"That's it, mate! You're world champion, world champion! Well done, mate, I'm so proud!"
In that moment, all Lando could think of is how he's accomplished everything he's ever wanted. How starting right now he can live his life with a little less weight resting on his shoulders.
His second thought, though, was about you. Had you watched the race from home? Did you fall asleep before he crossed the finish line?
You've been awfully tired at eight-months pregnant so he can forgive you if he did. All he wanted now was to hear your voice congratulating him and telling him he'd made you both proud.
"Mum!", he yells happily once he's out the car.
"My Lan! I have good news, son", she says with an eyebrow raise.
"Better than the championship?", he laughed out.
"Oh, I think so! Yn...she gave birth just an hour ago", she says with teary eyes.
At this, he finally finds himself speechless.
He has two emotions fighting to take control of him in that moment. Both guilt and happiness. Guilt from missing such a moment and happiness that the love of his life had delivered their baby.
"She's healthy?", was the first thing Lando thought to say.
Cisca nods and replies with, "The baby's four kilos, Lan! A little gremlin that one is!"
He laughs through tears.
The next four hours are some of the slowest of his life. He can't touch his phone until all celebrations, ceremonies, press, and interviews are over.
Once he's showered, he heads to Monaco with Max and his family on Max's private jet.
Upon arrival, Lando thanks Max and heads towards the local hospital you two had agreed would be your child's birthplace.
"Hello. My wife is here, she just gave birth to our baby. Yn Norris?", he spills out.
"Oh, yes! Room 1, floor 4, sir. Congratulations!", she smiles.
He starts running towards the elevator without a single care for anyone but you. He missed the birth, but he wouldn't miss a single moment from here.
Once he finds your room, he inhales deeply and exhales. The moment he opens this door his life changes forever. But, gosh, was he ready.
"Love?", he quietly calls out before closing the door behind him.
You smile tiredly when you two meet eyes. You're sweaty and look like you've run a marathon or two...but you're the most beautiful woman Lando had ever seen in that moment.
"How are you?", he asks. Stupid question, but it's all he cares about.
"Think I've looked better, but I've never been happier", you respond truthfully.
"Where are they?", he asks. You can tell he'd wanted to ask the second he got inside the room, but wanted to check in with you even more.
"He's right there", you say, signaling towards your son.
He almost glazes over your gender reveal, but catches himself. "He?", he confirms.
"Yes, Lan, he. Looks just like his Daddy, too", you giggle.
Standing over the bassinet, he can confirm that to be true. His son has his nose but your lips. His eyebrows too. He's never seen such a lovely sight before.
"Did you come up with a name?", he asks. You'd both kept a list but agreed that you'd know when you saw him.
"Finnley Oliver Norris. You like?", you ask.
His voice breaks as he gently caresses your little boy's hand, "Finn. Daddy's here."
After a few minutes of Lando standing in stunned silence over Finn, he breaks the quiet. "I'm sorry, Yn. I-I should have been here. I would have given up the championship to have held your hand when he was born."
"No, don't say that. I was the one who told Cisca not to bother your engineer. This is your dream we're talkin' about. You've shed tears for this, babe. Finn and I were okay waiting for you here", you insist.
"I don't deserve you, ya' know that?", he asks.
"You're our champion, Lan. Finn's going to be able to tell all his mates that he was born on the day his daddy won the world championship. That's pretty cool", you chuckle.
"Yeah. S'pose it is", he says into your navel.
You knew he felt guilt over not being there for you but you didn't resent him. You never would.
He's your winner, but best of all he's already shaping up to be a great dad.
☆ warnings: references to prev parts so its better if u read, pregnancy, girl dad!lando, exes to lovers, lando being down bad, coparenting, unprotected p in v, oral, breeding kink, praise kink, dirty talk, implied abortion mention, conflict, angst/emotional cliffhanger lol ⋆ inspo: (x)(x)(x)(x)
⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅
two pink lines.
your fingers are shaking when you pick it up. your brain is spiraling. the texts. the clumsy, boyish ego about carrying his next kid. it was supposed to be a joke. a little flirting. a bit of late night dumb filth from your ex husband. your ex husband who is still desperately down bad.
but biology doesn't do jokes. it doesn't care about your worries, either.
you hear the heavy thud of the front door.
"mummy! i did a slide tackle and coach ben said it was proper textbook!" her voice bounces off the walls. so sweet, so innocent. pure adrenaline.
you quickly shove the test deep into your pocket, stepping out onto the kitchen. you hear them walk in. lando must have used his key. the key he was only meant to use for emergencies.
he's quietly testing. pushing.
lando is right behind your daughter. carrying her muddy kit bag. he doesn't walk further into the kitchen, his feet are planted firmly on the doormat. respecting the boundaries he knows you set. picking and choosing which boundaries to push, which to keep.
you look at him. he looks exactly like the man you fell in love with many years ago. curls damp from the drizzle, cheeks slightly flushed. and that stupid grin. he keeps his distance.
"she’s exaggerating." lando teases, with that cheeky grin on his lips. "it was seventy percent a foul. total menace."
"am not!" she protests, kicking her trainers off. "daddy, you have to read me the space book! you have to tuck me in, pleaseeeee."
lando doesn't just say yes. he knows the rules.
he looks up the stairs. then at you. strategic.
"you gotta ask mummy. if mummy says it’s okay, then yeah. but you gotta ask her first."
she turns her big eyes to you. god, they're just like lando's.
"can he, mummy? pretty please?"
fucker. he’s doing it on purpose again. using her so you can't say no. you swallow down the massive lump of nerves in your throat. your hand curls around the plastic stick in your pocket.
"yeah it's fine, lan. just… make sure she actually brushes her teeth."
"on it." he says softly. a small, grateful nod.
an hour later, the house goes completely still.
you’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a cup of tea you haven't touched. you hear footsteps down the stairs. soft. lando stops at the entrance of the kitchen. he rubs the back of his neck, and looks at you.
"out cold." lando murmurs with a gentle smile. "didn't even get to finish the page about jupiter. training must have tired her out."
"thanks." your voice sounds fragile.
lando walks over, leaning opposite you. there's a quiet, grounded energy.
"no need to thank me, i'm her dad. and…i like being here. even if i'm technically on good behaviour."
cheeky. he pauses.
he notices that his usual banter doesn't land as usual. his eyes drop to your hands. he notices a slight tremor.
"hey. you alright? you’ve been proper quiet."
you don't speak. your heart is slamming against your ribs. it hurts. you reach into your pocket and pull out the plastic stick. you set it on the marble table between you. a soft click. you slide it a few inches toward him.
lando’s gaze drops.
total stillness. nothing. he doesn't blink. for a long, agonising ten seconds. his eyes are simply locked onto the two pink lines of the test stick.
"oh."
he clears his throat, his voice cracking slightly. he looks up. brow furrowed, eyes almost blank.
"is this… are you serious?"
"i'm serious, lan."
he lets out a short, breathless laugh. he sounds overwhelmed. his hands fidget his pockets. lando takes a step closer, his eyes darting from the stick to your face.
"is it… from our last time? at my flat?"
your posture stiffens. your jaw tightens. that ugly, defensive thought flashes through your mind.
is this dickhead asking if it’s his?
"what do you mean by that, lando? who the fuck else would it be?"
lando notices the shift instantly.
the gears click in his head. his face goes completely pale with panic. he reaches out, his broad hands instantly wrapping around your wrists. he pulls you closer so you have to look at him.
"fuck. no, look at me. that’s not what i meant," he stammers, his words tumbling over each other. "i swear to god, that’s not what i meant. it’s mine. i know it’s mine. i just meant the timing. just trying to figure out the weeks. when it happened. i’m sorry. please, you know i know it’s mine."
you look up at him, chest feeling heavy. but the defensive wall is crumbling at the sincerity in his eyes. he looks so vulnerable. almost in awe.
"okay." you whisper, your voice shaking.
lando lets out a breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. his forehead drops against your shoulder. he stays there for a second. breathing you in. he hasn't let go of your hands.
"what does this mean?" he whispers against your skin. "for us? what do we do?"
"i really don't know." you say, your voice cracking. "we're divorced, lan. supposed to be taking it slow. fixing the mess, not making it fucking worse."
your words sting.
he pulls back, looking at you. his thumb trace your skin. "is it a mess? to you?"
"it's terrifying. i can't- i don't know how to navigate this. with you. with everything. the schedule, the traveling. everything that broke us before. it's all still there."
"i know." he steps closer, his thighs brushing against yours. "but i want it. fuck, i want it so bad. i want all of it. with you. us three… well, us four."
his hand drops. flat against your stomach. pressing through the layers of your pjs.
damn. your heart flutters a bit.
"lan, it's only a few weeks. it’s tiny. barely anything."
"i don't care," he mutters, his fingers spreading wide. "it’s there. i know it’s there. god… imagine if it's another girl. two of them. you all would absolutely destroy me. i wouldn't stand a chance. i’d just be the taxi driver who carries the bags."
it all sends a sudden liquid heat straight down to your core. there is something so boyish about his excitement. so sweet. that raw, genuine enthusiasm. for a moment, the divorce papers feel like just papers. the boundaries feel like just words.
but, fuck. it's scary.
"lando…"
"i'm serious." he says, his eyes locked onto yours. "the second i saw those pink lines, my brain just… i didn't panic. i just thought about having another one. with you. continuing again. i want this baby. i want it all back. i want you."
hearing him say it so clearly, so blunt without any of the childish banter. it does something to your heart. something to your core, too.
but it's a massive deal. fucking huge. the weight of it settles in the air between you. heavy and thick.
"i want it too." you whisper.
lando lets out a low groan. before you can breathe it all in, he pulls you into his chest. a tight, heavy hug. pure comfort, relief. a small unspoken celebration. you feel his heart beat so fucking fast under his hoodie. you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. he smells so good. the both of you just hold onto each other.
he wants it. you can see the absolute certainty in his face.
fuck, it turns you on.
he's been hard since he walked into the kitchen. he's always hard when he's anywhere near you. and now, you can feel the prominent thickness of his cock straining against his sweatpants.
this should be a sweet moment. pure. but you're both a fucking mess.
he kisses you. not really gentle, but still so affectionate. deep, filled with a sudden overwhelming craving. his tongue slides against yours. you let out a ragged gasp into his mouth. his hands move down to your waist, gripping you hard. he pulls your hips forward until you're grinding against him. he groans into your mouth. the friction is unbearable. he rocks his hips against yours, matching your pace. a heavy, desperate pressure.
you're whimpering. your core pulsing into the cotton of your underwear.
"lannn, we're gonna wake her up." you giggle against his lips, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
"bedroom." he mutters, his hands sliding down your back. "come on, i fucking missed you."
