
He frowns. “To be with you.”
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles paling before she forces them to relax. “We’re way past that, don’t you think?”
“I don’t,” thunders Lando. “I’m here, with you. And I assume you’re here with me because, at least on some extent, we still want the same thing.”
She lets his words get cozy in the space between them, turning the affirmation over on each possible and impossible side in the private chambers of her mind. Of course, Lando is not completely wrong. She came for the same exact reason: she wants the version of them that feels like home instead of a sudden crash. Or at least some version that doesn’t feel like a civil war. But wanting that home and wanting him has always come with a cost she can’t quite approximate.
Most of the times, Lando doesn’t even have to try. He’s just existing and then, out of nowhere, she finds herself bending her own rules and rewriting them in order to accommodate him. Perhaps he’s not even aware of how strong his gravitational pull is, but whether he means it or not, he still takes advantage of it. In that case, how can one balance love against self-preservation? How can she separate genuine effort from the familiar rhythm of him saying exactly what she needs to hear?
Naturally, their scale can’t and won’t simply settle. It keeps tipping toward him, then away, until she doesn’t know which side is instinct and which is self-sabotage.
Impatient, Lando shifts in his seat, knee bouncing before he stills it with his hand. He hates how confined it feels, how close she is and how unreachable at the same time. Driving would’ve helped him right now, giving him a sense of control. She knew that and decided to strip him down of it.
Smart girl, he thinks, biting on the inside of his cheek.
She notices his quiet inability to settle and, deep down, she wishes she could reach out and reassure him that eventually, things will clear up. Maybe not right now, but sometime in the near future, when the fog lifts and they won’t be as blinded by resentment as they are now.
Her eyes sparkle the moment she glances at him briefly, then back at the road. “Did she see the photos?”
One of Lando’s eyebrows arches. “What?”
“Your ex,” she clarifies, “Did she see you getting papped in it?”
“Yeah,” he replies after a quick pause, fingers flexing against his thigh.
Lando can’t help but glance at her profile and watch how her jaw sets a bit harder. He’s not really sure if it’s jealousy since she already told him last night that she’s mostly furious. At him or at the situation, at him and at the situation, at him only — just some options he’s considered. However, he also can’t ignore the way her lips press together as she nods once, like she’s already made a scenario about it in her head. One that he knows it’s going to be hard to fight with.
“So, she reached out,” the girl concludes right away, understanding that it’s the only way Lando would know in the first place.
“Yeah,” he repeats.
“What did she say? Bet she had a good laugh.”
He scoffs, leaning back against the headrest, his eyes tracing the line of her neck, where a stray strand of hair has escaped her ponytail. He can definitely sense the undercurrent here and the subtle way she’s testing the waters without diving in, but he won’t give her the chance to steer the conversation in that direction.
Shaking his head, Lando turns his gaze out the window to the blurring coastline. “Dunno, I deleted the text before looking at it.”
Her tone is horrifyingly clinical next time she asks, “Why?”
“What do you mean? Because it doesn’t matter, that’s why.”
The girl studies him for a fraction longer than she wants to, then focuses back at the road. Her foot eases off the accelerator as they ascend higher, the path narrowing.
“But it does, since you wore it to get a reaction. Now you’ve got my attention, hers, and to top it nicely, the internet is having a field day with it as well,” she explains, sarcasm creeping in. “At our expense, may I add. Which is always so, so fun.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he corrects it at last. “You know I don’t give two fucks about what anyone says. You matter and that’s about it.”
She squints at the rearview mirror, then continues driving, keeping another sarcastic comment she’s prepared for herself. The road curves gently upward, climbing toward the hills that overlook the Mediterranean.
“But it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? How people can instantly pick on your breadcrumbs,” the girl continues contemplatively, after biting her tongue for too long.
His expression softens even though there’s still a spark of frustration in his eyes. “It’s none of our business. I think it’s clear where I stand, and you’re smart enough to see it.”
“Well, I think it’s just the fact that I know you too well, Lando,” she affirms, accelerating before slowing again. “Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see how incredibly stupid you were, either. And if you wanna do that, don’t involve me.”
Without a second thought, “You make me that way,” says Lando.
She veers onto a forgotten access path next, the gravel crunching under the tires as the car jostles over uneven terrain. The engine cuts off immediately after she parks. Below, the dark waters churn against jagged rocks, white foam flashing intermittently under the moon’s pale gaze, while far in the distance, the principality’s lights twinkle like a constellation brought too close to earth.
Impatient with anger, she unbuckles her seatbelt then pivots to face him fully. “Can you own your mistakes for once? Why is it always someone else’s fault? Why do you have to deflect responsibility like it’s a reflex?”
Lando’s body jerks back against the door, her questions landing like an invisible blast wave. “That’s not…” he stammers, hand rising in a placating gesture that falters midway. “I do own it,” he continues, the same anger transferring to him. “You just don’t believe me when I do.”
The girl scoffs theatrically. “Because it always comes with a justification. You don’t want the middle ground, Lan. You just want to be right all the time. And you’re not.”
The restrained frustration simmers in the set of his jaw and the way his hand grips the door handle like he’s plotting an escape. It would be so much easier to leave right now than trying to make sense of any of this. But the thought doesn’t really hold. He already knows what waits on the other side of that choice: an empty apartment he’s already sick of, silent mornings and meaningless nights out.
Although his fingers don’t turn the handle, lingering there between impulse and hope, their grip is still strong.
“No, you just expect me to get it right immediately. What I don’t understand is how the fuck am I supposed to do that if you won’t even talk to me. These couple of weeks without you…” at last, the same hand drops to his lap, body easing back into the seat with a subtle retreat. “It got to a point where I had to distract myself just so I wouldn’t… lose it.”
He doesn’t say the word cry, but the way Lando’s voice thins towards the last sentence says enough for her to mirror his stance instinctively, gaze drifting to the dashboard.
The fragile silence after brings with it a kind of emotional exhaustion that settles over them both. A bone-deep weariness that tames the nerves, making a bit more room for acceptance. Honesty. Or resignation, they still can’t figure out which is which yet.
When she speaks again, it sounds like hope dipped in disappointment. “You need to stop with the childish behavior.”
“You need to stop pushing me away when things get tough,” he counters.
The need in question is not even a need. A break concluding with a breakup would spare them the cycles and the exhaustion of always finding each other, over and over again. They don’t need to go through any of it at this stage. Maybe the best version of their story is the one where they finish the chapter here and close the book before it gives them paper cuts. And yet neither of them moves toward that abrupt ending. There is no reaching for THE ENDs or periods, only commas, where no final decision rests on the tip of a sentence.
That’s why, despite the heaviness, their mutual refusal becomes its own kind of answer.
“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
Lando shrugs. “And you’re not exactly flexible either.”
“I don’t like how you always leave your shoes scattered by the door,” she continues, completely off-topic. “It trips me up in the morning.”
Staring out the windshield, Lando shoots back, “I don’t like how you fold the fucking towels.”
A faint curve touches the corners of her mouth, then she adds, “I hate that you check your phone during meals.”
Lando shifts again, his shoulder brushing the door. Their voices are flat, like they’re cataloging facts rather than flaws. And for some reason, it works this time.
“I don’t like how you hoard those travel mugs, filling the cabinets until there’s no room for anything else. And I don’t appreciate you stealing the blankets at night.”
The confessions flow gently back and forth; a simple stream of unvarnished truths spilling into the space they share, each one landing without accusation.
The girl turns her head a little, but her eyes remain fixated out at the olive trees bending in the breeze. “Don’t bring my mugs into this. I started collecting them after you made me coffee for the first time. I love how you make coffee,” she says honestly, certain that if she closes her eyes, she can taste the bitterness of it on her tongue.
His eyes drift to the curve of her cheek in the shadows. “I love that you get so excited about it.”
“Mhm,” the girl hums, “It’s mostly because I like watching your hands… doing stuff,” she says, mentally slapping herself at the admission.
Displaying a shy yet knowing smile, Lando extends his hand into the space between the seats with his palm up, waiting. She catches the movement in the corner of her eye and, even though she still avoids looking at him, her own hand moves to settle on top of his. His long fingers curl around hers, enveloping them in a warm grip.
“I love how you challenge me. You push me to be better,” says Lando, his thumb begining to ghost-brush the back of her hand. “I want to be that,” he admits. “For you.”
His statement manages to silently alter the storm inside her, and the scale that wobbles between two sides, eventually tilts a little more in one direction this time around. It doesn’t stabilize right away, but that’s because it’s too early. She’s not so naive to believe that a single confession, no matter how sincere, could repair everything they destroyed together. But it’s moving, and that motion matters. The burning desire to become a better person, even if the initial impulse is someone else, has always meant more than people realize.
For her, it means that Lando has look inward long enough to notice his own flaws. At the same time, it means that he acknowledged that change is necessary and, for now, she is satisfied with that; the reason may start with her, but it won’t remain limited there. In time, it’ll spread to the rest of him, from how he manages anger to how he treats himself when no one is watching. That is why, in her mind, there is no truly negative outcome in a promise like this, even though at first glance it seems absurd. Ultimately, if he becomes better, the world around him will follow, regardless of whether they survive it or not.
After what feels like an eternity, she finally turns to look at him. “Lando…”
“I mean it,” he talks so low that she can barely hear him. “As long as we both try.”
“What does trying again even look like?” she asks, fear mixing with the uncertainty behind her words.
“Right now,” replies Lando thoughtfully, “It looks like dinner. I’m starving.”
“PUT THAT AWAY,” Lando’s voice is raspy with sleep once the repetitive tapping on the screen is slowly pulling him back. “Five more minutes, yeah?” he doesn’t fully opens his eyes, just tilts his head enough to press his face further into her shoulder.
The morning rays filter through the half-drawn curtains in his living room, bringing light to the quiet mess they’ve done last night while watching a ‘quick movie’ before she was supposed to leave: two nearly empty water bottles on the coffee table next to some barely touched snacks, coats resting on the back of a chair, and a blanket half-slipped onto the floor where it couldn’t quite contain them.
She didn’t drink, so she remembers driving him home and agreeing they both deserved a couple of hours to switch off. Now, they’re tangled together, unplanned yet still intentional, Lando’s arm draped heavy across her waist, with one leg hooked loosely over hers ever since he found her in his sleep and decided not to let go. It aches a little, the way she doesn’t want to disturb him nor the heat they make in the space they share, which means she ends up closing the link to the article her friend sent her earlier, then puts the phone away.
“We have to get up, though,” she huffs a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh when she tries but fails to push him off.
Lando groans in protest, burying his hand underneath her lower back, tightening the embrace there. “No, we really don’t.”
“Landooo,” she insists, “Yes, we do. Come on, get up,” her free hand hovers for a moment before settling against his arm, absentmindedly tracing along the sleeve of his shirt, right where the tanned skin of his bicep meets the soft material.
Time itself freezes and stays like that, suspended somewhere between sleep and waking, between what they were yesterday and whatever they’re supposed to be today. She’s convinced that the human touch is healing, because the weight of him on her and his light breathing tickling her neck is able to neutralize every bad thought she’s ever had. Suddenly, everything is worth fighting for, no mistake is big enough to walk away, and there is nowhere they can go from here but up. High enough that no bad thing will ever happen to them again.
Finally cracking his eyes open, Lando shifts to glance up at her. His hair is a mess of soft curls that frames his sleepy face, and despite the calmness in her body, she can’t help the way her pulse jumps in her veins.
“Five,” he repeats, as if he’s meeting her halfway with some sort of compromise.
The girl looks back at him, at the way he’s wrapped around her like letting go isn’t an option he’s considered yet. She wants to argue, but since this might be it, she allows herself to pretend for a little while.
“When are you leaving?” she whispers a few minutes later, cautious, in case he fell back asleep.
Lando inhales deeply, feeling like he’s waking up in stages. “Next week,” he mumbles, pausing for a breath before adding, “Gotta go back to MTC first. Thursday, I think.” He tilts his head to look at her properly, blinking away the last of his sleep. “Why?”
She can’t answer right away, even though it sits at the edge of her tongue. If they’re going to fix anything, they need time. Real, physical, actual time together. Not texting sessions, late nights, or stollen hours between his meetings. In order for something to work, they need to be purposeful about it. Yet he’s already halfway gone again.
“No reason,” she finally replies, one of her hands getting lost into his curls, tucking it away from his eyes.
He studies her for a second. It comes out light and it’s hard for Lando to believe she can sound so careless about it, especially when she touches him the way she does. He knows there’s more she’s not saying, but he can’t push yet. Instead, he moves closer, resting his forehead on her shoulder.
“Did we even finish the movie?” he changes the subject for her sake, the inquiry coming out like a light bulb moment.
“Don’t think so,” she admits, “Last thing I remember is Mia and Sebastian pretending it won’t all fall apart at the jazz club.”
“What jazz club?” asks Lando, managing to steal a small chuckle from her, the sound traveling straight to the deepest parts of his soul.
She sighs in fake disappointment. “Lando…”
“Look, I’ll drive you home, if you want,” he continues gently, “Or we could just have breakfast here and finish what we started.”
It’s the way he says it that makes her lungs scream in agony because of how long she’s holding her breath after that. Feels like the choice he’s offering has nothing to do with the movie at all, but it’s not accompanied by the pressure to agree.
He’s simply making space for her and, for once, she doesn’t overthink it when he asks if she’s staying.
“Yeah,” she nods, letting the air out, “I’m staying.”
