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𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 — ln4 + max fewtrell

lando norris x !childhood bff/driver reader x max fewtrell (smau + written)

you don’t remember a time when it wasn’t the three of you — you, lando, and max. the terrible trio. the karting kids who swore you’d take over the world one day. you did. sort of.

now, you’re standing in the paddock, your race suit half-zipped, watching your childhood best friends laugh together like nothing ever changed — except everything did. you don’t know that both of them have been in love with you for years. in love with each other for years. and they don’t know that you’ve always loved them back.

and maybe that’s the tragedy of it all — you three have always been so close, yet never close enough to tell the truth.

fc : lea elui

(day 13 of chef’s tea party series!) (happy halloween guys 🎃👻✨) (reader is a ferrari driver! charles is her teammate. lewis is back w mercedes and kimi is reserve. all your faves r still on the grid, do not fear!) (changed up my usual spacing on this one- knew it was going to be a long one!)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

yourusername

silverstone📍

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 3,470,000 others.

yourusername : my home race was so kind to me <3 (and so was the weather and ferrari strategy calls (surprisingly))

tagged : yourbf, lando and maxfewtrell

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view 89,000 other comments.

lando : 1-2 for norris and yln🤏🏻 exactly where we should be! so proud bub

liked by yourusername and maxfewtrell

↳ yourusername : maybe next time you could share pole position🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by lando and maxfewtrell

↳ yourusername : kidding! but thank you for the flowers lan🤍 love you bunches

liked by lando and maxfewtrell

↳ username005 : the flowers were from LANDO and not her boyfriend? pls someone just kill me. they belong together

liked by lando

↳ username005 : i saw that

charles_leclerc: i would like to thank the strategy team personally 🫡

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername: small miracles every weekend charlie boy

liked by charles_leclerc

↳ charles_leclerc: do not jinx it.

liked by yourusername

lewishamilton: yellow looks good on you ☀️ proud of you as always.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername: thank you lew 🖤

maxfewtrell : both of my best friends on the podium for our home race :,) could never be more proud of you both

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ yourusername : don’t make me cry again max😭 love you forever

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

alex_albon: pretty sure i saw lando trying to sell a hoodie he designed five years ago 💀

liked by lando and yourusername

↳ lando: and you bought it.

liked by yourusername and alex_albon

↳ alex_albon: …yeah but that’s not the point.

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ yourusername : he is a business man. what can i say?

liked by lando and alex_albon

alexandrasaintmleux : queen of ferrari and my heart 🤭💛💐

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : we are the reigning queens of ferrari and charles is our butler

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and charles_leclerc

↳ charles_leclerc : …yeah that sounds right

username107 : god her and lando’s matching cars. these two are in LOVE. always have been.

username009 : everyone ignoring that bf pic (me too)

↳ username007 : he didn’t even clap for her. when the camera panned to him in the garage he was stone cold.

↳ username002 : meanwhile max was in literally tears and lando carried her on his shoulder even though HE WON THE RACE. he made it about her

↳ username005 : and lando’s family going crazy over her. cisca had them both in her arms at once

↳ username010 : we need that man GONE.

liked by lando and maxfewtrell

ciscawaumannorris : so proud of you darling 🥹💛 you’ve come so far

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ yourusername : love you so much😭 wouldn’t be here today without your support !

liked by ciscawaumannorris and lando

yourbf : so proud ❤️

liked by yourusername

↳ maxfewtrell : sure

↳ lando : you suck at showing it

↳ username050 : these two PLEASEE

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Silverstone hums beneath your feet — the low thrum of engines, the chatter of mechanics, the distant roar of a crowd that’s already chanting your name. Your home race. The one you dreamed about since you were barely tall enough to reach the pedals in a kart. The one you’d imagined sharing with the same two boys who used to push your kart when the chain slipped — Lando and Max.

Now, you’re here. Ferrari red stitched across your chest, yellow details glinting under a rare stretch of English sun. And beside you… Ethan.

He’s got his arm around your waist, firm and possessive, like he’s afraid the crowd might pull you away. Cameras flash, fans scream, and you can’t help the small smile that rises when you spot posters with your name, your face, little cutouts of your helmet design. You slow down, untangling yourself gently from Ethan’s hold.