──── ☆☆☆
the bedroom door clicks shut in the dim light.
every movement is quiet, intentional. his hoodie is off. his bare chest presses against your skin as he takes your pjs off. he handles you like you’re something precious. delicate. but something still so filthy. so his.
lando lays you flat on your back. his eyes are completely blown out. his knees slide between yours, opening you up completely. he supports his weight on his forearms, a conscious effort in keeping his chest just above yours so your tummy isn't squashed. as if any pressure would damage the love you built, the life you're both looking forward to again.
he's trying to play it off, act cool about it. but you notice it. it makes your heart warm. it makes your core throb.
"look at me," he whispers, long fingers cupping your chin. "i've got you. always will."
he wants you to feel everything.
lando reaches down, his fingers warm as they find your clit with terrifying accuracy. he knows your body so fucking well. he teases you with heavy, rhythmic circles. slow delicious movements until you’re sobbing quietly into the pillow. until your hips buck helplessly against his hand. so fucking desperate for more.
he slides his fingers down, teasing your entrance. finding out how soaked you are. how much you need him. how much you need his cock.
"fuck, you're so wet." he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "prettiest girl. always so good for me."
and with that, he presses two fingers inside. gentle, but certain. that blunt and accommodating stretch as he teases your sweet spot over and over again. fucking his fingers in and out of you. his thumb brushes on your clit. tingles run through your spine. his mouth presses against your throat. open, soft kisses. you’re completely at his mercy, and he barely fucking started.
lando shifts his weight.
"keep quiet for me, baby. keep it nice and quiet, okay?"
he leans down to bury his face between your thighs. his fingers are still drowning in your soaked cunt. his tongue is broad, wet. lando is suddenly eating you out with a fierce, heavy pressure. the sweet fullness of his fingers and his wet attention on your clit has you breaking within moments. you shake under him, his fingers still fucking into you. his tongue lapping at your entrance. the sounds are obscene. filthy.
suddenly, your quiet and muffled orgasm ripples through your core. your walls spasm violently around his fingers. your thighs clamp around his head.
fuck.
lando looks up at you. so proud, so drenched in your slick. he pulls his fingers out and kisses your forehead. all sticky, and sweet.
he doesn't wait for long.
he lines his cock against your cunt. no condom. clearly, no fucking use for it anyways. the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against your wet cunt. but lando doesn't push in yet. you whimper, a desperate little plea for more. he grins, cheeky fucker, before finally pushing his thick cock inside you.
one slow, devastating thrust. completely filling you up. making your eyes roll back, and your brain instantly melt.
your hands fly to his thick shoulder blades. your nails press into his skin. your cunt stretches around his thickness. completely welcomes him. he bottoms out, burying himself entirely. he doesn't move again yet. he's panting. throaty sounds escape him. his hips are pinned hard against yours. your walls clamp down on him. tightly squeezing his cock. completely desperate for more.
he moves. slow and deep thrusts that grind right against your sweet spot. slowly kissing your cervix each time he fucks into you. each time he whimpers into you.
lando is fully focused on you. his gaze is locked onto your face, watching your mouth part with every thrust. god, he loves seeing you like this. all pretty, all fucked out. no thoughts in your head, just the sweet delicious feeling of his cock stretching you out.
he leans down, his mouth catching onto your chest. his tongue swirls around your nipple before he sucks it deep into his mouth. his teeth graze the sensitive skin until you're clawing at his back. possessive. fucking marking him, the same way he marked you with his cum. lando keeps playing with your tits. his cock keeps drilling inside you. tingles run down your spine again.
"lan, fuck." you gasp.
your ankles lock behind his knees. pulling him deeper. you need more. more of his cock. more of lando.
he pulls off from your chest. takes one good look at the gorgeous sight, and slides his hand between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it rougher this time. his hips pick up the pace. a relentless, heavy rhythm. his cock is bruising your cervix now, properly fucking you and using you. taking all of you.
his eyes shift to your tits again, softly moving with the impact of his thrusts. so hot. lando remembers. how full they get when you're pregnant. how sensitive and fucking pretty they get. the raw knowledge that he bred you. that he got to do it all over again. all because you wanted to be full of him.
fuck. lando feels like he's going insane.
"i'm gonna fill you up again," his voice low, vulgar. almost vibrating against your ear. "so many times, baby. for months. every single fucking day. just filling you up until you're completely full of me. dripping. i want all of you. every part of you. all fucking mine."
the utter unapologetic filth of it. the raw claim. the obscene control. it all snaps. lando starts to ram even harder in you. short, bruising thrusts. desperate for relief. the headboard bangs quietly against the wall. he buries his face into your neck, nibbling at your skin.
he cums inside you. a deep, heavy release.
──── ☆☆☆ 4.30am
morning light hasn't even broken through the curtains. lando shifts carefully, pulling his hoodie back over his head.
he’s trying not to disturb the heavy stillness of the house. your home.
you had both agreed on this. she always wakes up early, and you don't want to be messy in front of her. no sleeping over. no confusion. no waking up and asking why dad is still at home.
he leans over the mattress and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. his thumb grazes your jaw. you shift a bit.
"i have to go for training and a sim session. but i'm coming back later. family movie night? just the three of us on the sofa. i'll bring pizza. we can start easing back into things. slowly. properly."
his voice is still groggy. thick with sleep.
"you promise?"
"six o'clock on the dot. i promise, baby. gonna do things right."
he slips out of the house before sunrise.
you drop your daughter off to school in the morning. the afternoon is just structure. picking her up from school. helping with homework. life hassles.
the landline rings. the summer school coordinator calls to confirm some details. "hi, is this mrs. norris?"
"yes, speaking."
you hang up the phone after things are sorted.
you glance at the clock. 6:00pm. your phone buzzes.
lando: hey bby, sry debrief running late. ten more mins i swear xx
you: okay, see you soon and drive safe please
the clock keeps ticking.
6:30pm.
7:00pm.
7:30pm.
nothing else. no more texts. no ‘walking to the car now.’
just silence. complete fucking silence.
the warmth in your chest from the morning completely freezes. just replaced by that old, familiar weight in your stomach. the exact pattern of your marriage.
like fucking whiplash. thank god, you didn't tell your daughter about the plans. over time, you learnt how to protect her from the disappointment.
you pick up your phone.
you: don't bother coming over tonight. she's going to bed, school tomorrow.
a minute later, the screen lights up.
lando: i understand.
you stare at the two words. i understand.
what the actual fuck.
he doesn't explain. he doesn't tell you what happened. he just accepts it. maybe he knows he messed up the time. or maybe he just doesn't fucking care.
you don't see maturity. you don't see accountability. you just see a man who doesn't care enough to show up for his wife and daughter.
a second later, two texts slide in.
lando: can we meet tomorrow?
lando: pls
your fingers are ice cold as you type back. clinical. coparent mode.
you: you can pick her up from school if you want.
──── ☆☆☆
the next afternoon, the front door opens.
you're waiting in the kitchen, expecting to hear her little footsteps. instead, the house is completely quiet. just lando's footsteps on the hardwood floor.
he walks into the kitchen alone.
he looks exhausted.
you don't move from near your kitchen table. you cross your arms over your chest.
"where is she? why are you back without her?"
lando stops a few feet away. he looks raw, frustrated. defensive.
"she's at my brother's. having dinner with her cousins."
"without asking me?"
"i'm her dad, i don't need to ask you. and because we need to talk." his voice drops into that low, stubborn tone. "we can't do it with her in the next room. you sent me that text last night. you shut me out completely. and now you’re looking at me like i’m a fucking criminal."
"you broke your promise, lando. on day one. you stood her up, you stood me up, and then you sent a two word text like you couldn't be bothered." your voice is flat, lacking any warmth.
"i was trying to respect your boundaries." lando’s hands come out of his pockets. his fingers gesturing sharply between you. he continues to fire back.
"you told me not to come. what was i supposed to do? force my way into the house? kick the door down? i knew i was late. i knew you were pissed. i tried to be understanding and give you space. and now you’re using it to punish me!"
"i’m not punishing you, i’m reacting." you step closer, the anger bursting through your chest. you tell him what he doesn’t want to hear. what he needs to hear.
"you think this is about one movie night? it’s the exact same pattern as always. i spent years sitting on that sofa. watching the clock, waiting for you to choose us over a simulator or a meeting. you just found out about the baby, and the literal first thing you did was fuck me and then leave me alone in the dark for hours."
"it’s my job! it’s not like i was out partying. i was fucking working. trying to build a life for us, for the kids. you’re acting like i did this on purpose. and you wanted to fuck me too. take some fucking responsibility."
"some responsibility? i'm raising our daughter by myself at this point! i know you don't do things on purpose. that’s what makes it fucking worse. you just… you just don't think, lando. you never think about what happens after you leave the house. you’re great at the big moments. great at the sex, great at the grand gestures. so great at getting excited about a pregnancy test. but you don't know how to just show up on a normal fucking tuesday. i can't do this again. i can't raise another baby by myself while you're off playing world champion."
your voice breaks. tears finally prickle the corners of your eyes. you take a sharp breath in. the words continue slipping out before you can stop them.
"i don't even know if i'm keeping it."
lando freezes. the kitchen goes silent.
the petty, defensive heat in his face completely drains away. he stares at you. raw suffocation hits his eyes. like it's a physical blow. like he’s about to throw up.
"what? you don't mean that. you- you don't, right?" his voice is barely a whisper. a stutter, completely broken.
"i don't fucking know!" you cry out, the tears streaming down your face. "i don't know anything, lan. i'm terrified. sitting here, handling everything and you can't even make it home at six. how am i supposed to do this with two of them?"
"don't say that." he stammers, taking a frantic step toward you. his hands reach for your wrists. his fingers lock around them. tight, desperate. "please- fuck. don't say that. i’m here. i’m trying. i’ll fix it. i swear to god, i’ll fix it."
"you can't fix everything, lando."
"you still want me. you still love me. i saw the paperwork on the counter. still signing your name as norris. if you were really done with me, if you didn't want me anymore, you would've dropped it immediately."
his voice cracks. he's struggling to hold the narrative together. just rambling on, his ego demanding that you acknowledge the link between you.
you let out a harsh, mocking laugh. sharp and bitter.
"holy shit. you are so arrogant. you think i kept your name because i was secretly waiting for my husband to come back home?"
"why else then?" he snaps, his grip tightening.
"because changing it meant having to explain to a seven year old girl why mum's name didn't match hers anymore. because it was easier for her. it had absolutely nothing to do with you."
lando recoils. his hands slowly slip from your wrists. his jaw shifts. he looks hollow. you reach up to fidget slightly at the gold initial necklace around your throat. a bittersweet reminder.