LANDO BLINKS AND it’s somehow the night before he has to leave. They didn’t speak after he dropped her off, days ago, and now there’s an open suitcase on the bed with all his clothes, some half-folded, most half-abandoned. He sits right next to it, on the edge of the mattress, pressing the screen of his phone to his forehead as if it can make him think faster. Better. Come up with solutions that stick.
The messages sit there on delivered for a minute, then five. Five turns to ten, ten to twenty.
Being the one left in the in-between can be frustrating, especially waiting for a decision that isn’t completely his to make. He didn’t have high expectations to begin with, but he’s held on to the belief that she’ll have an answer by now. Worst thing is that he knows he can’t blame her for the silence, because he’s aware of how complicated this is. How easily they can slip from something good into something that hurts.
Still, it leaves him with a couple of WHAT IFs.
There is no clear moment that points to where hope disappears, it just feels like it’s slowly dimming, like an engine finally running out of fuel. It’s not like Lando can simply decide to let go, but the space where he’d imagined her starts to feel emptier with every passing minute, until he’s left with the uncomfortable realization that maybe now is not their turn. But even though the biggest part of him agrees that the timing has never quite aligned for them, accepting that now isnt’t their time doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Lando watches a series of bubbles appearing and disappearing in front of his eyes, over and over, toying with his patience. Each time it shows up, his chest grows stiff; each time it vanishes, another wave of frustration washes over him. The lack of control sends him reeling, caught between please! and fuck it!
His jaw sets harder, frustration rising fast enough to turn into anger and, for a weak moment, he’s ready to throw the phone across the room. Until it buzzes in his hand, causing his heart to skip a beat, then drop straight to his stomach.
Their eyes lock immediately once the door is yanked open. His are wild, filled with disbelief and hungry, hers flicker with nerves. Three heartbeats pass in the space that separates them, until Lando’s hands shoot out to close the gap, fingers curling firmly around her waist. It doesn’t matter what else they might have to say in the moment, words are redundant now. He pulls her inside with an ease that speaks to how effortlessly he can handle her small frame against his lean one. Then the same door slams shut behind her, Lando’s mouth crashing into hers, desperate, with no time to test the waters.
It’s a kiss he’s put on hold ever since they woke up together on his couch, last week, messy in the way their lips slide together. Feels as though it’s the last time they’ll get to do it, and they both know it. She tastes like candy, making him groan into her mouth as soon as he remembers the sweet drops she chews whenever she feels anxious. His grasp almost leaves her breathless, combined with the way his mouth moves in sync with hers, thumbs pressing into the soft give of her hips to keep her in place.
Her entire body ignites under his hands, heat spreading like wildfire to the inside of her thighs, making her knees weaken and her skin prickle with goosebumps. She wasn’t ready to discover just how much her body had longed for his touch, and now she’s paying the price by revealing to Lando just how bad she needs him to claim her again. It’s like every nerve ending starts singing, her breasts heaving against his chest with labored breaths, nipples hardening beneath her shirt from the friction alone. She responds with the same urgency, her fingers fisting in his messy curls, tugging him closer until there’s no room left betweent them, not even for a speck of dust.
Saliva slicks their lips, a strand of it breaking when the girl pulls back to gasp for air, only for Lando to dive back in the next second, sucking on her lower lip hard enough to make her moan in protest. However, her legs part instinctively at the way he presses his hips forward, the hard line of his cock already straining against his sweatpants, grinding into her core through her jeans.
It gets overwhelming when he reaches this state, manhandling her like she’s weightless, his arms lifting her slightly off the ground to align their bodies better, her back arching on the door behind as a result. He sighs loudly when she presses back into him, sound that sends pure need between her legs. Like in a chain reaction, a rush of wetness soaks her panties, her clit throbbing in time with the pulse pounding in her ears.
Everything happens so fast, so she barely has time to snake her legs around his waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back without breaking the kiss. Lando stumbles forward a step, then another, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, fingers digging into the flesh there as he kneads it possessively. The shift makes his erection rub directly on her, sparks flying out of a body that’s undulating against his, itching to feel more of it.
Halfway to his room, Lando remembers the suitcase sprawled open on the bed with his clothes scattered everywhere. He breathes her in, a muffled nuh-uh coming from the back of his throat, then veers into the living room instead, lowering her feet to the floor but keeping her close.
“Fuck, wait,” he speaks over her lips, breathless; his hands are already working at her shoes, crouching slightly to tug off one, then the other.
She smiles, kicking them aside, her own hands yanking at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in the shortest time, like she’s racing against the clock. His skin is burning, the defined lines of his abs flexing under her soft palms the second she starts tracing them all over, greedily.
“What are we doing?” she exhales heavily, inebriated by the assault of his mouth, the words tumbling out just for the sake of it and not because she’s interested in the answer.
Feeling her nails scraping lightly down his chest, Lando straightens with a small whimper. “You know what we’re doing,” he looks at her long enough to make a point, then immediately drops to his knees before her. “Do you wanna stop?” the question comes out in a low voice as his hands slide up her calves, thumbs pressing into the spot behind her knees.
Fixing her gaze on the way he unzips her jeans, the girl simply shakes her head. Lando’s is more wicked and it stops at the damp spot on her panties, peeling the denim down her legs. She steps out of them trembling at the anticipation, every square inch of her skin hypersensitive to his contact. His mouth follows the path, lips brushing her inner thigh until she brings him higher by threading her fingers through his curls a second time.
He takes his time though, hooking his fingers into her panties and dragging them to expose her slick folds to the cool air. The scent of her arousal hits him like a memory, sending his senses into overdrive next time he inhales sharply, his cock twitching in his sweatpants. It’s like a switch flipped in his brain. There’s no thought or logic behind it anymore, and although he’s aware of how it conditioned him over time, what follows is simply a knee-jerk reaction: his shoulders tense, pulse kicks up in his arteries, then he’s hit low in the stomach with an undeniable surge of want.
Rising, Lando sheds the useless fabric in a rush, his erection springing free with impatience, involuntarily putting on a show for her. It’s only fair she reaches for him without thinking twice, wrapping her hand around his length to stroke firmly from base to head, eliciting a weak whine from his chest.
“Holy shit,” his whine ends in a chuckle, “Your hands are so cold,” says Lando, capturing her wrists gently, guiding her hands to her own shirt instead. “Off, please.”
She can’t help but let a laugh escape through her lips but still complies, stripping it over her head, her bra following as her breasts spill free, begging for attention. “Sorry, I walked here.”
“No, you didn’t,” he insists, not past the disbelief that she’s here yet.
“Yes. I went out for a walk to think, and the next thing I knew, I was here,” the girl explains before they collide again, skin to scorching skin.
His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. Her head tips back to give him space, a tamed sob announcing the exact moment when pleasure arrows straight to her core, her pussy suddenly aching to be filled. In order to stay strong up against his gentle attack, her hands open wide to cover as much of his broad back as possible, urging him on by squeezing his shoulders.
Lando lowers her slowly, but misses the couch, their bodies sinking together down onto the soft rug on the floor, her back hitting the plush surface with a whoosh of breath. He’s all over her in an instant, caging her with his arms, his cock nudging earnestly at her entrance. Every point where they connect catches on fire, but the burn doesn’t hurt; instead, it envelops them in a protective dome, their own world, as it spreads.
“Look at me?” he’s close to whispering, locking his eyes in an intense, soul-baring way that makes her heart grow ten times in size. “I’m always going to need you like this,” admits Lando, making sure she follows. “Together or not.”
She nods, circling her legs around him, digging her heels into his ass to pull him closer.
“Anything else?” she challenges him.
Lando’s jaw clenches before positioning himself, eyes never leaving hers. “I need you to work with me here.” When one of her eyebrows arches, he adds, “Grind down until your thighs shake, yeah? I’ll do the rest.”
Her whiny voice almost breaks him, and Lando takes it as a cue to thrust in gently but deep, burying himself entirely inside her tight heat. The girl cries out at the initial stretch, her walls adjusting rather fast to his thickness. He stills there to give her time to relax around him, both of them panting at the blissful sensation. Then he moves, pulling back only to slam forward again, closely studying her face in order to figure out how to build the perfect rhythm.
Because she’s so wet, that’s not even an issue. She’s so ready to take him after their weeks apart, that each movement sends lewd sounds echoing in the living room, blending in unison with their heavy breathing. Her hands grow restless, one sliding down to cup the taut muscle of his ass and pressing into the flexing flesh as he drives deeper. The other caresses his back, pulling him closer and closer, until his chest brushes her nipples, the contact sending fresh jolts through her.
“You look so desperate for it already,” he reads her at the same time he pulls back for another thrust, aiming deeper so the head of his cock nudges that spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids. “If you needed dick that badly, you could have just told me.”
His left hand braces beside her head, but the right slips between them, fingers splaying her folds wider, holding her open in order to watch himself dissapear into her heat. The sight alone makes him throb harder, impossibly thicker, like his body refuses to soften even for a second in her embrace.
“I almost did,” she confesses, “But then you decided to be a stupid idiot,” her vision darkens at the edges like a vignette effect at the feeling of him splitting her open, leaving but returning with more drive every time.
“I know, baby,” says Lando, watching her facial expressions change with each of his thrusts. “I’m so. Fucking. Sorry.”
She can’t process his words right now, not when the most euphoric wave sweeps over her senses: the stretch of him, sweet yet too much at times; the sounds he makes, mostly guttural, followed by jerky grunts whenever she squeezes him just right; the way he looks on top, heavy, rocking into her with gritted teeth and tensed muscles.
Her breasts bounce every time he grinds, swaying in a rhythm that catches Lando’s eye mid-motion. He lets another groan out through his parted lips, transfixed, focusing on how they shift with each snap of his hips, drawing him in like a magnet.
“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” he breathes, speeding up only to chase the hypnotic jiggle of her chest, his pace turning more insistent. “So fucking hot.”
He’s careful to build the pressure thrust after thrust, one measured push that bottoms out, grinding his pelvis against her clit before retreating, then plunging back in with a wet smack. Her body dances with his on the rug beneath them, the coarse fibers catching on her skin, leaving behind a subtle burn that heightens everything.
“Lando,” she swiftly grabs at his bicep to catch his attention, making the muscles tense and release.
“Yeah, love. What d’you need?
Hardly managing, she replies between moans that rattle in her throat, “Need to come, I’m so close.”
“Mhm, I can feel it,” Lando assures her, “You’re doing so well for me.”
“Lando…” the girl chokes out his name once more, her hips lifting to meet his.
He understands her desperation, adjusting the angle by a fraction of a millimeter and driving the next thrust upwards. Hearing her whines, his free hand immediately joins the fray between her thighs, fingers rubbing in successive strokes, from firm swirls that match his pace to faster flicks that has her clenching harder around him.
She is lost in it by now, mind emptying to white noise and the relentless pleasure of him filling her over and over. Lando feels it too, as if every time he dives back inside her, his cock gets harder with veins pulsing against her inner walls. One particularly deep plunge has her crying out, his tip pressing so far inside that it steals her breath. But he pulls out abruptly, right before she’s ready to let go, both of them panting at the instant stop.
“Fuck, no!” she hisses, legs going limp around him; she watches him resting his cock on the heated skin of her thigh, slick with her arousal and twitching as he looks back at her flushed face with a grin. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Just making sure you cum before I do,” says Lando, sliding two fingers into her without warning, curling them from the first push.
She bucks, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his digits with increasing frevor. It doesn’t take much for her to start convulsing in powerful spasms around his fingers, sucking them in as her release gushes out in rhythmic pulses. He pumps faster for a few more seconds, thumb playing with her swollen clit, the dual assault sending her straight into flow state.
“Oh my god,” she rises to chase his touch in that exact moment, but Lando withdraws his fingers then, replacing them with the blunt head, the thickness difference landing her back on the ground. He teases her hole for a heartbeat, then thrusts back in, timed perfectly with her clench, her greediness pulling at him deep until he’s seated fully again. “You’re so fucking big.”
Lando’s grin widens, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “You can take it alright,” he leans in to kiss her jaw, earlobe, anywhere his lips can reach, thrusts turning erratic now. “That’s it. Get your favorite thing,” his voice is strained with lust, long fingers resuming their work on her clit, faster this time around.
Only thing she can still pronounce is his name on repeat, like a chant that fuels Lando. She doesn’t have time to come down when a second orgasm crashes over her, causing her body to go completely limp beneath him due to exhaustion. Her pussy clenches around his length, fluttering contractions drawing him deeper into her heat. In response, his cock swells thicker inside as he fucks her harder through it, hips snapping forward with much more force than before. For a quick second, it feels even punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder, his balls tightening as he chases his own peak.
With that, Lando can’t keep his mouth shut anymore; the words spill from his lips in a breathy torrent, accompanied by moans that match his pounding:
“Just like that, fuck, you’re so good for me. Squeezing me so fucking tight,” his praises mix with whimpers from both sides, each one punched out on a thrust. “Ah, yeah, just… just like that,” he repeats, the hand on her clit finally abandoning its assault to brace against the floor, right next to her head.
Caging her there gives Lando leverage to grind deeper, his cock battering that sweet spot until her limp form jolts with aftershocks. Her back slides another few inches across the rug, the friction now a delicious sting that keeps her in the present moment. Though weakened, her arms manage to cling to him, hands trailing feebly up his sweat-slicked back.
“That’s good, baby. Can you hold on like that?”
She answers by nodding with a smile, then his pace changes again, thrusts shortening and sharper, the coil in his gut snapping as he cums with a guttural moan that buzzes through his chest. He paints her walls white but keeps moving, pulling out just on one backstroke for a dribble of their mixed release to leak onto the floor, a pearly strand connecting them before he slams back in, fucking it deeper.
