— ᨳଓ . SIGNS OF YOU 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc ) ⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS: ⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED! ⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
© 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐈
. . . ( need to do a part two of this where reader goes to the paddock + public reaction )