"none of those things matter, lando. they’re just habits. showing up matters. consistency matters. fuck, lan. i still love you. i don't think i’ll ever stop loving you. but i don't trust you."
the house goes dead silent.
i don't trust you.
the words hang in the space between you. heavy and lethal. lando doesn't yell. he doesn't offer another petty excuse. he just stands there in the middle of the kitchen. the anger is gone. the ego is gone. there is just the quiet, devastating realisation. an acknowledgment of the original wound that broke you in the first place.
"what do you want me to do?" he whispers, his voice entirely raw.
"i don't know. i really don't know. but you should go back to your flat tonight. we need to figure out what we’re doing." you murmur, turning your back to him to try and regulate your breathing.
lando doesn't argue. doesn't beg. he just stands there for a long silent moment, looking at your back. when he speaks, his voice is completely flat. quiet and drained.
"she's sleeping over at my brother's tonight. i set it up before i came over. so you have all the time you need. and the house to yourself."
the words hit you with a sudden bittersweet ache.
he planned it in advance. no matter how the conversation went. whether it was a shouting match or a quiet breakdown. he made sure you wouldn't have to put on a brave face for her tonight. he protected you from the mess before he even walked through your door.
"okay." you whisper to the wall. cannot even bring yourself to thank him.
"okay. i love you."
his footsteps move further away. you hear the heavy thud of the front door closing a moment later.
the quietness comes back. it doesn't feel good. nothing is resolved.
an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3
summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.
wc: 10k
“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”
Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”
“I had a protein bar.”
“That doesn’t count, mate.”
Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.
“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”
Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”
“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”
The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.
The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.
“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”
Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”
That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.
Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.
Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”
Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.
“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”
The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.
Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.
“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.
Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.
“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”
“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”
She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?
Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.
“You must be Lando.”
“I must be,” he said, dryly.
Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.
“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”
Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”
Max coughed to hide a laugh.
She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.
“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”
“And food?”
He shrugged. “When I remember.”
“Sleep?”
Another shrug. “When I can.”
She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”
Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”
“Would you rather I was miserable?”
“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”
“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”
That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.
“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”
Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”
She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”
Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”
“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”
She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.
“You like her.”
Lando didn’t reply.
But he didn’t protest, either.
He didn’t last long after Max left.
He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.
So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.
He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.
But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.
When he opened the door, he paused.
The flat looked different.
Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.
And she was cooking.
He blinked.
She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.
He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.
“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.
She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”
He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”
“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”
She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”
Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.
“You think that’s going to fix me?”
“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”
He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.
“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”
It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.
He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.
Eventually, he sat.
And he took the bloody vitamin.
He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.
While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.
He watched her from the corner of his eye.
After a few minutes, he frowned.
“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”
She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”
He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”
She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”
“Well… I’m inviting you now.”
Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”
He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”
That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.
“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.
He didn’t deny it.
She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.
After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”
He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.
“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”
She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”
He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”
Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”
“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”
She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.
He liked that more than he expected.
“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”
He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.
“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”
He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”
She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”
“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”
He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.
He didn’t say thank you.
But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.
The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.
Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.
He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.
He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.
“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.
By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.
He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.
And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.
He just closed his eyes.
And slept.
Deep. Still. Undisturbed.
He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.
The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.
“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”
Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.
“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”
“But she’s working, isn’t she?”
Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.
He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”
Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”
Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”
“And you like that?”
“I don’t not like it.”
Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”
Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”
“You know what I mean.”
He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.
Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”
Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.
Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.
It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.
He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.
He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.
And he started sleeping better.
Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.
By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.
“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”
She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”
She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”
He paused.
She grinned.
“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”
He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.
“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”
He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.
“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”
She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”
He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.
Race weekends were always a blur.
Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.
He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.
His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.
Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it out of habit.
It was a photo.
She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.
The caption followed a second later:
That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana.
Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She hadn’t asked how he was.
Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.
Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.
They only gave us oranges.
A few seconds passed.
That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.
He shook his head, grinning now, properly.
There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.
And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.
The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.
P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.
He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.
Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.
Instead, there it was on the counter.
A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.
P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION
Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:
REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.
And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.
He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.
Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:
I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.
BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x
He read it twice, then once more for good measure.
There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.
He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.
The flat was silent.
Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.
Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.
And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—
He missed her. Slightly.
Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.
The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.
Lando was already up.
He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.
The meal was gone. The container clean.
He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.
The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.
“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.
He met her gaze, caught in the calm.
“Morning.”
She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.
They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.
He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.
She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.
“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”
He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head.
“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”
Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.
“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”
She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant.
“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”
He blinked. “The beach?”
“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”
Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.
She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.
“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”
He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer the term optimistic.”
He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.
And yet.
“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”
Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.”
He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”
“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.
Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.
The beach. On a Monday.
He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?”
But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.
When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.
He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.
She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.
Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself.
God, she’s pretty.
She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”
He blinked. “Nothing.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”
Her smile curled. “Us?”
“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.
“I know what you meant, so where then?”
“We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.
She laughed.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.”
He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”
She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”
The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?”
He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”
She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.”
They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.
And he smiled.
The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.
Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.
He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.
But he did definitely notice.
Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.
She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.
Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.
“Race you!”
And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.
He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.
“You little—”
He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.
The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.
She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow.
Lando launched at her.
She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.
“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.
But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.
Then, without warning, she dunked him.
His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.
They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.
Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface.
They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol).
Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her.
The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment.
They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment.
Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.
By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.
Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened.
When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.
Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.
Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.
The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter.
He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.
He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.
Lando lingered for a moment.
Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.
He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves.
The following morning she woke with a start.
It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.
“Shit.”
She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.
The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.
She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.
He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.
The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.
She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”
Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.
“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”
She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.
She couldn't help it. She smiled.
“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.
He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”
“Below average.”
“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”
She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”
Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”
She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”
He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.
Domesticity.
Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.
He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.
Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”
He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.
And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.
She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.
“Here, try not to burn it.”
Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.
He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”
She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”
He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”
She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.
“I think I can manage.”
There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.
“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”
Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.
But today, he let it hang in the air.
“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”
She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.
“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”
He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.
Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.
He didn’t know what it was yet.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.
A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.
They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.
And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.
The flat no longer felt too quiet.
He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.
Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.
Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”
Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”
Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”
Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”
Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”
Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”
Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.
“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”
Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”
Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”
Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.
“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”
Lando didn’t answer straight away.
But he didn’t deny it either.
Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.
The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.
But something was different this time.
His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.
He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.
The ache surprised him.
By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.
Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.
Would you ever come to a race?
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.
That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?
He smiled. Tapped back.
Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.
The typing bubble came and went again. Then,
We can talk about it when you’re home.
And there it was, that word.
Home.
He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.
It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.
They’d talk when he was home.
He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.
He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.
But a reply came a few minutes later.
I’ll be there.
That was it. Simple. Certain.
He smiled. Couldn’t help it.
And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.
Sunday night came fast.
The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.
She was there.
He could feel it even before he saw her.
When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.
She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.
“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.
Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.
His shoulders dropped.
“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”
She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”
He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.
She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”
And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.
He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.
Not just the quiet, but her quiet.
And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.
Home.
It really did feel like that now.
The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.
The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.
But the flat didn’t feel empty.
It felt like she’d just stepped out.
He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.
Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.
He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.
“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.
“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”
She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.
They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.
“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”
Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”
She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.
That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.
“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”
She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”
He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”
She grinned. “Flattering.”
“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”
She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”
He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”
That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.
She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”
Lando laughed. “Deal.”
And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.
But he knew this much.
He didn’t just want her there.
He needed her there.
They flew out on the Thursday morning.
Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.
“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”
She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”
Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”
“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”
Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.
He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.
“You alright there?”
She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”
He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.
The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.
She fit in effortlessly.
Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.
And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.
She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.
And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.
He felt anchored.
Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.
She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”
Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”
“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”
She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”
And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.
It felt… right.
Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.
His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.
She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.
“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.
She glanced up. “Do I?”
“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”
“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”
He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.
They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.
“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.
He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel
less mental.”
That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.
Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”
Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.
“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”
Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”
Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”
Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”
She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”
Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”
Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.
Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.
“Too much?” she teased.
He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”
And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.
Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.
Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.
Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.
And Lando had never driven better.
Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.
When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.
He barely heard it.
All he could think, where is she?
Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.
“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.
The guy blinked. “Who?”
“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”
Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.
His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.
Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.
Then he stepped onto the podium.
The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.
And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.
Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.
He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.
She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.
He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.
She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.
Go back to the motorhome.
She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.
And suddenly, the day felt complete.
The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.
Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.
He needed to see her.
The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.
“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.
Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.
Which, in a way, he had.
“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.
“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”
She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”
“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”
Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.
“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”
“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”
She stilled.
Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.
“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”
They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.
She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.
Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”
He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”
She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.
And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.
Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.
It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.
Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.
She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.
“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.
“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”
Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”
He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.
It's been a while since I requested- Was thinking of Rookie reader who is like introverted but very sweet but when it comes to it she has a very agressive or blunt comments, so people are 50/50 on her but then her actual manager finally arrive, in tow is another one. It turns out Rookie!Reader is Simi's (Seb and Kimi) little prodigy, they can see now that she's like a perfect mix of the two, the aggressiveness of RB Seb, Introvertedness of Kimi, Bluntness of Kimi and the more recent mellowed out Seb.
🏁 “The Quiet One Was Raised by Wolves (and One Ice Man)”
Genre: Found family, quiet menace, grid chaos, legacy energy
Pairing: Platonic! 2025 F1 Grid x Rookie!Reader
A/N: It’s been a minute since I posted so we’re coming back STRONG. Soft introvert prodigy + legendary mentors reveal? Oh we are FED today.
The grid doesn’t know what to do with you.
You’re in your rookie year.
You’re quiet.
You answer media questions with short, polite sentences.
You say “thank you” to marshals.
You apologize if you bump someone in the drivers’ parade lineup.
You’re sweet.
Soft-spoken.
Always nodding.
Always listening.
And then you get in the car.
And suddenly you drive like you have unfinished business with the laws of physics.
✦ 50/50 OPINION SPLIT
The paddock is divided.
Half the drivers think you’re adorable.
The other half think you’re terrifying.
Because here’s the thing:
You’re introverted.
But when someone does something stupid on track?
You don’t sugarcoat it.
Radio clip from Bahrain:
“He moved under braking.”
Pause.
“…Again.”
Longer pause.
“That’s embarrassing.”
The internet gasps.
George blinks.
Lando chokes on water.
You go back to being quiet in interviews.
Monaco media pen:
Reporter: “You seem very calm for a rookie.”
You: “Panicking is inefficient.”
Deadpan.
Walk away.
Oscar whispers later:
“She’s like… polite but dangerous.”
✦ THE SWEET SIDE
Off track, you’re the opposite.
You bring homemade cookies to the paddock once.