He repeats it again and again, then once more, the obscene squelch of it driving him on.
“That’s fucking it,” he pants, shaky voice breaking on another moan, his cock jerking until he’s emptied himself completely. “Mine.”
Finally spent, Lando sighs, wrapping one hand around the base of his softening cock and pulls out slowly only to watch her face when she clenches in protest, reluctant to let him go. The drag is so sweet, her muscles rippling along his thickness, drawing out a shared hiss of overstimulation. As the head pops free with a wet sound that either of them barely register, he smears it along her lips, coating the puffy, glistening folds, the mess slicking her clit and thighs in shiny trails.
Without a word, he rests it then right between her folds, the warmth of her inner skin cradling him as he collapses fully on top of her. She’s boneless beneath him, eyes closing in blissful exhaustion. Lando notices her sudden silence and dips his head to capture her lips in a tender kiss before she can react, his tongue slipping in to taste her, bringing her back to him. The girl catches up quickly, her mouth moving sluggishly against his.
Neither moves for what feels like ages, bodies cooling on the floor of his living room with heartbeats gradually slowing, syncing to a calm lub-dub.
In the quiet that grows around them, Lando shifts first, propping himself up on one elbow to reach for the tissue box on the nearby coffee table. He cleans her gently, wiping away the sticky trails from her thighs and folds with careful strokes, then himself. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, still too spent to do more than sigh softly at his careful touch. She lets him dress her next, following how his hands slide his loose sweatpants up her legs. He tugs them over her hips, pulling at the strings around the waist to make them fit better.
Leaning down, Lando presses one more kiss to her cheek, lingering there with a nuzzle, his freshly shaved face gliding smoothly against her flushed skin.
“Be right back,” he informs her, standing on shaky legs to grab a clean pair of boxers; he heads to the bathroom next, the sound of the toilet flushing the used tissues following soon after, water running briefly as he washes his hands.
Left alone, she breathes out the last pulses of euphoria, her body humming with residual warmth, pussy still tingling from the thorough fucking. With effort, she pushes herself up, knees wobbling from the fact that she pretty much forces herself to bend down and collect their scattered clothes. Bundling them in her arms, the girl pads barefoot toward his bedroom but stops in the doorway, taking in the chaotic space. It’s the clutter she notices at first but, soon enough, her gaze snags on a flash of a familiar playful logo peeking from a cardboard box labeled ‘DONATIONS’ in sharpie.
A small smile curves at her lips, warming her already heated chest amid the post-orgasm glow.
She still smiles when Lando finds her standing there. Without asking for permission, he wraps his arms around her from behind cupping her breasts possessively to pull her back against his bare chest.
“You smiling at my mess, eh?” he teases, one hand lingering on her breast as the other wraps around her waist.
She leans into his embrace like second nature. “I’ll help you clean.”
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Summary: Lando Norris was never good at hiding things, not his feelings, not his adoration, and definitely not the way his world tilted whenever she walked into a room.
But lately, something changed. He hide his phone, he was distant. Quiet. Absent. And the more she reached for him, the further he seemed to slip away.
So one night she finnaly confront him for it.
Genre: angst and fluff, request
Paring: Lando Norris x reader (no uses of Y/N)
Main Masterlist
There was something hopelessly adorable about the way Lando loved her.
It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t one of those slow-burning, mysterious romances where love crept in through cracks and corners and eventually built itself into something resembling permanence.
No.
He was the kind of man who knew from the start.
The kind who fell hard, fast, and with no intention of pretending otherwise.
He hadn’t said "I love you" on accident. He’d said it on a Tuesday morning, three months into knowing her, while they were brushing their teeth in the tiny bathroom of her flat. He said it like it had slipped out without warning. Like it had been sitting on his tongue since day one and just couldn’t wait anymore.
And then, when she turned to look at him, toothbrush in hand, eyes wide with shock, he hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t backpedaled or laughed it off.
He’d just shrugged.
“I do,” he said, spitting out his toothpaste. “I love you. Just so you know.”
Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, with him, it was.
His love was in the way he draped himself over her like a human blanket on every couch they shared. The way he reached for her hand before crossing the street. The way he knew every one of her prefered order: coffee, takeaway, morning juice, late-night snacks and recited them before she even opened her mouth.
It was in the way he smiled when she walked into the room. Every single time. As if her presence only make his day brighter.
And he immediatly cross the distance between them to hug her, kiss her gently or hold her hand. As if it physically pained him to be apart from her. Even for a second. Even across a room.
“Someone’s in love,” Oscar had teased once, walking in on Lando hugging her from behind the minute she enters the McLaren garage, whispering how he miss her even if she went out for only ten minutes.
Lando didn’t look up.
“Obviously,” he had muttered, still hugging her and kissing her cheek.
She hadn’t been used to this kind of attention.
At first, it had been overwhelming, the way he touched her so easily, so often. A hand on her waist when he passed behind her in the kitchen. A kiss to the crown of her head as she folded laundry. His thumb tracing circles on her wrist when she spoke, like he just needed to anchor himself somewhere on her.
But it never felt possessive. Or performative.
It just felt like Lando.
Warm. Present. Gentle.
Lando loved like he didn’t know any better.
He kissed her like he was starved. Held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. Sent her videos from the paddock of him pointing to random clouds and saying, “This one looks like you. ”
He made her playlists with names like “Songs that remind me of your laugh” and “For when I miss you”.
He wrote notes on napkins and left them in her bags.
He took photos of her when she wasn’t looking, eyes crinkled with laughter, fingers twirling a spoon, wind tugging at the hem of her dress and set them as his lock screen.
The shift didn’t happen all at once.
Not in the way storms did, not with a sudden crack and thunderous crash. It was quieter than that. Subtle.
Like walking into a familiar room and feeling something off without knowing exactly what.
She couldn’t pinpoint the first moment he start to change.
Maybe it was when he forgot to send his usual good morning voice note after a long night flight. Or when he canceled their FaceTime without rescheduling. Or when his replies started sounding more like statements than conversations.
Maybe it was the way he came home later and later, exhausted, the smile he always saved for her dimmed into something less certain.
Maybe it was the first time he kissed her without looking at her.
She tried not to overthink it.
He had a lot on his schedule: meetings, media, races, deadlines. She told herself that. Repeated it like a mantra.
But mantras never hold for so long.
Especially when love starts to feel like reaching across a room and not being reached back.
“Hey,” she said one night, halfway through a quiet dinner she barely touched. “You’ve been kinda off lately.”
He looked up from his phone, blinked at her like he hadn’t realized she was speaking.
“Huh?”
“I said…” She paused. Tried to smile. “I feel like I don’t see you anymore.”
He set his phone down, leaned back, rubbed a hand over his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “It’s just… there’s been a lot going on.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Just… things,” he muttered, already shifting the conversation away. “Work things.”
She studied him. The way he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. The half-answer. The tension in his shoulders.
It wasn’t like him.
Not her Lando, the boy who once cried watching her favorite movie because he was so in love with the way she loved things.
She nodded, slowly. “Okay.”
But it didn’t feel okay.
Not even a little.
Now it wasn't just the small things, it was everything she started to question: the unknown numbers lighting up his phone after midnight. The way he always turned his screen over. The sudden, unexplained need to leave their flat again, even when he'd just come home.
And the lies.
"Sorry, I was in a meeting." "I’m just tired, baby."
"It’s nothing."
"You’re imagining things."
No matter how softly he said them, they still carved through her.
She didn’t want to believe it.
Didn’t want to let the worst thought in.
But it crept in anyway, quiet and unwelcome.
What if he’s cheating on me?
The first time the idea surfaced, it made her feel physically sick.
The second time, she cried in the shower.
By the fifth time, it had planted itself somewhere deep and rotting.
She didn’t recognize herself anymore, second-guessing every glance, every silence, every shift in his tone. She tried to breathe through it, tried to rationalize, but it always circled back to the same thought.
He’s pulling away because he get bored of me.
And one tonight, it broke.
It was raining when Lando finally came through the front door.
She was sitting on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, wearing the hoodie he’d given her on their third date. The one that still smelled faintly like his cologne, though it had faded.
She didn’t look up when he entered. Her phone was clenched tight in her hand, but she hadn’t been using it. Just staring.
He noticed the tension the moment he walked in, the kind that wrapped itself around the air and pulled.
“Hey,” he said gently, peeling off his jacket. “Sorry. Got caught up again.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
Her eyes were red, cheeks blotchy from hours of trying not to cry and failing anyway.
And Lando stilled. “Are you okay ?”
Her voice was quiet. Frighteningly steady. “Was she worth it?”
He blinked. “What?”
She stood. Slowly. Controlled.
“The girl,” she said. “Or whoever it is. Was she worth… this?”
He took a full step back. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She laughed, and it sounded hollow, broken. “Don’t lie to me. Please. I can’t do it anymore.”
“I’m not...” He paused. His heart was racing now. “My love, I’m not lying to you.”
“I’ve seen the messages.”
“You...what messages?”
“The ones you don’t answer in front of me. The ones that light up your screen at midnight when you think I’m asleep. You turn your phone over like I’m not supposed to notice.”
Lando stared at her. “It’s not what you think...”
“Then tell me what it is!” she snapped. “Because I’ve spent weeks feeling like I’m losing you, Lando. Like I’m not enough anymore. Like you’re already halfway out the door and I’m just the last of your worries.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she made no move to wipe them.
Lando looked wrecked. “You think I’d cheat on you?”
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
His mouth opened. Closed. He looked at her like he didn’t recognize the girl in front of him. “Baby…”
“You used to look at me like I was everything,” she whispered. “And now you barely look at me at all.”
Lando took a step forward, hands trembling. “No. No, I...I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it looked like that...”
“You come home late, you don’t talk, you don’t touch me...” her voice cracked. “You don’t laugh anymore. You don’t ask how I am. You don’t see me.”
He reached for her, panicked, but she stepped back again.
She was shaking now.
And so was he.
“I never looked at anyone else,” he said, voice low and raw. “God, I never even thought about it. I swear to you, I would never do that to you.”
“Then what the hell have you been doing this last few weeks if not being with someone else?”
He froze. And suddenly his eyes went wide. Horror dawning.
“I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Lando ?”
“No, no, no, wait.” he turned, scrambling, knocking his bag over in his rush.
“What are you...?”
He was digging through his backpack now, practically tearing it apart.
His laptop. His sketchpad. Notes. Scribbled drawings. Receipts.
Then his phone.
“Here,” he said, pulling up emails, texts, calendar notes. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it. “Look. Please, please, just look.”
She hesitated.
And he was almost crying now, too. Voice cracked open with guilt and fear.
“I wasn’t cheating. I wasn’t, I wasn’t doing anything like that, I swear. I’ve been planning something. I wanted it to be a surprise. It was supposed to be good, it was supposed to be special.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our anniversary,” he choked out. “I… I took two weeks off. I shifted everything, meetings, sim days, sponsor events, so I could have that time just with you. I booked a trip. I was going to take you somewhere you’ve always wanted to go. Just us.”
She blinked. The room tilted.
“What?”
“And the texts, those were from the jeweler,” he said, dropping onto his knees in front of her, holding out his phone again like it could somehow fix what he’d broken. “I was designing you something. A necklace. From scratch. Stones you like. Something that doesn’t exist anywhere else. I’ve been spending weeks trying to get it right.”
She stared at him.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” he whispered. “And I was so afraid you’d find out before I could finish it that I… I lied. And hid it. And made you feel like you were losing me when you were the only thing I was thinking about.”
He broke then. Completely.
Hands tangled in his curls, eyes wet and red.
“I thought I was doing something romantic. I thought it would make you happy. And instead I ruined everything.”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Not for a long, suspended breath.
Then, finally, softly she call for him. “Lando…”
He looked up, broken.
“I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
He reached for her, barely breathing. “I love you so much it hurts.”
“But you stopped acting like it.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know. I was so fucking stupid.”
“I needed you,” she said, and the way she said it gutted him. “And you weren’t there.”
He nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
And then he was in her arms, and she was crying into his neck, and he was clinging to her like she was oxygen.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said over and over, voice cracking. “It was never supposed to be like this.”
She nodded against his chest.
“I didn’t mean to stop showing you,” he whispered. “I just got so caught up in trying to do something big that I forgot the little things that matter every day.”
She held him tighter.
“I thought I lost you,” she breathed.
“Never,” he said fiercely, pulling back to cup her face. “Never. You are everything to me.”
That night, Lando didn’t let go of her. Not once.
Not when she got up to grab a glass of water.
Not when she changed into pajamas.
Not even when she went to brush her teeth, he stood in the bathroom doorway like a guard dog, eyes red-rimmed, arms folded tightly over his chest like he was afraid to break the moment by blinking.
She didn’t protest.
Her own chest still ached with the memory of everything she’d said. Everything she’d thought.
But mostly, she was just tired.
Emotionally wrung out.
So when she came back into the bedroom and saw him already curled on her side of the bed, holding her pillow like a lifeline, she smiled softly and slipped in beside him.
The second she did, he was on her, pulling her close, tucking his face into the crook of her neck, one arm across her stomach, one leg tangled between hers like if he let go she might vanish into the dark.
She ran her fingers through his curls.
“Lando.”
He didn’t move.
“Lando, baby.”
“I’m not letting go,” he mumbled.
She laughed under her breath. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“Just clarifying. I’m physically incapable of being more than two inches away from you for the foreseeable future.”
“You’re kind of sweaty.”
“Don’t care.”
“You’re suffocating me a little.”
“Worth it.”
She smiled. Pressed a kiss into his forehead.
And then the quiet settled again. Warm. Gentle. Soothing.