“Just a minute,” you tell him softly, and before he can argue, you’ve stepped over to the barrier.

You sign hats and photos, scribble your number across flags. Someone holds out a homemade sign that reads OUR GIRL, OUR DRIVER, and you feel your throat tighten. You’ve always loved this part — the humanity of it. The reminder that little girls with messy ponytails still dream of being here one day.

“Can we take a photo?” a girl asks, voice trembling with excitement. You nod instantly, crouching down beside her, smiling wide.

And that’s when you feel it — fingers curling around your wrist.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Ethan’s voice is calm, but there’s a steel edge beneath it. He pulls you gently — too gently to make a scene, too tight to be kind. “You’ll be late.”

You turn to apologize to the fans, but he’s already steering you down the paddock. What you don’t see — what you never see — is the way two figures across the way have frozen mid-conversation.

Lando’s half in his McLaren polo, curls messy, sunglasses perched on his head. Max stands beside him, arms folded loosely, watching the same scene unfold with a look that flickers between disbelief and anger.

Lando’s jaw tenses. “He really just—”

“Yeah,” Max cuts in quietly, eyes narrowing. “He did.”

They don’t say anything else for a moment, just stand there watching you disappear around the corner, your smile gone. Lando swallows hard.

“She doesn’t even look like herself around him,” he mutters, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Max exhales, long and slow. “No. She doesn’t.”

Later that afternoon, the paddock buzzes louder — engines warming, radios crackling. You’ve just finished briefing with Ferrari and sneak your way over to the McLaren garage like you always do before quali. It’s tradition.

You catch them both off guard — Lando sitting on a counter, helmet in his lap, Max leaning against the wall beside him.

“There she is!” Lando grins, hopping down instantly. “I was just saying how you’d show up five minutes late and pretend it was traffic.”

You roll your eyes, smiling for the first time all day. “I was in traffic. You’ve seen the crowd.”

“Excuses,” he teases, poking your arm. “Admit it — you can’t start your weekend without your lucky charm.”

You raise a brow. “Interesting. I always remember being yours."

He laughs — that same boyish, unguarded sound you’ve known since he was five and missing two front teeth. Max shakes his head at both of you, fighting a smile.

“Unbelievable,” he says, voice dry. “Still arguing over who’s luckier. Some things really don’t change.”

You look at him then, really look — his smile is soft, familiar. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.

For a fleeting moment, it’s like you’re nine again — standing on a muddy kart track, helmets too big, hands clasped tight in the middle.

“We’ll all make it, yeah?” Lando had said, his grin missing a tooth but still bright as the sky.

You’d nodded solemnly, little fingers hooked with theirs.

“No matter what. We stick together.”

“And no one gets between us,” Max had added, his small voice fierce, protective even then.

You’d believed it. All three of you had. But the years got longer, the spaces between weekends grew wider, and somewhere along the way, you forgot what it felt like to be untouched by everything else — by pressure, by fame, by people like Ethan.

“Hey,” Lando says now, reaching out to brush a strand of hair off your face, the gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Good luck out there,” Max says softly, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something unreadable there. “You always were the fastest of us three.”

You grin, a little shyly. “Still am.”

He laughs, and for a moment, everything feels right again.

Then you hear it.

“YN!”

Ethan’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and impatient. He’s walking toward you, expression tight, eyes already scanning the boys beside you.

“There you are,” he says, slipping his hand around your wrist — not gently this time. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to talk before quali.”

You start to reply, but he’s already pulling you away, his grip firm. Your breath catches — just a flicker of discomfort — and that’s when Max’s expression hardens completely. He sees it. The way Ethan’s fingers press into your skin. The way your smile falters.

Lando’s watching too — he doesn’t say anything, but his knuckles whiten as his fists curl at his sides. He wants to shout, wants to step forward, but he doesn’t. You’re looking down, murmuring something to calm Ethan, and that alone stops him.

As you disappear around the corner again, silence settles between the two boys.

Max runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “He treats her like she’s a thing he owns.”

Lando’s jaw twitches. “Yeah.” His voice is low, dangerous. “And one day, he’s going to forget that we’ve known her since she couldn’t even reach the pedals.”