You ask mechanics about their families.
You help a junior engineer carry equipment.
You remember everyone’s names.
Charles once says softly:
“She reminds me of… someone. I just don’t know who.”
Max just watches.
Arms crossed.
Evaluating.
✦ THE INCIDENT (SPAIN)
Lap 41.
You’re fighting for P6.
Someone divebombs you.
You keep it clean.
After the race, interviewer asks:
“That move was aggressive. Thoughts?”
You blink once.
“It was optimistic.”
Small smile.
“Very optimistic.”
The clip goes viral.
The grid collectively decides:
She’s 50% cinnamon roll.
50% blade.
✦ PADDOCK RUMORS
People start asking:
Where did she come from?
Her junior career was impressive but… quiet.
No flashy academy politics.
No loud PR machine.
No obvious backing drama.
Just steady progress.
Too steady.
Almost… curated.
Max says one day:
“She drives like someone trained her properly.”
Lewis nods.
“Old school properly.”
And then.
Monza.
✦ THE ARRIVAL
It’s Thursday.
The paddock buzzes differently.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But heavy.
Two very familiar figures walk in.
The cameras don’t even know what to do at first.
Then someone whispers:
“Is that—”
Yes.
It is.
Sebastian Vettel
and
Kimi Räikkönen
Walking side by side.
Like they never left.
The paddock actually goes quiet.
Seb looks relaxed.
Kimi looks… like Kimi.
They aren’t there for nostalgia.
They’re walking straight toward your garage.
✦ THE REVEAL
You’re sitting on a tire stack, helmet in your lap.
You look up.
Your entire face changes.
Not starstruck.
Not shocked.
Just soft.
“Hi.”
Seb ruffles your hair.
Kimi nods once.
Max freezes mid-step.
Charles actually says:
“No.”
Lewis laughs in disbelief.
“Oh that makes sense.”
Seb turns to the small gathering crowd forming and smiles that slightly mischievous smile.
“We thought we’d check on our kid.”
Our kid.
The paddock explodes.
✦ EVERYTHING CLICKS
Suddenly it all makes sense.
The way you rotate the car mid-corner.
The aggressive but calculated overtakes.
The calm under pressure.
The blunt radio comments.
The introverted paddock energy.
You are:
The aggression of early Red Bull Seb.
The introversion of Kimi.
The blunt radio energy of Kimi.
The softened, thoughtful maturity of later Seb.
You didn’t stumble into F1.
You were shaped for it.
Lewis walks over, smiling wide.
“So this is why she’s terrifying.”
Max smirks.
“Yeah. That checks out.”
✦ MEDIA CHAOS
The press conference is absurd.
Reporter:
“Sebastian, Kimi, are you officially mentoring Y/N?”
Seb smiles.
“We’ve known her a while.”
Kimi shrugs.
“She listens.”
You sit between them, small but composed.
Reporter:
“Y/N, what have they taught you?”
You think.
Then answer honestly:
“Drive fast. Don’t talk too much.”
The entire room laughs.
Kimi nods approvingly.
Seb tries not to grin too hard.
✦ THE GRID REACTION (POST-REALIZATION)
George: “I thought she just woke up like that.”
Oscar: “No wonder she doesn’t flinch.”
Lando: “We’ve been racing against a secret weapon.”
Max, quietly: “Good.”
But it’s not fear in the paddock.
It’s respect.
Because despite being raised by two champions, you’re still you.
Still shy in crowded rooms.
Still offering cookies to mechanics.
Still thanking marshals.
Still soft.
Just… sharp when needed.
✦ RACE DAY MONZA
You finish P5.
Solid. Controlled. Clean.
When you get out of the car, Seb claps.
Kimi gives you a nod that means more than applause.
Seb says quietly:
“You’re ready.”
Kimi adds:
“Don’t get slower.”
You smile.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
✦ FINAL PADDOCK MOMENT
Later, the three of you stand off to the side, away from cameras.
Summary ━━━━━ Y/n intends to prove to Lando that she is no such thing as a pillow princess. It just dosen’t go the way she imagined it.
Word count ━━━━━ 7,2k
The evening had settled into a comfortable rhythm, the kind that had become their new normal over the past few months. Lando was propped up against a mountain of pillows in his bed, the soft fabric of his worn t-shirt a familiar comfort against his skin. You were curled up beside him, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his shirt. The television was on, some mindless rom-com playing in the background, but neither of you was really watching. The room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of his bedside lamp, a cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the world.
It was in these quiet moments that Lando felt most at peace. The frantic, desperate energy of the early days of his recovery had given way to something softer, more settled. He could still feel the lingering effects of the accident—the numbness in his fingers, the occasional twinge of pain in his back—but they had faded into the background, overshadowed by the overwhelming presence of you.
You shifted beside him, your head lifting from his chest. You looked up at him, your expression a little pensive, a little serious. "Lando?" you asked, your voice a little quiet.
"Hmm?" he murmured, his eyes half-closed, his hand stroking your hair in a slow, lazy rhythm.
"Can I ask you something?" you said, your tone a little hesitant.
"Anything," he replied, his eyes opening to look at you. He could see the flicker of something in your eyes—a hint of insecurity, a touch of vulnerability.
You took a deep breath, as if bracing yourself. "Am I... am I a pillow princess?"
The question hung in the air, a sudden, unexpected shift in the comfortable atmosphere. Lando went quiet for a moment, his hand stilling in your hair. He could feel the tension in your body, the way you were holding yourself a little too still, a little too tight.
He knew the answer. Of course he knew the answer. You were, in every sense of the word, a pillow princess. You loved to be touched, to be worshipped, to be the center of his attention. You loved to lie back and let him take control, to surrender yourself to the pleasure he could give you. And he loved it. He loved it more than he could say. He loved the way you would arch your back, the way you would gasp his name, the way you would completely let go, trusting him to take care of you, to give you everything you needed.
But he could also hear the slight edge in your voice, the hint of offense, of insecurity. He knew that you had heard the term somewhere, that you were worried it was a bad thing, a criticism, a judgment.
He decided to tell you the truth, but to frame it in a way that would reassure you, that would show you just how much he loved it.
"Yes," he said, his voice a little quiet, a little gentle. "You are."
He felt you tense beside him, a small, almost imperceptible stiffening of your body. He could see the flicker of hurt in your eyes, the way your lips tightened slightly.
"But," he continued, his voice softening even more, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in a slow, soothing rhythm. "I really, really love that. So it doesn't matter."
You looked at him, your eyes wide, a little confused. "You... you love that?" you asked, your voice a little hoarse.
"Yes," he replied, his voice firm, certain. "I love it. I love taking care of you. I love making you feel good. I love the way you let go, the way you trust me. It's... it's one of my favorite things about us."
You looked at him for a long moment, your expression a mixture of relief and lingering doubt. Then, a flicker of defiance crossed your face, a spark of something that was both familiar and endearing.
"No, I'm not," you said, your voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. "I'm not a pillow princess."
Lando couldn't help but smile. He loved it when you got like this, all feisty and determined, your chin lifted in defiance. He knew you were protesting too much, that you were trying to convince yourself as much as him, but he found it incredibly cute.
"Okay," he said, his voice a little amused, a little indulgent. "You're not a pillow princess."
"I'm not!" you insisted, sitting up a little, your eyes flashing with determination.
"Okay," he repeated, his smile widening. "You're not."
You looked at him, your expression a little suspicious, a little uncertain. "Why is it important?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Where did you even hear that?"
You hesitated for a moment, your gaze dropping to his chest. "My friends," you mumbled, your voice a little quiet. "They were talking... and they said they bet I was a pillow princess. That you do all the work."
Lando's smile softened, a wave of affection washing over him. He could just imagine it—your friends, all gathered together, their voices a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity, their words planting a seed of doubt in your mind.
"They did, huh?" he asked, his voice a little teasing.
You nodded, your cheeks flushing a little. "They did."
"Well," he said, his hand moving to your back, rubbing it in a slow, soothing rhythm. "They're wrong. You're not a pillow princess."
You looked at him, your expression a little mollified, a little relieved. "They are?"
"They are," he confirmed, his voice a little too convincing, a little too smooth. "You're... you're an active participant. Very active."
You looked at him for a long moment, your expression a mixture of relief and lingering doubt. Then, a flicker of something else crossed your face—a determination, a resolve that was both familiar and a little alarming.
"I'm going to prove it," you said, your voice a little quiet, a little determined.
"Prove what?" he asked, his voice a little amused, a little indulgent.
"That I'm not a pillow princess," you replied, your eyes meeting his, a spark of challenge in their depths.
Lando's heart began to beat a little faster, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. He had a feeling this was going to be an interesting night.
"Okay," he said, his voice a little low, a little rough. "Prove it."
You didn't say anything else. You just looked at him, your eyes holding his, a silent challenge passing between you. Then, with a fluid, graceful movement, you straddled his hips, your knees settling on either side of his waist. You leaned forward, your hands pressing against his chest, your hair falling around your face in a soft, fragrant curtain.
"You just lie there," you whispered, your voice a little husky, a little commanding. "Let me take care of you this time."
Lando's breath hitched, a jolt of pure, undiluted arousal shooting straight to his groin. He could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of his pajama pants, could feel the weight of you settling against him, a perfect, intoxicating pressure.
"Okay," he managed, his voice a little hoarse.
You smiled, a slow, confident smile that made his heart ache. Then you leaned down, your lips finding his in a soft, sweet kiss that was both a promise and a challenge. It was a kiss that said, "I'm in charge now," and Lando, for the first time in a long time, was more than happy to let you be.
You kissed him again, a little deeper this time, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips, a silent request for entry. He opened for you, a soft, involuntary gasp escaping his lips as your tongue met his, a slow, sensual dance that was both familiar and new.
You pulled away, your eyes holding his, a spark of triumph in their depths. Then you sat up, your hands moving to the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in a single, fluid movement. You weren't wearing a bra, and the sight of your bare breasts, the soft, round curves, the tight, rosy peaks, made his mouth water.
You tossed your shirt aside, your hands moving to the waistband of your pajama pants, your eyes never leaving his. You slid them down, your movements slow, deliberate, a tantalizing striptease that was both innocent and incredibly erotic. You weren't wearing panties either, and the sight of you, completely bare, completely open, was almost more than he could bear.
You kicked your pants aside, your hands moving to the hem of his shirt, your fingers tracing the hem, a slow, teasing touch that made his skin tingle. You lifted it over his head, your knuckles brushing against his chest, a light, accidental touch that sent a bolt of pure lightning through him.
He was naked now, completely exposed, and you were kneeling over him, a goddess in the warm glow of the lamp, your skin flushed, your eyes dark with desire. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so incredibly arousing.