His voice came a moment later, low and husky against her skin.
“I feel like I can’t say sorry enough times.”
“You already did.”
“I need to say it again.”
She paused, then rolled slightly, so they were face to face.
His eyes were glassy in the low light, lashes still wet. He looked so boyish in that moment. So unlike the confident, chaotic Lando the rest of the world knew.
“I really messed up,” he whispered.
“You didn’t mean to.”
“No,” he said fiercely. “But I did anyway. I made you feel alone. I made you think you weren’t enough. That’s on me.”
She bit her lip, her voice soft. “I should have just asked.”
“No,” he said immediately, reaching up to brush her hair back. “No, baby, you don’t get to say sorry for my fuck up. I was the one who was hiding things. I was the one who was so tunnel-visioned on a damn necklace and a flight itinerary that I forgot to check in on the girl I’m supposed to love.”
She swallowed, emotion creeping up again.
“You do love me,” she said, almost in wonder.
He blinked. “Of course I do. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
“Okay, now you’re overcompensating.”
“I will overcompensate for the rest of my life.”
She laughed, but her eyes glistened. “You big clingy idiot.”
“Your clingy idiot,” he said proudly, already nuzzling back into her shoulder.
They lay like that for a long while. Breathing each other in.
And then he shifted again, just enough to look at her properly.
“So,” he said softly, a little shy now. “Since the whole surprise is blown, can I at least tell you what it was?”
She smiled. “You still want to?”
“I want you to know what I was planning. What I wanted to give you. Even if it’s not a surprise anymore.”
She touched his cheek. “Tell me.”
He sat up slightly, still holding her hand.
“So,” he began, his voice warmer now, “I took two weeks off. In August. I will have no press, no training, no sim, no racing. Just us.”
She blinked. “You never do that.”
“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “I had to move so many things around, it nearly gave my assistant an aneurysm.”
She laughed.
“And I booked us a place in Italy. It’s kind of remote, up in the mountains. Private cabin. Hot tub. Views that’ll make you cry.”
She blinked again. “Lando…”
“I wanted to take you hiking and swimming and wine tasting and just… disappear together. For two weeks. No schedules. No stress. Just… us.”
Her throat tightened. “You did all that for me?”
“I’d do it again in a second. And the necklace...” He reached for his bag and pulled out a leather notebook. Inside were sketches. Beautiful, delicate sketches. A locket with a star-shaped sapphire, like the one she always admired. Small accents of her favorite color.
She stared at the design. “You drew this?”
“Yeah. That’s what I was doing when I said I was ‘busy.’ ”
“It’s… beautiful.”
“It was supposed to be ready by the day we left,” he said sheepishly. “But now you’ve seen the plan so I might need to pivot a little.”
She was still staring at the page.
Then, finally, she looked up, a soft, sad little smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s cute,” she said. “But you really can’t hide stuff Lando.”
“I know,” he groaned. “I’m terrible at it. Why did I think I could pull off a surprise like this?”
She squeezed his hand. “I should probably tell you something.”
He tilted his head.
“I don’t actually like surprises.”
He blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I know it’s sweet. I know your heart was in the right place. And I love what you planned. But… I’d rather you just told me. Talked to me. Let me in.”
Lando looked like he’d just been hit by a truck of realization.
“You… oh my god. That makes so much sense.”
She giggled. “You don’t have to plan everything alone. I’m not expecting you to be perfect.”
“I just wanted to make it special.”
“You being there is already special.”
He melted then. Just completely melted.
“I love you,” he said again, softly.
She leaned in, resting her forehead to his.
“I love you too.”
He wrapped himself around her again, like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there. Still choosing him.
And that night, he didn’t let her go.
Not when they finally drifted to sleep, his arms a warm, tangled knot around her.
Not when she shifted in the early morning light.
Not even when his alarm buzzed and he slapped it off without looking.
He stayed close.
And she stayed right there with him.
Because love, it turns out, is not just in the grand gestures.
It’s in the everyday: the apology, the understanding, the choice to try again.
After a harsh breakup, you and Lando reluctantly take a summer trip together to the Amalfi Coast you once booked. Forced to share a car, a villa, and memories, old arguments flare up—but so do burried feelings.
pairing. Lando Norris x ex-gf! fem! reader.
warnings. second chance, 12,5k words, enemies to lovers -ish, slowburn -ish, forced proximity, angst, both are toxic toward each other as hell, a lot of arguing & screaming, profanity, protective!lando, alcohol use, hints of past toxic relationship, pet names (baby, love), emotional ending.
playlist.
YOU HATED HOW DAMN STUBBORN YOU WERE.
Anyone with a shred of common sense would’ve canceled the trip. After all, what kind of lunatic agrees to spend a week in paradise with the person who’d just torn them apart? The breakup hadn’t been quiet. It had been volcanic, ugly—shouting matches that scraped raw, doors slammed hard enough to echo, words thrown like knives that still lodged in the back of your mind.
But somehow, you and Lando had decided to go anyway.
The conversation happened over a series of dry, impersonal texts. No calls. No apologies. Just blunt logistics. The vacation was booked, paid for, and non-refundable. Even for Lando and his millionaire status, tossing that kind of money felt wasteful. For you—on a budget and aching—it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip you probably couldn’t afford to make solo.
So you swallowed your pride and took the chance.
Amalfi. The place you'd once squealed over together on that couch, scrolling through sun-drenched villas like future memories. Back then, it felt romantic. Now it felt ironic. It was Lando’s name on the booking confirmation, his card that sealed the deal. You were going on holiday with your ex—not because it made sense emotionally, but because the receipts said so.
There was a bitter humor to it. You were about to spend seven days surrounded by turquoise water, lemon trees, and honeymoon energy… with the one person you could barely look at without remembering how it all shattered.
───
The plane jolted once, twice, then landed with the grace of a shopping cart being shoved downhill. Classic Ryanair. You stood, shoulders stiff from the cramped seat, heart heavier than your carry-on.
You’d been told Lando would be waiting outside the arrivals terminal in the rented car. That’s all. No details. No “can’t wait to see you.” Just a one-liner text that barely felt like it came from someone you used to call “baby” while brushing your teeth beside him. You had no idea how he’d arrived. Private jet? Yacht? Teleportation via sheer ego? You didn’t care. You didn’t ask.
What you did care about—much more than you wanted to admit—was that there would only be one car.
You could’ve rented your own. Sure. But the price tag on that? Dumb. Especially when your ex was quite literally one of the fastest drivers on Earth. He could drive you anywhere. Probably blindfolded. You convinced yourself it was practical. Just smart economics.
Except… maybe you were also a little terrified he’d crash just to prove a point.
Your mind spun stupid scenarios as you walked through the glass doors of the airport: Lando taking a hairpin turn too sharply with a smirk. Lando casually flooring the gas mid-argument. You rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t flinch.
You told yourself he wouldn’t. That he wasn't that petty. But then again... you hadn’t seen him since your last fight. Since he threw those words that still lived like a burn in your chest.
You stepped out into the blur of heat and exhaust, scanning the arrivals zone like it was a battlefield. Taxis lined up like options. Easy exits. You could just take one—pretend the plan was always solo. Pretend you hadn’t agreed to this ridiculous arrangement with a man who now felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
But then you saw him.
Leaning against a white SUV, arms crossed loosely, phone dangling from his hand. His hair was messier than usual, curls flattened by travel or maybe nerves. And yeah—you were shocked to admit it, but he did look nervous. His gaze kept flicking to the terminal doors like he was debating whether to bolt or stay.
You gripped the suitcase handle tighter, fingers white-knuckled as you gathered what was left of your pride and stepped toward him. One foot in front of the other. No turning back now.
Lando looked up as you approached, locking eyes with you in a way that made your chest clench. His expression didn’t give much away, but his eyes scanned you. And maybe judged you. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just felt like they did.
Suddenly the whole idea seemed catastrophically stupid.
“Hey,” he said, voice caught somewhere between casual and careful.
You nodded once. “Hello.”
That’s all you allowed yourself to say. Nothing warm. Nothing cruel. Just the word that lived in the neutral zone between past and present.
You popped the trunk, lifted your suitcase without asking for help. The silence felt heavy and awkward, pressing into your ribs. You slid into the passenger seat, clicked the belt into place, and stared straight ahead—hoping the engine would cover everything you weren’t saying.
The silence in the car was thick enough to touch, broken only by the occasional aggressive hum of the engine as he pushed the SUV harder into each curve. The road twisted like it was designed to test his patience—or maybe his impulse control. You watched the sheer drop to the sea flicker past your window and gritted your teeth.
Typical Lando. Always driving like the rules were optional, like adrenaline made up for emotional depth.
“Do you always have to drive like you’re trying to crash us?” you said, deadpan. No heat in your voice, but not quite empty either. You kept your gaze trained on the cliffs ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
Lando chuckled, and the sound annoyed you more than it should.
“You used to think it was fun,” he said, like that was some kind of trump card. You could hear it—the smirk stretching across his mouth, the self-assured tilt in his voice. “You loved it. You used to throw your arms out and belt whatever trash was on the radio. Remember that one ABBA song?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder out the windshield. The memory clawed its way up regardless: you, half-hung out the window screaming lyrics with the wind in your hair, him laughing beside you, hand casually firm on the wheel. Back when speeding with him felt more like flying.
“I used to love a lot of things,” you said finally, voice low and flat. The words landed like a slap on the console between you.
“Such as?” he asked, turning his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar glint. The smile tugging at his mouth wasn’t warm—it was calculated. Lando knew exactly what he was doing. Poking. Testing. Pushing the edges of your temper like they were buttons in a video game he used to win every time.
But not today.
You didn’t bite. Not like before.
Instead, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed loosely, gaze locked on the winding road ahead. Then you smiled. That big, ironic one. The one that meant I know what you're doing—and I'm better at it now.
“Such as papaya,” you said coolly. “You kinda ruined the taste.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was victorious.
The car rumbled to a stop in front of the villa, tires crunching over gravel as the sun dipped lazily toward the horizon. It was breathtaking—whitewashed walls draped in bougainvillea and ivy, the house clinging to the cliffside like it belonged there. It looked like something out of a travel magazine. Just not one you ever imagined starring in with your ex.
You stepped out, heart tight, and let your gaze sweep across the facade. It was beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beauty that felt unfair, considering how miserable you were inside.
The moment you crossed the threshold, warm citrus air met polished terracotta tiles. Everything was perfect: airy rooms flooded with golden light, vintage furniture artfully mismatched, and just beyond the arched French doors—a sprawling terrace with a view that stole the breath right out of your lungs. The sea stretched endlessly below, glittering like spilled sapphires.
This was everything you’d wished for.
Until you reached the bedroom.
You stopped cold. Eyes wide. Staring.
One bed. Just one.
Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course they hadn’t listed that tiny, crucial detail when the booking was made—back when shared pillows and lazy mornings were still your reality. Not this.
Your breath snagged in your throat, and you stood in the doorway like you’d been slapped. The bed loomed large, perfectly made, flanked by two matching nightstands and smug silence.
You stood at the bedroom threshold, staring at the one bed like it had personally betrayed you. The pristine white linens, artfully fluffed pillows, and sun spilling across the mattress—it was all too perfect. Too intentional. Too… romantic.
Lando’s footsteps were soft behind you, but you felt him coming long before he spoke. You turned halfway, still wide-eyed.
“There’s only one bed,” you said, flat but not emotionless. More like disbelief simmering under the surface.
He didn’t even blink. Just glanced at the room, then at you, lips curling into a half-smile that felt a little too easy.
“It was supposed to be romantic, remember?” he said, shrugging.
Of course you remembered. The memory flickered across your mind like a cruel joke—you and Lando side by side, tangled in blankets months ago, scrolling through dreamy villas and laughing over terrace views and breakfast baskets. You had picked this one. Together. Back when the idea of shared mornings still felt safe.
Now, his tone landed somewhere between wistful and cocky, and you hated how much it still made your stomach flip. Maybe he didn’t even mean it that way. But coming from him? Everything sounded like a power play lately.
“I’ll take the couch,” you said immediately. You turned without waiting for a response, already sizing up the living room in your head, calculating whether a throw pillow could double as emotional armor.
But Lando didn’t let the silence settle. Instead, his voice came softer, enough to stop you mid-step. “Y/n, c’mon. A woman shouldn’t sleep on the couch. Take the bed.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not after everything. You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes, unsure if he was joking or trying on chivalry like a borrowed jacket. Did someone swap him out for a gentleman when you weren’t looking?
“I’m fine,” you replied, smile creeping into place—sharp, ironic. “You’re the pro athlete. You need sleep to... I don’t know, race cars and stuff.”
He raised one eyebrow, that look in his eyes like he wanted to say something else. Maybe argue. Maybe offer. But he didn’t.
───
The afternoon sun spilled across the streets like thick honey, turning everything gold and soft at the edges. Voices swirled around you—Italian, German, a splash of English from passing tourists. You walked ahead of Lando with deliberate distance, camera in hand, snapping photos while carefully keeping him out of the frame.
It wasn't passive aggression exactly—it was preservation. You wanted memories of Amalfi, not fragments of him slipping into your shots like shadows you didn’t invite. He didn’t say anything about the distance, didn’t try to catch up. Just followed, sunglasses on, hands tucked into his pockets, moving with that cool indifference that used to thrill you but now felt like ice.