They both stare toward the Ferrari garage — where you’ve gone, where their childhood promise feels like it’s slipping through their fingers. Because once upon a time, at nine years old, they swore no one would ever come between the three of you. And now, standing under the humming lights of Silverstone, they realize someone already has.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

You’re sprawled across the couch in Lando’s hotel suite, your legs tossed over Max’s lap, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your stomach. The night is easy — laughter echoing off the walls, camera batteries charging on the coffee table, the faint buzz of London lights beyond the balcony doors.

They’d roped you into filming a Quadrant video earlier that week — something chaotic and harmless about go-kart challenges and who could make the worst milkshake combination. It ended with Max gagging, Lando crying from laughter, and you promising to never trust either of them again. Now, you’re filming the outro — or trying to.

“Okay,” you say, holding the camera steady as Lando leans in beside you, eyes bright. “What did we learn this week?”

“That Max can’t cook,” Lando says immediately.

Max glares at him. “That’s rich coming from someone who burns toast.”

“I was experimenting!”

“With fire, apparently.”

You giggle, snorting into your sleeve, which only makes them worse. Lando’s laughing too hard to finish his sentence; Max grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at him. It hits the lamp instead.

“Boys,” you warn, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “If you break something, I’m telling the hotel it was Charles.”

Max grins. “Perfect. Everyone believes it.”

The camera’s still recording as Lando tugs you closer, slinging his arm over your shoulder. The three of you fit together like muscle memory — laughter and warmth and a kind of comfort that feels like home.

For a moment, you forget everything outside that room. The noise, the pressure, the expectations. For a moment, it’s just the three of you again — kids on a couch, hearts untouched.

You’re wiping tears of laughter from your eyes when your phone buzzes against the table. The screen lights up. Ethan ❤️

Your chest tightens immediately. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before picking it up. “Hey,” you answer softly, trying to keep your voice even.

“Where are you?” His tone is sharp, impatient. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”

You blink. “Waiting? For what—?”

“For dinner, YN. With my parents. Did you forget?”

The boys exchange a glance instantly, the air around you shifting. Max’s smile fades; Lando straightens up a little.

“I—no, I didn’t forget,” you lie quickly, standing from the couch, walking toward the corner of the room for privacy. “I just—got caught up filming. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“‘Caught up filming,’” he repeats, voice dripping with irritation. “With them, I’m assuming?”

You close your eyes. “Ethan—”

“I told you this dinner was important,” he cuts in. “You can’t just—disappear with those two every time you feel like it.”

Behind you, Lando and Max are silent, but you know they can hear every word. Lando’s gaze is fixed on the floor; Max’s jaw is tight, knuckles pale where his hands grip the edge of the couch.

“I’m on my way,” you say quietly, forcing the words out before he can keep going. “I’ll see you soon.”

You end the call before he can answer. Silence fills the room. The hum of the air conditioner, the faint clicking of the still-recording camera. You tuck your phone into your pocket, smile wavering.

“He’s… he’s just stressed,” you murmur, as if trying to convince yourself.

Lando’s voice is careful. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

You look up at him — his eyes soft, concerned.

“Yeah,” Max adds, his tone quieter, lower. “If you don’t want to. We can handle the excuse. Say you felt sick. They’ll understand.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly even though your stomach feels heavy. “You guys are sweet. But it’s fine. It’s just dinner.”

Lando stands up, stepping closer. “It’s never just dinner when he talks to you like that.”

You freeze. For a second, you think he might say more — that he might finally cross the line from friendship into something more, something you’ve both avoided for years. But he stops himself, teeth sinking into his lip as if holding it back.

Max stands, too, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells just to make someone happy, YN.”

The way he says your name makes your chest ache.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I always am.”

You move to hug them both — Max first, his arms wrapping around you tight and safe, then Lando, who presses a kiss to the top of your head before he can stop himself.

“Text us when you’re done,” he says quietly.

You nod and slip out the door, forcing yourself not to look back. Dinner is unbearable. Ethan’s parents are kind enough, polite smiles and polite questions, but he’s on edge the entire time. His hand stays glued to your knee beneath the table, more like a reminder than affection. When they finally leave the restaurant, the tension snaps.