You leaned down again, your lips finding his in a deep, demanding kiss that was all teeth and tongue, a raw, primal expression of the desire that was simmering between you. Your hands roamed his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, your touch both gentle and demanding.
He could feel the heat of you, the weight of you, the scent of your arousal, a sweet intoxicating perfume that filled his senses and made his head spin. He was completely at your mercy, a willing sacrifice on the altar of your desire, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
You broke the kiss, your lips swollen and glistening, your eyes dark with a hunger that made his breath catch. You looked down at him, your gaze a physical touch, a slow, deliberate sweep from his eyes to his chest to the hard, aching length of him that was standing at attention, a silent, desperate plea for your attention.
You smiled, a slow, confident curve of your lips that was both a promise and a taunt. Then you shifted, your hips lifting slightly, your hand reaching between you to wrap around his cock, your touch a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure that made him gasp.
You stroked him once, twice, your movements slow, deliberate, a teasing exploration that was both a promise and a threat. He could feel the heat of your hand, the soft, smooth skin, the way your fingers tightened around him, a perfect, intoxicating pressure.
Then you guided him to your entrance, the head of his cock brushing against the wet, swollen folds of your pussy, a light, tentative touch that sent a shiver down his spine. He could feel the heat of you, the slick, wet evidence of your arousal, and it was all he could do not to thrust up, not to bury himself inside you in one deep, desperate stroke.
But he held back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the effort. This was your show, your moment, and he was determined to let you lead, to let you prove whatever it was you felt you needed to prove.
You looked down at him, your eyes holding his, a silent question passing between you. Then you sank down, a slow, deliberate movement that was both a surrender and a conquest. The head of his cock breached your entrance, a tight, hot, incredibly intimate pressure that made them both gasp.
You paused for a moment, your body adjusting to the intrusion, your eyes fluttering closed, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips. Then you sank down further, taking him in deeper, a slow, steady descent that was both agonizing and exhilarating.
He watched you, his eyes wide, his breath held in his chest. He could see the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips parted, the slight furrow of your brow, a mixture of pleasure and concentration. He could feel the tight, hot grip of your pussy, the way it clenched around him, a slow, rhythmic pulsing that was driving him slowly, surely insane.
Finally, you were fully seated on him, your hips resting against his, his cock buried deep inside you, a perfect, intimate connection that was both a comfort and a torment. You opened your eyes, your gaze meeting his, a spark of triumph in their depths.
"See?" you breathed, your voice a little hoarse, a little triumphant. "I'm not a pillow princess."
Lando just smiled, a slow, indulgent curve of his lips. "No," he agreed, his voice a little low, a little rough. "You're not."
You started to move, a slow, experimental rocking of your hips that was both a question and an answer. The movement was a little clumsy, a little uncertain, but it was also incredibly arousing, a raw, unfiltered expression of your desire.
He could feel the way you moved, the way you shifted your hips, the way you found a rhythm that was both comfortable and stimulating. He could feel the slick, wet heat of you, the way your pussy clenched around him, a slow, rhythmic pulsing that was driving him slowly, surely closer to the edge.
You leaned forward, your hands pressing against his chest, your hair falling around your face in a soft, fragrant curtain. You looked down at him, your eyes dark with desire, your lips parted, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips.
"You like that?" you asked, your voice a little husky, a little teasing.
"Yes," he managed, his voice a little hoarse. "I like that."
You smiled, a slow, confident curve of your lips that made his heart ache. Then you started to ride him in earnest, your movements a little more confident, a little more assured. You lifted yourself up, a slow, deliberate movement that was both a tease and a promise, then sank back down, a deep, satisfying stroke that made them both gasp.
You found a rhythm, a slow, steady rocking of your hips that was both comfortable and stimulating. You moved with a natural grace, a fluid, sensual rhythm that was both beautiful and incredibly arousing. He could feel the way you moved, the way you shifted your hips, the way you found the perfect angle, the perfect depth, the perfect pressure.
He watched you, his eyes wide, his breath held in his chest. He could see the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips parted, the slight furrow of your brow, a mixture of pleasure and concentration. He could see the way your breasts bounced with each movement, the way your nipples tightened into hard, rosy peaks, a silent, desperate plea for his attention.
He reached up, his hands moving to your waist, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, a light, possessive touch that made you moan. He could feel the way you moved, the way your muscles tensed and relaxed with each thrust, the way your body responded to his touch, a slow, steady build of pleasure that was both intoxicating and overwhelming.
You leaned down, your lips finding his in a deep, demanding kiss that was all teeth and tongue, a raw, primal expression of the desire that was simmering between you. Your hands roamed his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, your touch both gentle and demanding.
He could feel the heat of you, the weight of you, the scent of your arousal, a sweet, intoxicating perfume that filled his senses and made his head spin. He was completely at your mercy, a willing sacrifice on the altar of your desire, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
You broke the kiss, your lips swollen and glistening, your eyes dark with a hunger that made his breath catch. You looked down at him, your gaze a physical touch, a slow, deliberate sweep from his eyes to his chest to the place where your bodies were joined, a perfect, intimate connection that was both a comfort and a torment.
You started to move a little faster, a little more urgently, your movements a little more erratic, a little more desperate. He could feel the way your breath hitched, the way your moans grew louder, more desperate, a clear sign that you were getting closer.
He could feel the familiar tightening in his own groin, the slow, steady build of pleasure that was both a promise and a threat. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer, that the combination of your tight, hot pussy, your desperate moans, and the sight of you, so beautiful, so incredibly aroused, was pushing him closer to the edge.
But then he felt a shift in your movements, a slight faltering, a loss of rhythm. Your legs started to tremble, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that was a clear sign of your fatigue. You tried to keep going, to maintain the rhythm, but your movements became slower, more labored, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
"I... I can't," you whimpered, your voice a little hoarse, a little desperate. "My legs... they feel like jelly."
Lando just smiled, a slow, indulgent curve of his lips. He knew this moment was coming, had seen it a hundred times before. He knew that you loved to be in control, that you loved to take charge, but he also knew that you loved to surrender, to let him take over, to let him take care of you.
"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a little low, a little rough. "I've got you."
He placed his hands on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, a light, possessive touch that made you moan. He started to help you, to guide your movements, to lift you up and pull you down, a slow, steady rhythm that was both a comfort and a command.
You relaxed against him, your body going limp, a clear, silent surrender. You let him take control, let him set the pace, let him take care of you, and he could feel the wave of relief that washed over you, the familiar, comforting feeling of letting go.
He started to thrust up, a slow, deep, deliberate movement that was both a promise and a threat. He could feel the way your pussy clenched around him, a tight, hot, incredibly intimate pressure that made them both gasp.
He kept the pace slow, steady, a deep, romantic rhythm that was both a comfort and a command. He wanted to savor this moment, to draw it out, to make it last as long as possible. He wanted to show you, to prove to you, that he loved this, that he loved you, just the way you were.
You moaned, a soft, breathy sound that was both a plea and a praise. You leaned down, your lips finding his in a deep, demanding kiss that was all teeth and tongue, a raw, primal expression of the desire that was simmering between you.
He could feel the way you responded, the way your body arched against his, the way your hands roamed his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, your touch both gentle and demanding. He could feel the familiar tightening in his groin, the slow, steady build of pleasure that was both a promise and a threat. He knew he was getting close, that the combination of your tight, hot pussy, your desperate moans, and the sight of you, so beautiful, so incredibly aroused, was pushing him closer to the edge.
He could feel you getting closer too, the way your breath hitched, the way your moans grew louder, more desperate, a clear sign that you were on the verge of your orgasm. He wanted to push you over the edge, to make you scream his name, to make you lose control in a way that was both beautiful and incredibly arousing.
He shifted his angle slightly, a subtle adjustment that made you gasp, a clear sign that he had found the right spot, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. He started to thrust a little harder, a little deeper, a deliberate, targeted movement that was designed to push you over the edge.
"Lando," you whimpered, your voice a little hoarse, a little desperate. "Please... I'm so close."
"I know," he murmured, his voice a little low, a little rough. "I've got you."
He kept the pace steady, a deep, rhythmic thrusting that was both a comfort and a command. He could feel the way your pussy clenched around him, a tight, hot, incredibly intimate pressure that made his head spin. He could feel the familiar tightening in his own groin, the slow, steady build of pleasure that was both a promise and a threat.
He reached up, his hand moving to your clit, his fingers tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves, a light, teasing touch that made you cry out. He could feel the way you responded, the way your body arched against his, the way your breath hitched, a clear sign that you were on the verge of your orgasm.
He started to rub your clit in a slow, steady rhythm, a deliberate, targeted movement that was designed to push you over the edge. He could feel the way you responded, the way your moans grew louder, more desperate, a clear sign that you were right there, right on the edge.
"Lando," you cried out, your voice a little hoarse, a little desperate. "I'm... I'm gonna cum."
"Cum for me," he murmured, his voice a little low, a little rough. "Let go, baby. I've got you."
That was all it took. With a loud, desperate cry, you shattered, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around him in a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that were both beautiful and incredibly arousing. He could feel the wave of pleasure wash over you, the way your body went limp, the way you collapsed against him, a spent, satisfied heap.
He followed you over the edge a moment later, his own orgasm ripping through him, a powerful, overwhelming wave of pleasure that left him breathless, spent, and completely satisfied. He buried himself deep inside you, his body tensing, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips as he emptied himself into you, a final, intimate act of possession and surrender.
They lay there for a long time, their bodies tangled together, their breathing slow and ragged, their hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, steady hum of the air conditioner, a comforting, familiar presence that was a stark contrast to the raw, primal intensity of their lovemaking.
Lando stroked your hair, his fingers tracing the soft, fragrant strands, a slow, soothing rhythm that was both a comfort and a command. He could feel the weight of you, the warmth of your skin, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, a familiar, comforting presence that was a stark contrast to the chaotic, overwhelming emotions that were swirling inside him.
He looked down at you, his heart aching with a love so profound, so overwhelming, it was almost painful. He could see the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips were slightly parted, the way your eyelids fluttered, a clear sign that you were drifting off to sleep.
He smiled, a slow, tender curve of his lips that was both a promise and a prayer. He leaned down, his lips finding your forehead, a soft, sweet kiss that was both a blessing and a benediction.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a little hoarse, a little rough. "I love you so much."
You stirred, your eyes fluttering open, a soft, sleepy smile playing on your lips. "I love you too," you murmured, your voice a little husky, a little dreamy. "Even if I am a pillow princess."
Lando couldn't help but laugh, a low, rumbling sound that was both a relief and a release. He had been waiting for you to say it, to admit it, to finally accept it, and now that you had, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, a sense of peace, of completion, of rightness.