You found a small grocery tucked between two pastel buildings, quaint and shaded with striped awnings and handwritten signs. Inside, the space was cramped and overflowing—bright fruit spilling from baskets, dusty wine bottles stacked in corners, the scent of basil and old stone. You wandered the aisles, letting your fingers trail across unfamiliar packaging while Lando trailed somewhere behind you. There was no conversation. Just a silent agreement to stock the villa with food, avoid killing each other, and act vaguely human in public.
Eventually, you reached the pasta aisle. Shelves crammed with every type imaginable—linguine, conchiglie, tagliatelle, shapes you didn’t recognize and didn’t care to. You reached for a bag of rigatoni, mostly at random. It was pasta.
And then came his voice, slicing through the calm like a paper cut. “Really? Rigatoni? They’re cheap shit.”
You froze, staring at the bag in your hand. Of course. Of course he had an opinion. Lando always had an opinion. He snatched the rigatoni from your grip and replaced it with fusilli like he was doing you a favor.
“Take fusilli,” he said, like that settled it.
You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, annoyance prickling beneath your skin.
“Since when does pasta define who I am?”
He barely looked up from the shelf, casual in his dismissal. “It says a lot about your standards.”
Your throat went tight. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You bit down on the response rising fast—but then let it go, sharp and clean.
“Funny,” you said, voice curling around each syllable. “Because my standards clearly weren’t that high even back then.”
You didn't have to name the reference. You didn’t need to say you. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, the smirk faltered.
You could practically see the fire flicker behind his eyes, barely restrained. The jaw clenched, the breath pulled tight, the faint twitch of his fingers like he was seconds from snapping. If you were a betting woman, you’d wager he was one sarcastic syllable away from calling you a bitch—or worse. The pasta aisle had nearly become a battleground.
And then—
The old woman stood beside the shelf of olive oil, her hands folded sweetly over her purse, a smile tucked beneath deep laugh lines and crooked lipstick. She looked pleased with herself. Like she'd just witnessed something adorable.
“Ah, young love,” she said with a thick, choppy Italian accent, her voice loud enough to echo through the aisle. “Always arguing but still together.”
Your whole body went rigid.
For a breath, you were frozen—caught in a strange spiral of horror and disbelief. You had just survived a pasta-based verbal brawl, one emotional landmine away from snapping, and now you were starring in someone’s romantic comedy? You wanted to deny it. God, you wanted to scream the truth in every language available. We’re not together. We’re not anything. We’re not okay. Because going back to him would be reckless. Would be stupid. Would be—you realized—borderline self-harm.
You opened your mouth. “We’re n—”
But Lando cut in, louder than necessary.
“Grazie,” he said smoothly, flashing her the kind of boyish smile that used to win you free desserts.
You whipped around to look at him, stunned. His expression was unreadable—calm, maybe smug, definitely intentional. You could see it now: the calculated deflection, the charm turned up just enough to wrap the truth in velvet and toss it aside.
You stood stiffly by the cashier, watching the old woman disappear between aisles, her comment still echoing in your ears like leftover music from a party you weren’t invited to. Your heart hadn’t fully settled yet.
You turned to Lando, one eyebrow raised, voice tight with disbelief.
“Are you kidding me? What was that?”
He didn’t look up, busy loading tomatoes and rigatoni into the thin paper bag like nothing had happened.
“We’d be here until tomorrow if we tried to explain the whole story,” he muttered, tossing in a bottle of olive oil. “Was easier.”
You narrowed your eyes. Easy. Everything with him was always easier when someone else was watching.
The cashier rang through the last item with a dull beep, and you reached for the bag without thinking. But just as your fingers grazed the paper, his hand intercepted.
“Let me do it,” Lando said, voice quieter now but firm.
You hesitated—then pulled back slightly, the irritation bubbling again. “I can do it myself,” you snapped.
He turned toward you fully, eyes sharp. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?”
You opened your mouth, ready to fire back something cold and cutting, but caught yourself. His words weren’t cruel, just exasperated. Maybe tired. Maybe something else.
So instead, you smiled. That slow, ironic one that always curled at the edge of something deeper. “Okay then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, voice lighter now, teasing—but not without weight.
Lando blinked, then shook his head softly, gripping the bag and stepping toward the door.
───
The day had been surprisingly calm—almost too calm, like the universe had hit pause on the tension you’d been wrapped in for days. No raised voices. No sarcastic comments disguised as jokes. No passive digs over groceries or travel arrangements. Just peace. Uneasy, fragile peace. It was already past 7pm, and not a single argument had erupted. Honestly, that felt like a record worth framing. You weren’t sure if it meant something or if it was just temporary, like the eye of a storm lingering a little too long.
You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out and mind drifting, when you felt Lando walk past behind you. He ruffled your hair with the same casual touch he used to do when things were easy between you—when affection wasn’t layered with awkwardness and sharp memories. You rolled your eyes, a reflex you didn’t bother hiding, though a tiny part of you didn’t actually mind the gesture. It was familiar.
He paused for a second, then said, “Going for a drive, u wanna go with me?”—as if you were still that version of you, eager and uncomplicated. Something in the way he asked made your chest tighten. Just hours ago, you’d nearly stabbed each other with pasta choices, and now he was offering a sunset drive like it was nothing.
You hesitated, the weight of the invitation sitting in your stomach. A drive meant space to talk. Or space to not talk at all, which was almost worse. But you didn’t have anything better to do. And part of you missed the version of your relationship where driving together felt safe. So you gave a small nod and said, “Let’s go,” keeping your tone light, as if agreeing to go wouldn’t stir up memories you weren’t ready for.
The road was high and winding, hugging the edge of the cliffs with the sea stretching beneath you—endless and blue and quietly intimidating. You drove, both hands on the wheel, the breeze sneaking through your open window and making your hair dance. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And it was familiar in a way that made your heart ache. You’d done this drive before—different location, maybe, but same rhythm. The silence, the sunset, the weight of something unsaid sitting between you. Back then, it was the good part. The part of your relationship that felt like exhaling. The two of you always clicked on the road. It seemed like the only place where the mess didn’t follow you.
You glanced out the window, trying to keep yourself grounded in the scenery and not in the past. But then it hit—the music. That one song. It played without warning, and you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips even as your stomach dropped.
“Oh god. Not this again,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully, but with just a bit of weight behind it.
The music filled the car in slow waves, louder now thanks to Lando’s hand flicking the volume knob with casual confidence. You didn’t turn to look at him when he smiled—couldn’t, really. His words landed somewhere between nostalgia and provocation.
“What? It’s our classic,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. Like it still meant something.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
Still is? Nah. Not with the way your stomach knotted on the chorus. Not with the memories this song stirred, bright and painful in equal measure.
You kept your eyes on the horizon, the coastline rolling out like a story you didn’t know how to reread.
“Yeah,” you muttered, half-smiling without real joy. “You played it like a thousand times that summer.”
That summer—the one wrapped in salt air and laughter, cheap wine and hands tangled in sun-warmed sheets. It was reckless, beautiful, doomed. And this song had been its soundtrack, stuck on repeat every time he drove you through cities you couldn’t pronounce, pretending that love was enough.
Suddenly, impulse tugged at you. You shifted in your seat, arching your spine just slightly before leaning out through the open window. The wind tangled in your hair like fingers, cool against your cheeks, sharp against your throat. The music was louder now, filling your chest. It felt like something you’d done a hundred times before—something from the version of you that hadn’t yet been disappointed. For a moment, it was perfect. Reckless. Wild. You let your arm stretch out, fingers splayed into the air as if you could catch a piece of the sunset.
Then you felt it.
His hand landed on your thigh—firm, steady, anchoring you.
Your breath caught like a hook in your ribs. Not from the touch exactly, but from what it meant. The muscle memory of it. The sudden intimacy. You whipped your head around, heart thudding a little too loud.
“What are you doing?!”
Your voice was half panic, half fury, like being touched again broke a rule neither of you had spoken.
Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance over, eyes still on the road. “Making sure you won’t fall out.”
He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Like holding you steady hadn’t meant anything more than preventing roadkill. But you both knew better. That hand wasn’t about safety—it was about familiarity. About instinct. About the version of him who used to know how to hold you without being asked.
You stared at him for a beat too long, trying to swallow the thing rising in your throat—regret, anger, maybe longing. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel safe either.
You went back into your seat. The road kept winding, the sea stretching endlessly alongside as the sky slipped into a deeper shade of gold. For a while, neither of you spoke. Lando’s hand had retreated, resting back on the wheel like nothing had happened, but your thigh still buzzed with the imprint of his touch. You sat upright again, the wind no longer in your hair, but something else stirring just beneath your ribs—unease, maybe. Or something like nostalgia trying to sneak in.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. He was focused, calm, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. Like maybe he regretted reaching for you. Or maybe he didn’t. The thing about Lando was he never gave away more than a flicker—and somehow you still knew exactly what he was feeling.
The song faded into something new, softer, but the silence between you didn’t shift with it. It sat there, heavy and fragile, like it knew one wrong word could unravel the day.
You crossed your arms and leaned slightly toward the window again, letting the breeze bite at the warmth on your cheeks. You hated that this felt good. Not the drive. Not the music. Him. This version of him—relaxed, considerate, soft-spoken. It was dangerous. It made you forget. And forgetting led you right back to the place you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t return.
“You remember when you drove through Monaco with no headlights?” you asked suddenly, voice quiet but laced with an old spark.
Lando chuckled, shoulders relaxing.
“You screamed the whole time.”
“Because you’re insane.”
“I was spontaneous,” he corrected. “It was romantic.”
“You nearly got us arrested.”
He glanced at you then, grinning just a little too wide. “But you said it was the best night of your life.”
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the window, letting the sunset hit your face. You wondered if he knew he was the reason your good memories always felt like sharp edges now.
───
The day had started quietly, again. Almost suspiciously so. The air was warm, breakfast had been peaceful—surprisingly so, considering your recent track record. You’d even laughed once, over something dumb Lando said with a mouthful of toast and marmalade. For a moment, it felt normal. Familiar. Like maybe the storm that had been brewing since the moment you landed in Amalfi had passed. But the quiet didn’t feel secure. It felt like the kind of silence that tiptoes in right before everything breaks again.
After breakfast, you agreed to take a walk through the city. It seemed harmless enough. Streets lined with stone buildings in pastel shades, vines creeping up walls, old men smoking in alleyways with one eye closed against the sun. You slipped into the rhythm of sightseeing. Bought gelato you didn’t finish. Took photos you weren’t sure you’d keep. And then wandered into a little souvenir shop.
The shelves were cluttered but charming—keychains, magnets, bracelets that would snap in two if someone looked at them wrong. You moved slowly through the aisles, picking up little trinkets for your friends back home. Things that screamed “I survived Italy and remembered you.” Your fingers grazed a woven bracelet, and you wondered for a moment if your best friend would find it tacky or cute.
Lando was somewhere nearby, wandering in his own orbit, probably scanning shelves for overpriced sunglasses or debating which bracelet would go best with whatever influencer he was texting lately. You rolled your eyes at the thought. He had a type. Or rather, a pattern. Charm, gift, vanish. Repeat.
You were mid-reach toward a charm bracelet shaped like a tiny lemon when Lando’s voice cut through the quiet of the souvenir shop, light and teasing—like he hadn’t just reopened something you’d worked all morning to bury.
“Look what I found,” he said, stepping beside you with something in his hand. “Would suit you.”
You turned, expecting something cliché—maybe a little magnet or one of those tacky tourist mugs. But no. It was a cropped T-shirt, obnoxiously bright, with bold letters slashed across the front: I love my ex.
Your breath caught in your throat, and something in your chest went rigid. You blinked, letting the message soak in like acid. Was he actually serious? You stared at the shirt, then at him. There was still time for him to laugh it off, play it like a bad joke, shove it back on the rack and move on like it never happened. Still time for him to choose not to ruin whatever fragile peace the day had offered.
But of course, he didn’t.
“Excuse me?” you said, low and clipped, eyes locked on his. You felt something begin to stir in your gut—a pressure, slow-building and hot.
He shrugged, unbothered, as if the shirt didn’t carry emotional shrapnel. “You can read,” he said, tone irritatingly smug. “You’re literally on vacation with your ex. Pretty fitting, no?”
The way he said it—so casually, like it was just facts—made you flinch. It wasn’t just the words. It was the total lack of care behind them. Like this trip, this silence, this effort meant nothing. Like your pain was punchline-worthy.
You stared at him, then at the shirt again—I love my ex, bold and ugly in its mockery—and tried to process the fact that this was real. That Lando had looked at that thing, held it in his hands, and thought it would be funny. That after everything—after the emotional rollercoaster, the silence, the tension, the effort to just survive this trip without killing each other—he still found a way to twist the knife with a smile.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, voice surprisingly calm but shaking at the edges. The kind of calm that carried heat underneath. It wasn’t just about the shirt anymore. It was the principle. The lack of care. The never-ending cycle of him pushing until you broke, like it was sport.
But instead of going off, instead of throwing it at his face or letting him see the sting in your eyes, you turned away. Back to the bracelets. Something safe. Something that couldn’t mock you.
Behind you, Lando scoffed. You could feel the smirk in his voice even before he spoke.
“You’re offended? Still can’t take a little joke?”
You closed your eyes for half a second, fingers tightening around a flimsy charm. Of all the things he could’ve said. Of all the ways he could’ve backed off, shown even a sliver of regret. But no. He doubled down. Like always.
You spun around, no longer interested in staying calm.
“You know what?” you said, louder now, louder than the soft hum of music in the shop and the quiet chatter of other customers. “You just reminded me why we broke up.”
“Because you can’t take a joke and take everything way too seriously?” he fired back, voice tight, more defensive than clever. The bravado was there, but barely. He knew it. You knew it. That wasn’t the real reason. Not even close. He could lie to you, fine. But the way his eyes darted as he spoke—that was him lying to himself.