“What was that?” he demands as soon as you step outside. “You show up late, barely say a word, and I have to explain to my parents why my girlfriend was too busy playing YouTuber with her friends to show up on time.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair. You know I was filming—”

“With them.” He spits the word like poison. “It’s always them, YN. Always Lando, always Max. Don’t you see how that looks?”

“How what looks?”

“That you can’t go five minutes without one of them hanging all over you!”

Your eyes widen, hurt flashing through you. “They’re my friends. My best friends. They’ve been there since—”

“Since before me, yeah, I know,” he snaps. “And you think that makes it okay? You think I don’t see the way they look at you? The way you look at them?”

You step back, breath trembling. “Ethan—”

“They’re using you,” he continues, voice sharp and rising. “They don’t respect you. They just want—”

“Enough,” you say quietly, cutting him off.

He blinks, startled by the firmness in your tone.

“You don’t get to talk about them like that,” you say, your voice breaking even as your spine straightens. “You don’t know them. You don’t know what we’ve been through together.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe that’s the problem.”

You look away, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes. Somewhere deep down, you can still hear Lando’s voice from earlier — you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.

But you did. Because that’s what you do: you choose the path that hurts you quietly, the one that keeps everyone else from getting angry. Ethan mutters something under his breath, opening the car door. You follow without a word, staring out the window as street lights blur by.

All you can think about is how safe you felt just an hour ago — sitting on Lando’s couch, laughing with Max until your stomach hurt, their voices soft and steady in a world that’s grown too loud. You remember being nine years old again — three hands joined in the dirt, whispering promises you thought would never break. But now, as Ethan drives in silence beside you, you realize they are already broken.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

Race day at Silverstone always had a pulse of its own — you could feel it before you even reached the paddock. It wasn’t just the sound of engines or the distant cheers; it was that collective heartbeat of home. Silverstone was your track — the one where you grew up chasing Lando around hospitality, where Max taught you how to sneak snacks from the drivers’ lounge, where all three of you first said, “One day, we’ll all be here together.”

You just never imagined it would feel like this.

Ethan’s hand sits heavy on the small of your back as you walk through the crowd. His parents trail close behind, polite smiles plastered on their faces as photographers snap pictures. You keep your own smile steady, your body perfectly aligned beside his — you’ve learned how to make it look effortless, even when his grip tightens every time someone calls your name.

“YN! Can we get a photo?” “YN, over here! You’re our favorite Ferrari driver!”

You pause instinctively, waving, signing a cap, taking a quick selfie with a little girl in a Lando Norris hoodie — and Ethan’s jaw tightens.

“Babe,” he says sharply, “we don’t have time for this. Come on, your team’s waiting.”

“She’s fine,” the little girl’s dad says, smiling, but Ethan doesn’t even glance his way. He just reaches out and tugs you by the wrist — not hard enough to draw attention, but enough that you stumble slightly and the light leaves your smile.

You glance back once as you’re pulled away — and you see them. Lando and Max, standing just by the McLaren motorhome, watching silently.

Lando’s hands are shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, his face unreadable but his shoulders stiff. Max’s eyes narrow slightly — that cold, controlled anger that only ever surfaces when he sees something wrong and knows he can’t intervene. They say nothing. But both of them see everything.

A few hours later, Ethan gets caught up showing his parents around the paddock — eager to impress them with his connections, his girlfriend the Ferrari driver. You finally breathe freely for the first time all day and slip away under the excuse of checking in with your PR team. Instead, you head straight Lando and Max near the Landostand.

When they spot you, the reaction is immediate. Lando’s grin breaks wide open, Max’s eyes soften.

“Look who’s escaped captivity,” Lando teases. “We were about to send out a search party.”

“More like a rescue mission,” Max mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from Lando and a poorly-hidden smile from you.

You lean on the counter, pretending to inspect one of Lando’s new orange bucket hats. “You two seem to be doing well for yourselves,” you say, tone light. “Entrepreneurs, huh?”

“Trying to pay for your inevitable therapy bills after dating him,” Lando fires back with a smirk.