"Yes," he agreed, his voice a little low, a little rough. "You are. But you're my pillow princess. And I wouldn't have it any other way."
You smiled, a slow, sleepy curve of your lips that made his heart ache. "Good," you murmured, your voice a little husky, a little dreamy. "Because I really, really like it when you take control."
Lando just smiled, a slow, indulgent curve of his lips. He knew that this was it, that this was what you had been trying to prove, not to him, but to yourself. You had wanted to show him, to show yourself, that you could be in control, that you could take charge, that you could be the one to initiate, to lead, to dominate.
But you had also shown yourself, and him, that you loved to surrender, that you loved to let go, that you loved to be taken care of, to be worshipped, to be the center of his attention. You had shown yourself, and him, that you were, in every sense of the word, a pillow princess. And you had shown yourself, and him, that you were okay with that, that you embraced it, that you loved it.
And he loved it too. He loved it more than he could say. He loved the way you would arch your back, the way you would gasp his name, the way you would completely let go, trusting him to take care of you, to give you everything you needed. He loved the way you would surrender yourself to him, to the pleasure he could give you, to the love he had for you.
He knew that this was what made them work, what made them special, what made them right. It was the give and take, the push and pull, the balance of power and surrender, the way you could be both strong and vulnerable, both in control and completely at his mercy.
He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a soft, sweet kiss that was both a promise and a prayer. It was a kiss that said, "I love you just the way you are," a kiss that said, "I wouldn't change a thing about you," a kiss that said, "You're perfect, exactly as you are."
You kissed him back, your lips moving against his in a slow, sleepy rhythm that was both a comfort and a command. He could feel the way you responded, the way your body relaxed against his, the way your breathing evened out, a clear sign that you were drifting off to sleep.
He held you close, his arms wrapped around you, his body a warm, protective shield against the world. He could feel the weight of you, the warmth of your skin, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, a familiar, comforting presence that was a stark contrast to the chaotic, overwhelming emotions that were swirling inside him.
The first rays of the morning sun were just beginning to filter through the gaps in the blinds, casting soft, golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Lando was drifting in that hazy, blissful state between sleep and wakefulness, his body still heavy with the satisfying exhaustion of the night before. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the familiar weight of your leg thrown over his, the soft, even sound of your breathing.
It was the feeling of your lips on his neck that finally pulled him under. They were soft, tentative at first, trailing a line of fire from his collarbone up to the sensitive spot just behind his ear. He smiled, his eyes still closed, a low hum of contentment vibrating in his chest. Then he felt it—the slow, deliberate rock of your hips against him, a subtle, insistent pressure that was impossible to ignore. You were grinding against him, your thin sleep shorts doing little to mask the heat of your core as you rubbed against his already stirring cock.
His smile widened. He let you continue for another moment, enjoying the feel of your desperate, sleepy movements. Then, he propped himself up on his elbows, the sheet pooling around his waist. He looked down at you, his eyes still heavy with sleep but glinting with a familiar, cocky amusement. Your hair was a mess around your face, your cheeks were flushed, and your lips were parted as you panted softly.
"And what," he asked, his voice a low, raspy murmur, "do you think you're doing?"
You froze, your movements ceasing instantly. A deep blush crept up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks. You looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering desire. You opened your mouth, then closed it, a silent pout forming on your lips. Instead of answering, your hand moved, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers, a silent, pleading request.
Lando's smirk grew. He loved this. He loved seeing you like this—flustered, desperate, and completely undone by your own desire for him. He knew exactly what you wanted, what you needed. He let the silence hang in the air for a moment longer, savoring your anticipation.
"Someone's eager this morning," he teased, his voice dropping to a low, predatory purr. He shifted his weight, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. "Did you not get enough last night? Or is this another attempt to prove something?"
You just bit your lip, your eyes locked on his, a silent plea.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Do you need me to properly fuck you, love?" he whispered, his voice a rough, intoxicating caress. "Is that it? Do you need me to remind you just how much of a pillow princess you really are?"
A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. You gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, your embarrassment warring with your overwhelming arousal. "Yes," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Please, Lando."
That was all the encouragement he needed. In a fluid, powerful movement, he rolled over, pinning you beneath him. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties, tugging them down your legs in one swift, rough motion. He tossed them aside without a second thought, his eyes devouring the sight of you, completely bare and already glistening with wetness for him.
He didn't waste any time. There was no slow, teasing build-up this morning. This was about claiming, about reminding you, about giving you exactly what you were asking for. He settled between your thighs, his hand moving to your core. He didn't start slow. He plunged two fingers into you without warning, a deep, possessive stroke that made you cry out.
He set a brutal pace, his fingers pistoning in and out of you with a speed and intensity that stole your breath. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with every thrust, adding a delicious, overwhelming friction. It was fast, it was rough, and it was utterly, completely intoxicating. You could do nothing but lie there and take it, your hands fisting in the sheets, your back arching off the bed as a blinding wave of pleasure crashed over you.
It didn't take long. Within a minute, you were shattering, a loud, desperate cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you. Your inner walls clenched around his fingers, a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that pulsed through your entire body. He didn't stop, his fingers continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your pleasure until you were a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.
Only then did he pull his fingers away, a satisfied smirk on his face. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he tasted your arousal, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest. "So fucking wet for me," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He quickly shed his boxers, his hard, aching cock springing free.
He settled over you, his hips nestling between your thighs. He didn't enter you right away. He just looked down at you, his expression a mix of raw desire and overwhelming love. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss that was both a promise and a warning. Then, he positioned himself at your entrance and pushed into you in one slow, deep stroke.
He filled you completely, a perfect, blissful stretch that made you both moan. He started to move, his rhythm a delicious contrast to the rough fingering from moments before. It was deep and romantic, a slow, sensual rocking of his hips that was both tender and incredibly intimate. But there was an underlying edge to it, a hint of the roughness he knew you craved. Each thrust was powerful, deliberate, a deep, possessive stroke that claimed you as his own.
"You feel so incredible," he breathed against your lips, his voice a low, rough murmur. "So tight, so warm. Made just for me."
He shifted slightly, his movements becoming a little harder, a little deeper. He hooked one of your legs, lifting it and draping it over his shoulder. The new angle was devastating, allowing him to plunge even deeper, to hit that sensitive spot deep inside you with unerring accuracy. You cried out, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as a fresh wave of pleasure washed over you.
"That's it," he grunted, his hips snapping forward, a little rougher now. "Take it. Take all of me."
He was a vision of raw, masculine power above you, his muscles flexing with each thrust, his brow furrowed in concentration, his jaw clenched with the effort. He was pounding into you now, a deep, rhythmic cadence that was both punishing and exquisite. He lifted your other leg, draping it over his other shoulder, folding you nearly in half. The position was utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, and it sent a thrill of pure, unadulterated bliss through you.
He was so deep like this, so impossibly deep. You could feel him in your stomach, a hard, insistent pressure that bordered on pain but was so, so good. He was grunting with each thrust now, the sound a low, primal music that fueled your arousal. He was lost in it, lost in you, his entire being focused on the pleasure he was giving and receiving.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he growled, his eyes dark and intense. "So wet for me, baby. You love this, don't you? Love me fucking you like this."
You could only moan in response, your mind too clouded with pleasure to form coherent words. He kept up his relentless praise, his words a dirty, intoxicating litany that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "So beautiful, taking my cock so well. My perfect girl. My perfect pillow princess."
After a few more deep, punishing thrusts, he gently lowered your legs, his movements surprisingly tender. He spread your thighs wide, his hands gripping your hips as he resumed his deep, powerful rhythm. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, a look of pure, unadulterated possession on his face. Then, he did something that made you gasp. He pressed his hand down on your lower stomach, a firm, steady pressure.
He knew your body better than you did. He knew that this simple act, the added pressure on your uterus, the way it made you feel him even more impossibly deep, was enough to push you over the edge every single time. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, the familiar, overwhelming build of an orgasm so intense it was almost frightening. You were right there, teetering on the brink, ready to shatter into a million pieces.
And then, he stopped.
He pulled out completely, his movements sudden and shocking. A cry of pure, agonized frustration tore from your lips. It was so close. You were so close. You could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, a desperate, overwhelming sense of loss washing over you.
"Lando, please," you whimpered, your voice cracking. "Don't stop. Please."
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that was both infuriating and incredibly sexy. He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a soft, reassuring kiss. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin gently.
"Shhh, it "Shhh, it's okay," he murmured against your lips, his voice a soothing, intimate caress. "I've got you. There's a reason, I promise."
You looked up at him, your vision blurred with unshed tears of frustration, your body still humming with the phantom of your stolen orgasm. He saw the desperate confusion in your eyes, and his expression softened with a mixture of amusement and overwhelming affection. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth.
"Trust me," he whispered, his eyes holding yours.
He reached over, grabbing a plush, fluffy pillow from the top of the bed. He shifted, his movements sure and practiced as he slid the pillow beneath your lower back and hips, lifting you, angling you perfectly. The position was familiar, one he used often, one that always promised a deeper, more intense experience.
"There," he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "That's better."
He settled back between your thighs, his gaze hot and heavy as he took in the sight of you, spread out and waiting just for him. He guided his cock to your entrance, teasing you for just a moment with the head, before pushing into you in one slow, deep, deliberate stroke.
The angle was different now, deeper, more intense. The pillow elevated you perfectly, and you felt him hit that spot inside you with an accuracy that made you gasp. He was impossibly deep, a feeling so profound it was almost overwhelming.
He started to move again, his hips rolling in a slow, powerful rhythm that was designed to drive you insane. Each thrust was a deep, possessive stroke that claimed every inch of you. Then, he did it again. He pressed his hand down on your lower stomach, right over where you could feel the bulge of his cock inside you.
"Can you feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, rough growl. "Can you feel how deep I am? Feel me right here."
The combination of his deep, steady thrusts and the firm pressure on your stomach was electrifying. It was an intense, almost overwhelming stimulation, a direct, visceral connection to the pleasure he was building inside you. You could feel him, every hard, thick inch of him, moving inside you, pressing against your inner walls, a perfect, intoxicating pressure.
"Fuck, Lando," you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets above your head. "Yes... I can feel you. So deep."
He smiled, a slow, cocky curve of his lips that made your heart pound. "Good," he grunted, his thrusts becoming a little harder, a little more deliberate. "I want you to feel everything."
He kept up the relentless pace, his hand a firm, possessive weight on your stomach, his hips a steady, driving force. He was watching you, his eyes dark and intense, taking in every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face. He could see you were getting close again, could feel the way your pussy started to flutter around him, the tell-tale sign of your impending orgasm.