You turned toward him fully, the bracelet still clenched in your hand. Your heart was thudding now, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something bitter.
“No,” you snapped, barely masking the disgust. “Because you’re still a childish prick who’s desperate for my attention.”
There was no room left for subtlety.
He scoffed, folding his arms, shifting his weight like he needed a new pose to match the ego he was scrambling to protect.
“Desperate for your attention?” he repeated, trying hard to sound unaffected. “Oh please. I moved on the second you slammed the door.”
You laughed—cold and biting, the kind of laugh that didn’t hide anything. That peeled back all the curtains and shone a harsh light on the cracks he kept pretending weren’t there.
“Right. That’s why you called me drunk at 2 a.m. saying you needed me,” you said, laughing again, bitter this time, eyes glinting as you stared him down. “I must’ve imagined that part, huh? You were just bored, or confused, or maybe—just maybe—you weren’t over it like you like to pretend.”
Then you turned toward the rack, grabbed the ridiculous t-shirt from where it hung like a neon reminder, and shoved it against his chest with deliberate force.
“You know what? Maybe you should buy it,” you said, voice low but clear. "It suits you much better than it does me."
The silence didn’t last long—not with the storm already rolling in behind your eyes. The air inside the shop was too still, too tight, and the space between you and Lando was thick with everything you hadn’t said yet. He stood there, arms crossed, trying to wear the smirk like armor, but it was slipping.
“You broke up with me, remember?” he snapped, voice lower, bitter now. “So stop acting like I ruined your life.”
You turned, breath sharp. “I didn’t say you ruined my life. I said you acted like a self-absorbed manchild who didn’t know what to do with someone who actually cared.”
“Oh my god,” he laughed, but it wasn’t real—it was the kind people use to stop themselves from yelling. “You were suffocating. Always needing something, always mad about something.”
“I was asking you to show up, just like real boyfriend should!” You shouted, stepping closer. “Emotionally. Mentally. Occasionally answer a text like a normal person, not disappear for days and come back like nothing happened just to fuck!”
“That’s not how I remember it,” he bit back. “You were obsessed with picking fights! Every single little thing pissed you off!”
“Because everything else was silent!” Your voice cracked then—just slightly. “You don’t talk, Lando. You don’t explain. You just vanish. It’s easier for you to ghost than to face anything real.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tense, like he hated how accurate it was. Then he stepped forward, closer than you wanted.
“I didn’t ghost you,” he said, quieter now. “I was trying to avoid this. The yelling. The constant drama.”
“And now you’re in the middle of a gift shop yelling anyway,” you hissed. “So tell me, how’s that avoidance working out?”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. Just heavy breathing and the echo of your own anger bouncing off sun-faded trinkets.
Then he glanced at the shirt again—the one you’d shoved against his chest—and let out a slow, bitter laugh.
“You know what?” he said, voice cold. “You’re right. I’ll buy it. I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it to the airport if it gets me away from you faster.”
You stared at him, stunned. Then turned on your heel without another word.
───
The whole day had passed in silence. After that fight, after everything he said and did in the gift shop, there wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to talk to him. Not after he made you feel so stupid in front of strangers. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was cruel.
It was late now. Evening had settled in, soft and slow, but it didn’t feel peaceful. You were curled up on the couch that had doubled as your bed for days. It was uncomfortable and stiff, and your body was starting to feel the consequences. Your back ached, your neck was sore, and sleep had become something you dreaded because you never really felt rested. Still, you hadn’t moved to the actual bed. Maybe because you were too stubborn. Maybe because going to the bed felt like admitting defeat—and you’d already had enough of that.
Lando hadn’t said a word to you either. He’d gone straight to the balcony when you got home from the shop and hadn’t left it since. You hadn’t looked at him, but you could imagine the scene clearly. He was probably slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, phone in hand. Knowing him, he was either venting to Max—telling him how you overreacted—or texting some random girl who had no idea how good he was at being charming and careless at the same time.
The couch groaned beneath you as you shifted for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find a position that didn’t make your back scream. Your neck had officially given up—stiff, sore, humming with regret—and the cushions felt more punishment than comfort. But still, you stayed. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because you didn’t want to owe him anything.
Lando walked past, his footsteps echoing slightly on the stone floor, and just as you closed your eyes, his voice cut in.
“You’ll wake up in pieces if you keep sleeping here.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just blinked up at the ceiling, irritation prickling beneath your skin. Of course he had to say something. He couldn’t just keep walking. Why did he comment on everything? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?
“So?” you murmured, jaw tight. “I survived worse.”
Oh, how much you wanted to say more. Like the relationship with you. The words danced at the tip of your tongue, sharp and ready, but you swallowed them back. Not tonight.
There was a pause. You assumed he’d keep moving, leave you in peace, retreat back to the balcony where he’d spent the entire day avoiding any trace of accountability. But instead—he stayed. And then came the unexpected.
“Take the bed.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, trying to hide the disbelief on your face.
Since when did he offer without a punchline attached?
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“You know your dad would kill me if you didn’t come back.”
Ah. There it was. Not kindness. Not guilt. Just logic. Just obligation.
You stared at him, heart tight, thoughts tangled. You could still feel the sting of the fight from earlier, still remember how small he made you feel in front of strangers. And yet here he was, offering a bed that used to be yours. That used to be yours together.
The decision came slow, but it came. The couch had become a war zone of poor sleep and regret, and your back was finally staging a protest you couldn’t ignore. One more night on that lumpy disaster meant waking up with your spine in alphabet soup—and yeah, you deserved better. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Besides, he’d be sleeping out there now, right? It wasn’t giving up. It was survival.
“Okay,” you said, dragging your body upright, every joint groaning in agreement. “But only because the couch is really horrible.”
You didn’t wait for ceremony. You fell into the bed like gravity owed you a favor, sinking into the pillows with the kind of relief that felt criminal. Soft, warm, perfect. The mattress hugged you instantly, almost annoyingly gentle after the concrete couch you’d forced yourself to suffer through. For a moment, you lay there, eyes fluttering shut, letting your body thaw. Heaven. Unexpected, unearned heaven.
And then, of course—he had to ruin it.
The door creaked open, and in walked Lando. Shorts. Shirtless. Like the villa was his runway and drama was his cologne. Your eyes snapped open, immediate whiplash from bliss to disbelief. Shirtless? Seriously?
Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t flinch. Just strolled in like it was a Tuesday. “Relax. I’m not sleeping on that couch either.”
Oh. My. God.
Of course he wouldn’t. Of course this man, this ambassador of chaos disguised as a charm machine, would decide that one tiny moment of peace wasn’t allowed. You blinked at him, trying to process how someone could look so smug and so casual all at once. The bed wasn’t just yours again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered, he’ll ruin your night, just like he ruins everything.
You pushed yourself up from the pillows, arms stiff and body sore from days of pretending the couch was enough. Your eyes went to him instinctively, but they didn’t stop at his face—they landed on his chest first. Bare, relaxed, way too familiar. It threw you off. It wasn’t just the fact that he was shirtless, it was the way he looked like this was all normal. You stared, mostly because you weren’t ready to speak, and when your words finally came, they were laced with disbelief.
“You’re not serious,” you said, voice flat, eyes narrowing.
Lando didn’t even blink. He stood there in his stupid shorts, arms loose at his sides like he didn’t just drop an emotional bomb into the room. His tone was easy, like he was offering you a logical solution instead of stirring up something messy.
“It’s a big bed,” he said. “And I won’t touch you. You know I wouldn’t ever do that.”
Something in your chest tensed. He said it like he was trying to sound respectful, reasonable, but there was something else there too—like he wanted you to remember that once, not so long ago, he used to be the one you let touch without hesitation. And maybe now he was trying to prove he was capable of restraint. Or maybe he was just doing what he always did: pushing the line and pretending it wasn’t loaded.
You rolled your eyes and nodded, already regretting the shared bed arrangement but too tired to argue. He didn’t gloat, didn’t smirk—just grabbed his blanket and settled in on his side, clearly making an effort to put as much space between you as the mattress allowed. It was awkward. Not hateful, just strange. Like trying to sleep beside a ghost of someone who once knew how you curled up at night.
“Should I build a pillow wall?” you asked, voice dry, not exactly serious but not exactly joking either.
“No,” he mumbled, turning away from you, his back a quiet barrier. “I’ll be careful.”
The silence that followed stretched long. Not tense, but definitely not comfortable. You lay there, too aware of the space between you, of how your breathing changed when he shifted, of all the things neither of you was saying. The blanket was warm, but your thoughts kept peeling away layers of stillness until your brain buzzed more than your body relaxed.
Then his voice broke through, casual and ridiculous. “And by the way, don’t you dare fart like you always did.”
It was so random, so unnecessary, so him—you couldn’t stop the laugh that exploded out of you. Full-bodied, messy, uncontrolled.
“Shut up!” you managed through the giggles. “You were worse!”
There it was. The first real laugh in days. Still tangled in bitterness, but alive.
───
The beach was buzzing—kids shrieking near the shoreline, music spilling from hidden speakers, the scent of sunscreen and sea salt hanging heavy in the warm air. The water stretched out in front of you, glittering in every shade of blue, and for once, you weren’t weighed down by drama. The day felt soft. Easy.
You sat comfortably at the beach bar, legs stretched out, a mojito sweating in your hand. Your phone was open on your lap, half a text typed out to your friends. Slept in the same bed as my ex. And somehow… no explosions. You weren’t even sure what reaction you were hoping for—concern, amusement, validation? But it felt worth saying. A small miracle, considering your recent history with Lando.
Speaking of him—he was somewhere in the water, floating around with zero grace, probably reenacting some ridiculous underwater mermaid scene. You didn’t care much. Not actively. But your eyes still drifted to where he was every so often, checking to make sure he wasn’t doing backflips off a floatie or convincing strangers he was a dolphin. It was instinct now. Like your nerves still knew how quickly chaos could show up.
You took another sip of your drink, already melting into the salt-soaked rhythm of the day, when a voice popped up beside you—smooth, confident, unfamiliar.
“Hey gorgeous, mind if I join you? You look like you need some company.”
You blinked, turned. The guy was tall, tan, and very aware of his own charm. Smile practiced. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like a lifestyle choice. The kind of guy who didn’t ask twice because he expected a yes the first time.
Lando was already taking up too much space in your head—his crooked smile, the way he made everything feel exciting and unsafe at once. You hadn’t come here looking for drama. You just wanted quiet. A little peace. Something to help you breathe.
So when that guy slid in beside you and started talking, your whole body tensed. You gave him the easiest answer you could, hoping he’d take the hint. “I’m sorry, but I like to be on my own,” you said, trying not to sound cold, just clear. You even shifted away a bit, politely but firmly. But of course, he didn’t listen.
“C’mon, pretty girl, one drink,” he said with a grin that felt too smug, too sure of himself. That phrase made you feel small. Like you were something pretty to be collected, not someone real with thoughts and boundaries. The irritation rose quickly this time, burning through your chest like fire.
“I’m not interested,” you said, voice hard now. You didn’t care about sounding nice anymore. “Just go a—”
And then—Lando. His voice cut through the noise like a sharp wind against your skin.
“She said she’s not interested, man,” he said, and you turned. Instinctively.
Seeing him there hit you like a wave. The protective stance, the grip on the guy’s shoulder that clearly wasn’t gentle—it was too tight, almost daring. He looked serious, eyes dark with warning. Something inside you flickered at that. Gratitude. Surprise. Maybe even something warmer than you expected.
“Respectfully, fuck off,” Lando added calmly, almost like it was routine. Like defending you came naturally.
The guy puffed up, trying not to back down. “Who even are you? Her boyfriend?” he snapped.
Lando didn’t hesitate. “Kind of,” he said quickly, way too quickly. And your heart did something weird—it stopped for a second, then started again, faster than before.
“Now go away before I have to break your nose,” he added, still calm, still threatening.
The guy looked at you, then back at Lando. He didn’t want the fight. Not with someone like that. So he muttered an apology and walked away, shoulders slumped.
You blinked, still frozen, trying to catch up. Kind of? What did that mean? Was he just saying that to push the guy away, or did he actually mean it? And why did your heart ache a little at how easily the words rolled out of him?
Lando slid into the seat next to you like it was his rightful place. You didn’t even look at him at first—your fingers still wrapped around your drink, heart still thudding from how easily he’d stepped in earlier, jaw tight and protective. It should’ve annoyed you. It almost did. But somehow, it felt good—just for a second.
“Thank you,” you said, turning your head toward him with a playful roll of your eyes, “but I could’ve handled it.”
He leaned in—slow, casual, but just close enough that his presence wrapped around you like the tide. His proximity made your breath catch, just barely. Like old habits were trying to sneak back in under your guard.
“Really?” he said, voice dipped in teasing amusement. “You were about two seconds away from looking like you needed saving.”
You turned toward him properly now, eyebrow raised, mouth curved in that half-smile that always came with a challenge. You hated how easily he stirred something in you, how natural it was to fall back into this rhythm.
“Saving? From that?” you scoffed gently. “Please. I’ve handled worse.”
The moment hung there for a beat, the breeze picking up your words and sending them between you like a dare.
His grin stretched wider, a spark flicking behind his eyes that made your chest squeeze.
“Oh, I know,” he said, smug and unbothered. “You dated me.”
It hit harder than it should have—because you both knew it was true. Because even now, even after the fights and the silence and the mess, he could make you laugh without trying and make your walls tremble with a single look.