He knew you needed one last push. He shifted his weight slightly, his hand moving from your stomach. He brought his thumb to your clit, a light, tentative touch that made you cry out. He started to rub in slow, deliberate circles, a perfect, rhythmic pressure that was in direct contrast to the hard, punishing thrusts of his hips.
It was too much. The deep, overwhelming stimulation from his cock, the targeted, exquisite pleasure from his thumb—it all coalesced into a tidal wave of sensation that was impossible to resist. The coil in your core snapped, and you shattered.
Your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a hurricane. A loud, desperate cry tore from your lips, his name a ragged, breathless prayer on your tongue. Your back arched off the bed, your entire body convulsing as wave after wave of blinding, all-consuming pleasure crashed over you. Your inner walls clenched around him, a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that were so powerful, so intense, they felt like they might break you apart.
"Fuck," Lando groaned, his hips stuttering as your pussy pulsed around him. The feeling of you cumming so hard, so tight, so wet, was his undoing. He thrust into you, a deep, desperate stroke, prolonging your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you were a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.
Then, with a low, guttural groan, he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep inside you, his body tensing as his own orgasm ripped through him. He spilled into you, a hot, powerful rush that was a final, intimate act of possession. He didn't stop moving, his hips rutting into you, a series of short, sharp thrusts as he emptied himself completely, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and harsh. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a frantic, synchronized rhythm that matched your own. You were both spent, both completely and utterly satisfied.
For a long time, you just lay there, your bodies tangled together, the only sound in the room the soft, steady hum of the air conditioner and your shared, ragged breathing. The morning sun was higher now, casting a warm, golden glow over the room, over your entwined bodies.
Lando finally stirred, lifting his head to look down at you. His hair was a mess, his face was flushed, and his eyes were soft and heavy with satisfaction. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
"Still think you're not a pillow princess?" he murmured, his voice a low, raspy tease.
You couldn't help but smile, a lazy, contented curve of your lips. You reached up, your hand tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss.
"Shut up," you whispered against his lips, your voice a soft, happy murmur. "And do it again."
He laughed, a low, husky sound that was full of love and amusement. "With pleasure," he replied, his eyes darkening with a renewed spark of desire. "Always with pleasure."
Summary: Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The world knows Lando Norris. They know the infectious grin, the quick wit, the fearless talent on track, the playful 'Little Lando Norris' antics.
They know he's always tired, a running joke in the paddock, an endearing quirk. But what they don't know, what only you truly understand, is the sheer depth of slumber he can fall into the moment your fingers trace patterns on his scalp.
Everyone expects him to nod off, but with you, it’s not just nodding off. It’s an irreversible descent into a blissful, unshakeable sleep, from which he will not, cannot, wake up easily.
And when he finally does, the last thing he wants is to leave the warmth of your arms.
The Driver's Room
The air in the driver's room is a cacophony of muffled sounds: distant engine roars, the chatter of engineers, the low hum of air conditioning. It’s a temporary sanctuary, a place of brief respite amidst a whirlwind weekend.
You step inside, leaving the usual race day chaos behind, and find him exactly where you expected: slumped in his ergonomic chair, headphones still around his neck, eyes half-closed as he stares blankly at a monitor displaying telemetry data.
He’s been in and out of meetings, on and off track, fielding questions, pushing limits. Even for him, a perpetual motion machine, today has been draining.
"Hey, sleepyhead," you murmur, crossing the small space to stand behind him. He grunts in response, a low, tired sound, but doesn't open his eyes.
His shoulders are hunched, a testament to the tension that has built up over the day. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his messy hair, which smells faintly of sweat and something uniquely 'race track'.
"Rough one?" you ask, your voice soft, understanding. He sighs, a deep, shuddering breath. "Quali was… a lot. My head feels like it's been through a washing machine."
You nod, sympathetic. You know the feeling, the mental exhaustion that comes with operating at such a high level of concentration.
Without a word, you lift your hands and gently thread your fingers through his soft, slightly damp hair. You start at his temples, massaging small circles, feeling the tension subtly begin to release under your touch.
His body, initially stiff, starts to relax, leaning ever so slightly back into your hands.
You move to the crown of his head, your nails lightly raking through his hair, then down to the nape of his neck, where the muscle knots are most prominent.
You can feel him melting, literally softening under your touch. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant sounds of the paddock, all seem to fade into the background, replaced by the gentle rhythm of your fingers, the quiet intake of his breath.
He leans his head back further, resting it against your stomach as you continue your work. His eyes, which were once half-open, are now fully closed.
His breathing deepens, slowly, steadily. You know this rhythm, you’ve memorized it. It’s the sound of Lando Norris, the racing driver, the public personality, shedding his armor and sinking into oblivion.
His hand reaches back, blindly finding yours, interlocking his fingers with yours, a silent plea for you to continue.
Minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. The telemetry data still flickers on the screen, forgotten. His body is completely relaxed, a dead weight in the chair.
You can feel the warmth emanating from him, the steady thump-thump of his heart against your palm.
He’s out. Truly out. Not just a nap, but a deep, restorative sleep born of utter exhaustion and the unique comfort only you seem to provide.
Just as you're wondering how long you can stay like this, a sharp rap comes at the door. "Lando? Five minutes to driver briefing!" It's Charlotte, his press officer, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.
You wince. The spell is broken. "Honey," you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. "Lando, wake up. Briefing."
He groans, a sound of profound protest. His eyes flutter open, revealing bleary, unfocused pupils. He looks utterly disoriented, like a deep-sea diver suddenly pulled to the surface.
He blinks, then blinks again, slowly registering your face above him. A slow smile stretches across his lips, but it's the smile of someone desperately unwilling to let go of their dream.
"No," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, already reaching for you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you down until your cheek is pressed against his head.
"Stay. Just five more minutes. Ten. An hour." He buries his face into your side, his grip tightening.
He's an anchor, and you're the ship, firmly rooted.
"Lando, Charlotte's waiting. You have to go." You try to gently extricate yourself, but he holds on with surprising strength.
"Don't wanna go," he whines, his voice muffled by your clothes. "It's warm here. And you smell nice. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."
You sigh, a small laugh escaping your lips. "I know, love, but you have to. You're Lando Norris, you have a race to win."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his beautiful eyes still clouded with sleep, but a mischievous glint starting to emerge. "Only if you promise more head rubs later. A lot of them. And maybe we can just miss the briefing and cuddle instead?"
You kiss his forehead. "Get up, you big baby. After the briefing, after dinner, after everything. All the head rubs you want. Now go." With a final, reluctant groan, he finally unwound himself from you, pushing himself upright, running a hand through his now even messier hair.
But before he left, he leaned in for one last quick, sleepy kiss, a silent promise in his eyes. He might be leaving, but he wasn't really letting you go.
His Parents' House
The scent of roasting chicken and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, mingling with the comfortable, lived-in aroma of the Norris family home.
You're visiting for a quiet weekend, a much-needed break from the relentless F1 schedule.
Lando, surprisingly, had been relatively awake for most of the morning, helping his mum in the kitchen, teasing his siblings, and even engaging in a lively debate with his dad about a recent rugby match.
But the afternoon, as always, proved to be his undoing. You're curled up on the plush sofa in the living room, a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table, a book resting unread on your lap.
Lando, initially engaged in a video game with Cisca, had slowly migrated towards you. He'd started by resting his head on your shoulder, then gradually slid down until his head was in your lap, his long legs draped across the cushions.
You’d instinctively begun to run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer here, less stressed than at the track, clean and fluffy. You trace the natural part, then gently massage the scalp above his ears.
He sighs, a soft sound of contentment that resonates through you. The game controller, forgotten, clatters to the floor.
Cisca glances over, rolls her eyes playfully, and then goes back to her own device, used to her brother's spontaneous naps.
The rhythm of your touch is slow, deliberate. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his body seems to melt into the cushions beneath him. His eyelids, initially fluttering, come to a complete rest.
You can see the faint blue veins beneath the thin skin of his eyelids, the dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks.
He looks so young, so peaceful, entirely different from the focused, intense competitor the world sees.
You continue the light strokes, occasionally adding a gentle scratch with your nails just behind his ears, a spot you discovered he particularly loved.
He whimpers slightly in his sleep, a tiny, happy sound, and shifts, burrowing his face deeper into your lap, his arm blindly coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.
The weight of his head is comforting, the warmth of his body seeping into your legs.
A soft, content smile plays on your lips. This is your Lando, vulnerable and entirely yours, lost in a dream.
"Dinner's ready, kids!" Cisca’s cheerful voice rings out from the kitchen, followed by a clatter of plates. "Lando! Cisca! Come and get it before it gets cold!"
Cisca immediately bolts upright. "Coming, Mum!"
You, however, have a more challenging task. "Lando," you whisper, gently stroking his cheek. "Dinner. Your mum's calling."
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a growl and a purr, tightening his grip on you. He doesn’t even stir beyond that. The call of food, usually irresistible to him, falls on deaf ears.
"Lando, come on. Chicken and roast potatoes. Your favourite." You try a little more firmness, nudging his shoulder.
He stirs, but it's not a wake-up. It's a deeper burrow. His head presses harder into your lap, and his hand, still clutching your waist, bunches the fabric of your shirt, pulling you down.
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice slurred with sleep. "Just five. Don't move."
You hear Cisca's footsteps approaching. "Everything alright in here? Lando, did you hear me?"
You give her an apologetic look over Lando’s prone form. "He's, uh, pretty comfortable, Cisca."
She clucks, a familiar exasperated-but-fond sound. She sees him, a mass of limbs and messy hair, utterly unconscious in your lap.
"Oh, for goodness sake! Always the same. You've got him properly snoozing, haven't you, love?" A twinkle enters her eye. "You're his secret weapon for a good night's sleep, apparently."
"Apparently," you agree, smiling down at his peaceful face. "He won't budge."
Cisca laughs. "Let me try." She kneels down, her voice firm but gentle. "Lando Oscar Norris! Get up! Dinner!"
He doesn't even twitch. Not a muscle. You suppress a giggle.
"Told you," you whisper.
Cisca shakes her head. "Right. Well, we'll eat, and you can keep him company for a bit longer. He clearly needs it." She pats your arm. "Just try not to starve, darling."
You thank her, and she retreats, leaving you alone with the sleeping pile of McLaren’s star driver. You look down at him, utterly trapped, but not minding one bit.
His grip on you is still firm, his breathing a steady rhythm. You know that if you managed to drag him to the table, he'd be halfway back to sleep before the starter was even served.
So you settle back, resuming your gentle head rubs, content to be his personal sedative, his favorite blanket, his anchor in the quiet, comforting world of sleep.
Dinner could wait. Lando wasn't going anywhere.
Vacation with Friends
The villa echoes with laughter, music, and the splash of water from the infinity pool. The air is warm and smells of sunscreen and something grilling on the barbecue.
You're on a much-anticipated vacation, a week of sun, good food, and great company, with Lando and a handful of his closest friends. Everyone is in high spirits, unwinding after a long, intense season.
You'd spent the day by the pool, playing silly games, and now the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the patio.
The energy was still buzzing, but Lando, never one to pace himself, was starting to flag. You’d noticed him leaning against a poolside pillar, his eyes a little glazed, his usual quick quips replaced by slow blinks.
"You alright there, sleepy Eeyore?" you’d teased, nudging him gently.
He'd just grunted, a multi-syllabic expression of profound weariness. "Just… absorbing the sun. It's strenuous."
You knew what that meant. He was on the verge. "Come on," you’d said, taking his hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter. Before you faceplant into the pool."
You led him away from the main hubbub, past the outdoor kitchen, to a secluded, shaded daybed nestled amongst some vibrant bougainvillea.
It was a perfect escape, far enough from the noise to be peaceful, but still close enough to feel part of the group.
He dropped onto the plush cushions with a sigh of absolute relief, stretching out his long limbs. You sat beside him, and without a word, he rolled onto his side, resting his head in your lap, his legs tangled with yours.
The slight breeze rustled the leaves above, and the distant sound of his friends' laughter became a soft, pleasant hum.
Your fingers found their customary place in his hair. Here, it was still damp from the pool, cool against your skin. You worked your way from his forehead, tracing the line of his eyebrows, then circling his temples with light pressure.
He melted instantly, a low moan of pure bliss escaping his lips. His breathing evened out almost immediately, deep and rhythmic. You felt the subtle tremor of his body as he relaxed, every muscle giving way to the soft embrace of sleep.
You continued, running your hands through the cool, damp strands, lifting them and letting them fall back down, scratching gently at his scalp. He was completely out, an island of profound peace in a sea of holiday merriment.
You watched the rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his lips, the way the last rays of sun dappled through the leaves and painted patterns on his face.
You were utterly content, holding this peaceful, sleeping man who, despite all his energy and zest for life, could be felled by a few minutes of your touch.
"Oy! Lando! Dinner's ready! Fresh fish!" It was Max, his voice booming across the patio.
You winced. Here we go. You tried gentle persuasion first. "Lando, honey, dinner. Max is calling."
Not a flicker. He was dead to the world, buried deep in Dreamland.
"Lando!" Oscar’s voice this time, closer, as they clearly started a search party. "Mate, don't tell me he's asleep again."
You looked up to see Max and Oscar approaching, grins on their faces. They took one look at Lando, completely passed out in your lap, and burst into laughter.
"Unbelievable," Max groaned, shaking his head. "He’s like a tired toddler. You've got him completely incapacitated, haven't you?"
"It's the head rubs," you explained, trying to sound innocent. "He just… succumbs."
"More like you brainwash him into ultimate relaxation," Oscar quipped, nudging Lando's foot with his own. "Wake up, you old man! There's food! And maybe a few drinks later!"
Lando stirred, a deep, frustrated groan rumbling in his chest. His eyes squinted open, struggling to focus.
He blinked, a slow, drugged process, then registered his friends looming over him.
"No," he mumbled, his voice thick and barely audible. He didn't even try to sit up.
Instead, he just tightened his grip on your leg, pulling you closer, nuzzling deeper into your lap. "Stay. Just five more minutes. Don't wanna move."
"Mate, come on," Max said, trying to pull his arm. "There's grilled prawns!"
Lando just mumbled something incoherent and buried his face deeper, clinging to you like a limpet. "Can't… move… too comfy… with her."
Oscar burst out laughing. "He's completely useless when she gets her hands on him! You've got him trained, you know that?"
You smiled, running a gentle hand over his still-damp hair. "He's not trained; he's just happy."
"Happy and completely comatose!" Max retorted, eventually giving up and just chuckling. "Alright, we'll save you some fish, you big baby. But you're missing out on the good banter."
They ambled back to the main group, still laughing and teasing. You listened to their voices fade, then looked down at Lando, who was already drifting back to sleep, his breathing evening out once more.
He had a faint, content smile on his lips. He was clearly missing out on the party, on the food, on the friends.
But he was utterly unwilling to give up this moment with you.
You knew, deep down, that you wouldn't trade it for anything either. Let the world have the fast, witty, energetic Lando Norris.
You had the one who found his deepest peace and most profound sleep in the simple, loving touch of your hands, making him utterly unwilling to leave your side.
It was a trade-off you were more than happy to make, every single time. . . .
Hii! If your requests are open could I request a readerxlando where they’re at a Norris family party/event and he sees his nieces playing with his gf and she is really good with them, and he just melts talking to her about their future family.
A Future Family - LN4
pairing: lando norris x girlfriend!reader
summary: he’s seen her in a hundred moments, but watching her with his nieces makes something in his chest ache in the best way possible.
status: complete | wc: 1.2k
The atmosphere was a familiar blend of chaos and comfort, typical of a Norris family gathering. You leaned back against the plush arm of the sofa, a half-empty glass of sparkling cider in your hand, completely engrossed in the game happening on the floor.
Lando’s two young nieces, Mila and Athena, were completely charmed. You’d somehow managed to turn a pile of slightly mismatched LEGO bricks into a surprisingly sophisticated 'animal hospital,' complete with tiny makeshift surgical tools and a waiting area. Their giggles were infectious, and you offered patient explanations for why the plastic zebra needed a bandage made from a piece of paper napkin.
Lando had been chatting with his mum across the room, but his attention kept drifting. When he finally walked over and settled onto the sofa beside you, he didn’t interrupt. He just watched, a soft, unfamiliar look on his face—a look that was less F1 driver and more just... Lando.
"Alright, doctor?" he murmured, leaning his head close to yours.
You grinned, gently adjusting a stray piece of LEGO on the rhino patient. "Just a few minor injuries. The giraffe seems to have a serious case of the sillies, though. We might need to keep her overnight."
Mila, eyes wide with the seriousness of the diagnosis, nodded firmly. "She does. She kept trying to eat the flowers."
Lando chuckled, a deep, warm sound. He nudged your shoulder with his, and his gaze was steady, focused entirely on you, even as the girls returned to their miniature drama.
"You're amazing with them," he said, his voice dropping a little lower, for your ears only. "I've never seen them sit still for more than five minutes, and you've had them captivated for almost an hour."
You shrugged modestly. "I love kids. They just need a good story and a lot of patience."
His thumb traced a slow, almost absentminded pattern on your arm. His eyes were crinkling at the corners with that sweet, honest smile you loved.
"I know," he said softly, the lightness gone, replaced by a deep sincerity that made your heart skip. "It just... makes me think."
"Think about what?" you prompted, turning your body fully toward him.
He looked down at his nieces, their little heads bent together over the LEGO figures, then back to you. The intensity in his dark eyes was overwhelming, a tidal wave of emotion that washed away the noise of the party.
"About us. About one day," he confessed, the words almost a whisper. "Seeing you here, seeing how good you are, how natural... I can picture it, you know? A little house, maybe not as big as this one, but loud. Loud with our own little people running around, needing bandages and stories."
He reached up, his fingers gently pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
"I know it’s crazy planning stuff like that right now," he continued, a slight tremble in his voice that betrayed his nerves. "But I want it, Yn. I want that future with you. I want to see you be an amazing mum to our kids."
The sudden, raw honesty of the declaration—in the middle of a noisy family party, no less—left you breathless. The glass of cider forgotten, you reached up and took his hand, lacing your fingers with his.
"It’s not crazy, Lando," you whispered, the smile that broke across your face genuine and radiating warmth. "I want that, too. More than anything. I can picture it, too. With you."
Lando’s eyes softened completely, that wall he sometimes kept up finally dissolving. He leaned in, pressing a soft, perfect kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering.
"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Then we’ve got something amazing to look forward to."
He pulled you closer, his arm a warm, silent promise wrapped around your shoulder as you both watched the girls play with LEGOs. It was a vision of a future family, built one brick at a time. Leaning into Lando, your head found its home on his shoulder, the gentle clatter of LEGOs now the perfect score to your shared, private dream. The warmth of his arm was a comforting, grounding presence.
"So," you whispered, turning your head just enough to nuzzle his neck, "when exactly did you start picturing the giraffe’s trauma unit?"
He chuckled, a rumble against your ear. "It wasn't the giraffe that did it, promise. It was about fifteen minutes ago. You were explaining to Athena why the elephant needed a plaster, and your face just… lit up. You had that look—the one you get when you’re genuinely happy and absorbed in something."
He shifted slightly, lowering his voice again. "It just hit me. All those things we talk about, the vague future plans? They’re real, and I want them sooner than later."
Mila and Athena, sensing the sudden lull in the adult attention, scrambled onto the sofa, squeezing themselves onto your laps.
"Auntie Yn! The zebra is better now, but the nurse needs a biscuit," Mila announced, holding up the plastic figure.
You exchanged a knowing, utterly smitten look with Lando before reaching for the plate of shortbread his mum had left on the coffee table.
"Well, the nurse has had a very long shift," you declared, handing a biscuit to Mila and one to Athena. "But you two need to eat up, too. Doctor’s orders."
Lando watched you effortlessly manage the sudden influx of small people and crumbs, his expression unreadable for a moment before that soft, melty look returned. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, even as his smile remained.
"You really are going to be a nightmare when we have our own, aren't you?" he teased, though there was zero heat in the words. "They’re going to be so spoiled."
"Spoiled with attention, yes," you countered, reaching out to wipe a crumb from Athena's cheek. "It's a requirement. Besides, you’ll be the worse one. You’ll be the dad who secretly lets them stay up late to watch qualifying."
He laughed outright. "That’s a given! But honestly, I'm already seeing you teach them how to drive a go-kart when they're about four, and then me trying to keep them grounded when they inevitably inherit your competitive streak."
The thought of little, mini-yous and mini-Landos zooming around a track, or needing you to triage their scraped knees, was a warmth that spread right through your chest. It wasn't just a fantasy; it was a concrete plan you’d just silently agreed upon in the midst of a family party.
"We have to promise to get them a dog first," you stated, suddenly serious. "A golden retriever. No arguments."
Lando’s face softened again. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, the gesture intimate and proprietary.
"A golden retriever it is," he confirmed, his voice thick with affection. "And a whole lifetime of noise, chaos, and hopefully, a lot of LEGO hospitals."
He caught your eye over the heads of his nieces, and in that crowded, lively room, it felt like you were the only two people there. It was more than love; it was a profound sense of belonging and a shared anticipation for a future that suddenly felt perfectly complete.