───
The yacht gleamed under the sun like it was showing off, bobbing gently on the water as if wealth could float. Typical Lando—big gestures, big toys, zero concern about practicality. He’d rented the whole thing for the day, no hesitation, just a smirk and a swipe of a card like it was nothing. Yeah, rich people will be rich. You just silently crossed your fingers he wasn’t planning on calling this a “shared experience” later and asking for payback in the form of emotional favors.
But truthfully? It was nice. Stupidly nice.
The breeze, the sound of water lapping against the hull, the way the sunlight kissed the surface of the sea—everything felt soft and indulgent in a way you hadn’t let yourself enjoy in ages.
The problem wasn’t the yacht. It wasn’t even the luxury.
It was him.
Lando, with his easy grin and relentless teasing. Every time you rolled your eyes, he leaned closer. Every time you tried to stay cool, he said something that tugged just a little too hard on your past. It was like he couldn’t help himself—chipping away at your restraint with little jabs and dumb jokes and that stupid dimple that appeared when he knew he was winning.
Lando was already sprawled out across the cushioned sofa like a king in his natural habitat—one arm behind his head, legs stretched out, curls completely untamed and defying gravity as usual. His Calvin Klein swim shorts weren’t helping either, and you hated how effortlessly attractive he looked when he was relaxed like that. It was annoying. Unfair, really.
You carried the bag carefully, the scent of sushi already teasing the air. You knew exactly how he felt about it—he’d complained at least five separate times on this trip about how “it smells like a fish market” and how “raw stuff shouldn’t be called food.” But you didn’t care. You were craving it. And maybe, just maybe, part of you enjoyed irritating him in small, harmless ways.
“Lunch is served,” you said with dramatic flair, lowering yourself onto the seat next to him. He turned his head immediately, eyes narrowing the second he spotted the bag in your hands. You smiled sweetly, slow and deliberate, and began pulling out the containers one by one like you were presenting gourmet treasure.
His face twisted into that classic Lando expression—half disgusted, half disbelief.
“Oh fuck off,” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “You know how much I hate it.”
The sushi container was open between you, its bright colors almost mocking his stubborn refusal. You picked up the avocado roll—the most harmless option of them all—and waved it in front of his face, chopsticks poised like a peace offering.
“Come on, Lando,” you said, playful and firm. “You can’t go through life without trying it. This one doesn’t even have fish. Literally just avocado and rice.”
You smiled wide, knowing exactly how to press the right button. He groaned, already looking exasperated before you even got the words out.
“I swear, Carlos said the same thing,” he muttered, pushing your face away with his palm like you were an annoying little sister rather than the ex he still hadn’t figured out how to stop orbiting.
You swatted his hand, laughing, but something about the way he smirked—lips curling and eyes soft with half-masked affection—made your heart thump just once, unexpected.
He brushed past your mention of Carlos like it hadn’t happened, redirecting the moment toward a memory you hadn’t thought about in a long time.
“Do you remember when I once tasted seafood for you?” he said, as if it was nothing. But you did—instantly. That trip was etched into your memory like ink beneath skin.
“Dubai?” you replied, a small laugh slipping out. “And how you threw up five minutes after?”
You remembered the fancy restaurant by the marina, the warm evening air, the golden lights reflecting off the water. He’d insisted on ordering something you loved, even though he hated seafood with a passion. You had warned him. But he had wanted to prove something then, and maybe it wasn’t about the food at all. He had looked so proud sitting across from you, trying to chew through squid like it wasn’t making his stomach turn. You had laughed then too, but with your heart swelling a little because part of you had believed that love meant doing strange things for someone just to see them smile.
“Oh yeah,” he said, chuckling. “See? I was so in love with you. I ate damn seafood for you. And you thought I didn’t love you.”
Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping out as a quick snort when Lando made his dramatic declaration. The sun was warm on your skin, and everything about this moment—his ridiculous tone, the way he sprawled across the cushions like a defeated movie star—felt familiar and easy. “So now seafood trauma is a romantic gesture?” you teased, eyebrows raised as you plucked another piece of sushi from the tray between you. “Soon you’ll be writing love poems to spring rolls.”
Lando groaned loudly, tossing his head back like he couldn’t bear the memory. “Don’t mock my suffering,” he said, dragging out the words like he was physically suffering. “That squid was basically a rubber band soaked in disappointment. It betrayed me.”
You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting with genuine amusement. His voice might’ve been full of regret, but it made your chest feel lighter. This was the kind of rhythm that felt like home—the joking, the banter, the way you both knew exactly how far to push. “You ate it for me,” you said, nodding like it was a serious statement. “And you almost died for me. Your stomach still hasn’t forgiven you.”
He narrowed his eyes at you, not angry—just teasing, like he was deciding whether or not to take revenge. “Watch it,” he said softly. It wasn’t a real threat, but there was something in his look that made your pulse skip a beat.
You raised an eyebrow and popped an avocado roll into your mouth. “Or what?” you asked through a half-chewed bite. “You gonna cry into your fancy yacht pillow?”
That was it.
Lando sat up halfway, lightning-fast, and reached for your ankle without warning. His grip was firm but gentle, playful in the way his fingers wrapped around your skin like he’d done it a thousand times before. “I swear on my overpriced sunglasses,” he said, voice deepening just enough to sound dramatic, “I’ll toss you overboard right now.”
You shrieked in surprise, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as you squirmed, trying to free yourself. “Lando!” you gasped, clutching the tray to keep the sushi from flying everywhere. “You wouldn’t!”
Lando gave you that grin, “I absolutely would.”
You didn’t even have time to scream. One moment, Lando was smirking like the devil himself, eyes full of chaotic joy, and the next—you were airborne, muscles tensing, breath caught in your throat. Your heart jolted as your body flipped through the salty air, and for a second, time slowed. The edge of the yacht blurred past your vision, the glint of the setting sun dancing on the waves. And then splash—cold, wild water swallowed you whole. But you hadn’t gone quietly. In that split-second of instinct, your hand had clawed for anything to take him down with you—and his hand had been the perfect target.
Above the surface, you heard him yell—a mix of surprise and pure panic—and then another splash. And oh, it was glorious. You rose from the depths gasping, water streaming down your face, laughter already bubbling up before you could get the words out. “You actually threw me in, you psycho!”
He burst to the surface beside you, coughing dramatically, curls plastered to his forehead. “You dragged me in like some cursed, revenge-fueled sea goblin!”
“You deserved it,” you shot back, half laughing, half breathless from the adrenaline rush, body already starting to shiver from the temperature drop. The ocean wrapped around you like silk and chaos, waves nudging you both closer.
He wiped his face with both hands, looking at you through soaked lashes. “You’re fucking relentless, you know that?” But his grin was still there, wild and boyish, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t felt in months. “I mean—I was supposed to be the menace!”
You swam toward him, closing the distance a bit. “Takes one to know one,” you murmured, your voice softer now, amused but aching beneath the surface. His eyes locked onto yours, and everything suddenly slowed again—not from adrenaline this time, but because the world got quiet inside you. It was like the noise of your thoughts stopped spinning, just long enough to let something real push through.
He tilted his head, mouth opening just slightly like he was going to toss another joke your way—but it didn’t come. Instead, his expression shifted. He stared for a beat too long, and the gleam in his eyes dimmed into something earnest.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”
You laughed.
He was definitely joking.
Or…?
───
You hadn’t meant for the night to go this way. You and Lando had made a promise—just one drink. Keep things chill, keep emotions at bay. But that stupid confession from yesterday had tangled itself into your thoughts so tightly, you couldn’t ignore it. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.” How were you supposed to hear that and not feel everything? The weight of it, the confusion, the hope. So yeah… you drank. More than one. More than two. Probably more than anyone should. And now here you were, trying to breathe against the cold wall outside the bar, while the world spun like it was mocking you.
You had told Lando you needed fresh air, said it with a smile like everything was fine. But the truth was—your knees were unsteady, your stomach twisting, and your head full of emotions you didn’t know how to name. You’d been standing here for maybe fifteen minutes, barely able to keep upright. Your eyes blurred and doubled, and the tips of your fingers tingled. You kept telling yourself it would pass. That you’d walk it off and rejoin him inside like nothing had happened.
And then—his voice. Sharp, worried, and far too sobering.
“Y/n? What the fuck?” Lando was already halfway out the door, eyes wide as he spotted you slumped against the wall. He rushed over, breath quick, confusion written all over his face. “You okay?”
You tried to wave it off, your hand flicking lazily in the air like it could dismiss everything wrong. “Yeah,” you said, forcing the word through the fuzz in your throat. But the moment you stepped forward, your foot missed the ground, and you stumbled—hard enough for him to flinch.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. Just let out a quiet sigh and mumbled, “Yeah, you’re not walking. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” And then he bent down. No hesitation, no sarcasm. One arm tucked behind your knees, the other pressing firmly against your back, and suddenly you were airborne. Safe. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the scent of his cologne.
He picked you up like it was easy, like he’d done it before, like you weren’t a mess of feelings and regret. And as your head leaned against his shoulder, you felt something settle in your chest—uneven and heavy, but less alone. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.
Your head rested against his shoulder as the world tilted and blurred around you. You felt completely out of it—your body heavy, your thoughts a tangle of half-formed memories and spinning questions. It was like you’d lived this moment before. Him carrying you. You too drunk to walk. That strange feeling hit you hard, like a dream you couldn’t quite remember but your bones knew by heart. Maybe it really had happened before. Maybe it hadn’t.
You didn’t feel like talking, but the words slipped out anyway, low and raw. “Why do you still help me?” You weren’t trying to push him away—you really just didn’t get it. The trip had been a wreck. You’d fought with him so much, said things you didn’t even mean, thrown sarcasm like knives. He had every reason to leave you behind, to walk away and not look back. But he hadn’t. He never did.
He didn’t answer right away, but when he looked down at you, there was something soft in his eyes, something almost tired, but patient. He smiled, that quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. “Because clearly you can’t help yourself.”
You rolled your eyes at his answer, not because it wasn’t kind—but because it wasn’t real enough. It didn’t explain everything. Not the late-night help, not the way he jumped in during that mess on the beach, not how he always showed up when no one else did.
“That’s not the answer, though,” you mumbled, words sticking to your throat as your fingers curled into his shirt a little tighter. You weren’t trying to start something. You just needed to understand.
You lifted your gaze to him, watching the way his jaw shifted—the muscles tight like he was holding something back. You could feel his chest rise and fall underneath your cheek. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you said quietly, voice slower now. “You didn’t have to step in on that beach. Or carry me like this. You could’ve just… left me there. Walked away.”
You hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad. But it did. And now it hung in the air between you like fog, wrapping around everything unsaid.
For a moment, Lando didn’t speak. His mouth moved slightly, like he was forming something careful. His arms didn’t shift—still holding you close, still steady—but you felt the tension in him. The way it settled in his shoulders, how he hesitated before finally letting the words out.
“Yeah, well…” he said, voice lower now, stripped of the joking edge. “I told myself I was done. That I wouldn’t care anymore.” He let out a breath that didn’t sound convincing—like he’d been carrying that lie longer than he wanted to admit. “But I guess I lied. ’Cause I’d still show up. No matter what.”
You blinked slowly, trying to process the weight behind that. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the classic sense. But it hit you harder than anything he’d said the whole trip.
“If you called me five minutes before a race,” he continued, eyes focused straight ahead, “said you needed me—I’d drop everything. I’d come running. No questions, no hesitation. I’d be there.”
Your chest clenched at that. Because even though he was drunk, even though you were a mess and this wasn’t the place for heavy confessions… that felt like truth. Raw and real and maybe a little broken, but still whole in its own way.
The words left Lando’s mouth without much force, but they hung heavy in the air. “I hate that you hate me,” he said, almost like he wasn’t expecting a reply. You turned your head slightly, still pressed against him, and blinked slowly. That sentence wasn’t thrown out like a joke—it felt like something deeper. Something he’d been carrying for a while.
You exhaled, slow and careful, heart thudding. “I don’t hate you, Lando,” you said softly. And you meant it. Honestly, the thought hadn’t ever crossed your mind. Even in the worst fights, even during the cold silences and ugly words. Hate was never what you felt for him. It was frustration, disappointment, pain—but not hate. Never hate.
He scoffed under his breath. “You should.” His voice was quiet, but heavy with guilt. He sounded convinced. Like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve your kindness, your loyalty, your softness. That maybe, after everything, he’d earned your anger. That someone like him—messy, impulsive, hurtful in all the wrong moments—shouldn’t be forgiven. Shouldn’t be missed.
But if only he knew. If only he could see what was actually tucked deep in your chest. That through all of it—every argument, every confusing feeling—he was still your person. Your first real love. The only one who truly made you feel known. You were angry sometimes, sure. But you loved him still. Maybe too much. Maybe you were both just young and stubborn and too afraid to say what you really felt in the quiet moments.
Lando reached the villa with you still in his arms, his grip strong but gentle as he shifted your weight to open the door. He struggled for a second, fumbling with the knob while keeping you steady, until he finally managed to kick it open with his foot.
Inside, the room was dim and quiet, and everything felt like it was moving slower—probably because your head was spinning and you could barely keep your eyes open. He brought you to the bed and lowered you down carefully, but you were so drunk that even sitting felt like too much. You kind of melted sideways, your arms wrapping around yourself for balance, trying to stop the room from tilting.
Lando stood there for a beat, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and exhaustion. Then he raised a brow, gesturing with both hands in a way that you barely understood. “Hands up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But your brain wasn’t connecting dots right now, and you just blinked at him, confused.
“What?” you asked, hugging yourself tighter out of instinct. Everything suddenly felt more vulnerable. You weren’t sure if it was the dress, the mood, or just how close he’d been all night. You could feel the fabric of it sticking to your skin, uncomfortable now after the ocean and the bar and everything in between.
He rolled his eyes, but not in a mean way. More like he was tired of pretending you were shy around him. “Come on, Y/n,” he said, voice low but soft. “I’ve seen every part of you.”
Your cheeks went warm—not from embarrassment, but from the way he said it. Not crude, not teasing. Just honest. And yeah, he was right. You’d let him in, more than once, in ways you hadn’t let anyone else. The history between you didn’t allow for awkwardness now, even if everything else felt messy. Still, the fact that he remembered all those moments—not just the dramatic ones, but the quiet, intimate ones—made your chest squeeze a little.
You lifted your arms slowly, the room spinning just slightly as Lando slipped your dress over your head with care. His movements were gentle, familiar, like he’d done this before—like he remembered your edges better than you did in moments like this. You didn’t protest. You were too tired, too drunk, too wrapped up in the safety of this quiet. He reached behind him and grabbed one of his shirts—oversized, worn, soft—and pulled it over your head, letting it settle around your frame like a blanket. It smelled like him.
Then he dropped down to his knees in front of you, fingers already working to unbuckle the straps of your heels. You barely noticed him move. His head was bent low, curls falling over his eyes, silent except for a tired hum that let you know you could speak if you needed to.
And you did.
“Lando?” you said quietly, voice hoarse.
He gave a soft grunt in response, focused on the buckle. But you kept going.
“I mean… what if we ended up together again?” Your voice shook slightly, your hands folding into your lap. “Would you do it all over again? Like… for real this time. The right way.”
He didn’t say a word while he finished removing your heels, fingers working through the straps carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the quiet between you. When he was done, he rose slowly to his feet, and suddenly he felt so much taller, standing over you like a pause in the storm. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, and your heart jumped at the look in his eyes—steady and sincere, like something had finally shifted.
Lando reached out, palms cradling your cheeks with a softness that caught you off guard. His touch was warm, grounding. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.
“I would,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know I messed things up. I treated you like shit. I hate that—I regret it every single day.” His thumbs brushed gently across your skin. “But if we had a second chance… I’d do it right this time. I’d treat you the way you actually deserve.”
Then he leaned down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead. And in that quiet breath of contact, something inside you cracked—not from pain, but from the way his words settled into the empty spaces you’d been carrying. Maybe you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But in that moment, you weren’t wondering if he cared.
You could feel it.
───
You remembered everything you said to him that night—every word that spilled out when your guard was down, when your emotions were louder than reason. And honestly, you hated that you did. You wished your memory had blurred it all away like the rest of the night. But instead, it stuck. The words you said, the way you felt, and that quiet moment where you let him see how much you still cared.
Now it haunted you. It had you thinking about him constantly, even when you tried to stop. You wanted to hate him. You swore you did. You had reasons—plenty of them. But your heart didn’t seem interested in any of that. No matter how hard you tried, you missed him. Not just the idea of him, but the real, messy, complicated person. You missed the way he made things feel easier, even when everything was hard.
The tears came suddenly, stinging and silent, as you stared down at the photos. Your phone screen glowed with frozen moments—smiles at the beach, blurry selfies, inside jokes captured in time. You pressed your thumb against one of them, like touching it could bring it all back. But you knew you couldn’t go back there. Not really. That version of you, that version of him—it was locked in the past, behind everything that went wrong.
Still, looking at those images made your chest ache. Because even if you couldn’t rewind, maybe you could rebuild. Maybe the words you said while drunk weren’t just chaos. Maybe they were your heart begging for another chance. And maybe now, sober and hurting, you could decide to fix it. To be honest. To let yourself feel it without shame.
You didn’t even know if he remembered all of it like you did. But somewhere deep inside, you hoped that he felt it too. That maybe your mess of a confession had sparked something in him—something worth saving.
The door creaked softly behind you, and you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could recognize Lando’s footsteps anywhere. That low, careful rhythm—no rush, just a quiet urgency like he already sensed something wasn’t right. Before you could wipe the tears from your cheeks, he was beside you. Close enough to feel the shift in your breathing. Close enough to notice the redness around your eyes.
“Hey—” he started, but his words cut short when he saw your face. His brows drew together, eyes scanning you with that look that used to be impatience, but now… it was pure worry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, love?” His voice was soft, careful. Gentle, even. And god, it hurt a little more because a few months ago he would’ve said you were being dramatic. Back then, emotion made him flinch. Now he was standing here like it meant something. Like you meant something.
You turned away slightly, trying to gather yourself even though your heart felt cracked wide open. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t convincing, but it was all you could manage. You didn’t want to fall apart in front of him again.
He didn’t move away. His eyes caught the light from your phone screen still glowing faintly in your hand, and he tilted his head, just enough to see it. “Baby, don’t lie,” he said softly, then paused. “Is that us?”
Your hand scrambled to turn off the screen, already too late. You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears rising again. “No—I mean… yes,” you stammered, breath catching in your chest as you looked up at him. “I was just… looking at old photos, and…”
Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated that even now, after everything, he still had the power to unravel you. But the look on his face—he didn’t judge.
The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and cracked at the edges. “And I just can’t pretend that I hate you,” you said, voice trembling, each word pulled straight from the deepest part of you. “I meant everything I said that night. I hate not being with you. It’s felt like I’ve been missing my other half for months.” You barely got it out before your voice broke completely, a quiet sob pulling at your chest.
Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared for a long second, his eyes fixed on yours like he was trying to figure out how you’d held that in for so long. Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe. Or maybe something softer. Something that looked a lot like understanding.
Then slowly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just close. Real. His shirt soaked in your tears instantly, but he didn’t seem to care. He held you tighter, like he was trying to hold together all the pieces you’d lost along the way.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice shaky as your fingers clung to his back. “I was such a bitch. So toxic. And I hate that I pushed you away. I just miss you. Miss us.”
You pulled away from him slowly, the weight of the hug still clinging to your skin. Something inside you—instinct maybe, or just emotion—told you to look up. To meet his eyes. And when you did, the air felt like it cracked open.
“I love you,” Lando said, no hesitation this time, no jokes wrapped around the truth. “I always did. I never stopped.”
The words landed heavy, almost too much. You stared at him, lips parted, heart barely steady as he kept going.
“I wanted to call you,” he said, voice growing softer. “There were days I just sat with the phone in my hand. I wanted to cry, to say sorry, to beg—but I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.” His eyes didn’t look away, not once. “But then I realized… I wouldn’t survive seeing you with someone else. I couldn’t. And that’s when I knew—I have to be better. I want to be better. For you.”
Your breath caught. Because that wasn’t a speech. That wasn’t rehearsed. It was Lando—raw and scared and finally honest. And all you could think was: this is what it sounds like when someone means it.
Your voice barely made it past your lips, thick with emotion and shaking at the edges. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, the words rushing out before doubt could swallow them. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t rehearse it. But the second it escaped, you knew it was true. As simple and messy and overwhelming as it sounded, it was the only thing that felt right.
Lando didn’t speak—his eyes just locked on yours, wide with something that looked a lot like relief. Like he’d been waiting for that exact sentence and didn’t know if he’d ever hear it. You didn’t give either of you a chance to pull away. You leaned in fast, gripping the sides of his shirt, heart pounding in your chest, and kissed him.
The moment your lips met his, the silence fell away. His hands moved instinctively, one cradling the back of your head, the other resting firmly on your lower back, pulling you closer like he needed you in every possible way. The kiss wasn’t perfect—it was a little desperate, full of emotion and breath and years of not knowing how to say what you both meant. But it was real.
When you finally parted, your faces stayed close, eyes meeting in the quiet aftermath. His thumb brushed your cheek, tender and lingering.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited,” he whispered.
You gave a soft laugh, teary and real. “I think I do.”
Summary: You loved him in patience and sundresses, believing that staying was the same as being chosen. You were wrong.
Warnings: emotional neglect, repeated infidelity, betrayal, imbalanced relationship dynamics, heartbreak. Please let me know if there are any more.
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: For those who loved gently, and stayed longer then they meant to. This story does not reflect on the real drivers. No Lando hate.
You learned early how to wait.
It wasn’t something you were proud of. It was something you absorbed, the way people absorb weather. You waited because love, you believed, was patient. Because if you loved someone enough, you made room for them to arrive late, to be distracted, to be unfinished.
And Lando Norris was always unfinished.
You met him before the noise swallowed him whole.
Before every smile was content, before every sentence was clipped for interviews, before the paddock decided who he was supposed to be. Back then, he laughed too loudly and apologized for it. He talked with his hands. He worried aloud, and he was sweet in a way that felt unguarded.
You loved him there first.
The paddock liked you.
That was the first thing people said about you.
“She’s so sweet.”
“She’s so normal.”
“She’s good for him.”
You wore sundresses that moved when you walked, light fabrics that caught the air as you waited by garages or leaned against railings. You didn’t dress for attention. You dressed for comfort, for warmth, for the versions of yourself that still believed gentleness would be enough.
Lando noticed you like that.
He always reached for your hand without thinking. Always leaned his head toward you when things got overwhelming. You grounded him by trying to soften the edges of his world.
“You keep me sane,” he told you once in a hotel room somewhere between time zones, forehead pressed to yours. You always smiled at that and kissed his cheek. You never told him that sanity takes work.
At first, nothing was wrong.
Or maybe everything was, but it was small enough to ignore.
He cancelled plans, but he always apologized. He forgot to text back, but he blamed the schedule. He flirted a little too easily, but everyone said that was just who he was.
And you believed them.
You believed love meant trusting someone even when it pinched a little.
You learned to recognize the sound of his phone buzzing and not look. You learned not to ask who he was messaging when his smile tilted private. You learned not to flinch when girls leaned too close in photos.
Because he always came back to you.
Because at night, when the world quietened, he curled into your side like it was instinct. And that had to mean something, right?
The first time you realized you were waiting alone, you were standing outside the McLaren garage.
It was late. The track lights buzzed overhead. People had started packing up. You’d been there for almost an hour, leaning against the wall, sundress cooling against your legs.
You didn’t mind.
You scrolled through old photos you never posted. You watched mechanics move past you like you were part of the scenery.
When Lando finally appeared, he blinked like he’d forgotten something.
“Oh shit,” he said softly. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
You smiled automatically. “Yeah.”
Guilt flickered across his face, but it was quick and shallow.
“I got pulled into something. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said.
And you meant it.
You always did.
His behaviour didn’t change overnight.
It repeated. Small things slowly accumulating.
Late nights he couldn’t explain clearly. Stories that didn’t quite line up. Girls that appeared in the background of photos and disappeared before you could ask.
You told yourself not to be that girlfriend.
The one who questioned. The one who doubted. The one who made things harder.
So you stayed soft.
So when he suggested a trip to Milan, it felt like a peace offering.
He’d been distant for weeks. His answers distracted, his movements restless in a way that made your chest ache. You chalked it up to pressure. To stress. To the sport chewing him up like it chewed everyone eventually.
You finished your fitting early. The dress was yellow. You liked how it made you feel light again. Like yourself.
You didn’t text him. You wanted the surprise, and maybe you also wanted to remind him that you were still here.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
You remember noticing the smell first. Something unfamiliar and expensive. Something sweet. Not his cologne. Not your perfume.
Your key turned easily. That detail stays with you longer than anything else. You stepped inside.
“Lan-”
The world died in your throat.
You didn’t see bodies clearly. Your mind refused to catalogue details. But you saw enough. Shoes that weren’t yours. Laughter that wasn’t meant for you. Lando’s voice, pitched lower, intimate in a way that had once been reserved for you alone.
Time seemed to slow and then he looked up.
And the look in his eyes told you so much more than any of the details. It told you that this wasn’t the first time.
Because his face didn’t look shocked.
It looked caught.
“Wait-” he said, standing too fast. “This isn’t-”
You raised your hand.
“No.”
Your voice was quiet in a controlled kind of way. And calm. Almost too calm.
The girl scrambled, muttering apologies you barely heard. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed on him, searching for something you weren’t sure existed any more.
“How long?” You asked softly.
He hesitated.
The hesitation was answer enough.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said.
Something inside you cracked.
“So there was a way you planned to?” You asked.
He stepped toward you.
You stepped back.
“I love you,” he said desperately. “This didn’t mean anything.”
You smiled, but it felt wrong on your face.
“That’s the problem,” you said. “It should have.”
You turned, but you didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t collapse.
You just waked out in your sundress, holding yourself together on instinct alone.
The door closed behind you and the girl who waited stopped waiting.
When you disappeared, no one understood it at first. You didn’t announce anything, didn’t post, didn’t explain. You simply… just stopped being available.
Lando called.
Then texted.
Then sent messages that blurred together in tone and separation.
“I’m sorry.”
“I messed up.”
“Please just talk to me.”
You listened to one voicemail. Just one, but when his voice cracked while saying your name, you turned the phone off.
The crying came later. In private. It’s the ugly kind where you are gasping for air. You cried on bathroom floors and hotel beds that didn’t smell like him. You cried until your chest hurt and your eyes burned and your body felt emptied out.
You replayed everything.
Every moment you’d ignored. Every excuse you’d accepted. Every time you’d waited.
And slowly, quietly something hardened.
Not into anger, but into clarity.
You packed away the sundresses. You don’t throw them out. Instead, you folded them carefully because they still belonged to someone. To someone who loved deeply and trusted easily. To someone you loved so deeply, but also to someone who you couldn’t be anymore.
Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato
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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