“Lando,” Max warns under his breath, but the moment the crowd realizes who you are — chaos. Fans scream your name, phones shoot up, flashes pop. People are cheering, shouting, waving Ferrari and McLaren merch side by side.

You take photos, sign things, even help Lando sell a few shirts, holding them up dramatically while Max shouts, “Limited edition — buy it because she touched it!”

It’s chaos, laughter, nostalgia — the three of you slipping effortlessly back into what used to be. The videos flood social media within minutes.

Ethan sees. And Ethan is furious.

An hour later, Lando and Max make their way down to the Ferrari garage. They’re still laughing about a fan who tried to get them to arm wrestle when the laughter dies as soon as they see you — tense, arms crossed, voice quiet but trembling.

Ethan is standing close, too close, his expression sharp. “I told you to stop undermining me in front of people,” he hisses. “You think it’s cute? Making me look like some jealous idiot?”

“I wasn’t— Ethan, I was literally helping—”

“Helping Lando,” he cuts in. “Always Lando. Or Max. Never me.”

“Because they’re my friends!” you finally snap, the exhaustion in your voice making both Lando and Max’s stomachs twist.

Ethan notices them at last, straightens up immediately, his demeanor flipping into something performative. “Oh — hey, guys. Sorry, just a little pre-race nerves.”

He pats your arm like nothing happened. You flinch just slightly. Lando notices.

Max’s jaw flexes. “We came to wish her luck,” he says coolly.

Ethan gives a polite nod and, without another word, turns and disappears down the paddock, muttering something about needing to meet his parents.

You let out a shaky breath the moment he’s gone.

“You okay?” Lando asks, stepping closer.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Max gives you a look — the kind that says we both know that’s a lie — but he doesn’t push. Instead, he rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. “You’ll crush it today,” he says simply.

You look between them — two boys who’ve been constants your whole life — and despite everything, you smile softly. “You better be ready to eat my dust,” you say, and Lando laughs, the tension finally breaking.

“Not a chance, sunshine,” he grins.

The race is chaos. The crowd deafening. The final laps a blur of speed and adrenaline. And then it happens. Lando crosses the line first. You, half a second behind. Charles right after.

P1. P2. P3.

The British fans erupt. Before you can even climb out of your car, Lando is sprinting across the pit lane. He scoops you up effortlessly, spinning you around and shouting something incoherent over the noise. Max is right there too, phone in hand, eyes glassy and voice cracking when he yells, “I told you both you’d do it!”

Lando’s mum, Cisca, is crying openly, hugging both of you at once, while Adam claps Max on the back. For a moment — just a moment — it’s perfect. A blur of love and history and belonging.

But then your eyes catch Ethan’s in the crowd. He’s standing still. Expression cold, arms crossed.

You pull back from Lando and approach him. Cameras are flashing, the whole world watching. He gives you the faintest, stiff smile and pulls you into a quick, meaningless hug for the press.

“Congrats,” he murmurs flatly, his tone making your stomach sink.

After the podium, Lando and Max corner you by the paddock entrance, both grinning, still buzzing.

“Come out with us,” Lando urges. “We’re going for drinks — just the three of us. Like old times.”

You hesitate. “Ethan wanted to—”

“Ethan can survive one night without you,” Max interrupts.

You open your mouth, but Ethan appears again, hand on your shoulder. “We’ve got dinner plans with my siblings,” he says, tone smooth but possessive. “You promised, remember?”

You glance between them — the boys’ hopeful faces, Ethan’s expectant one — and your heart twists painfully. “I’ll see you later,” you say quietly. “I promise.”

When you return to the hotel that night, the post-race high has faded into something quieter — exhaustion and a faint ache in your chest. The room smells faintly of roses.

Light yellow and pink — your favorites. A soft note tucked beneath the bouquet:

P2 looks good on you, sunshine.— L.

You smile, small and fragile but real. It’s such a Lando thing to do — always remembering the little things, always knowing when to say something without words.

You’re still arranging the flowers in a glass vase when the door opens.

Ethan steps inside, still in his suit from dinner. His expression isn’t one of pride or love — it’s tight, simmering. “Where’d those come from?”

You hesitate. “…Lando. He always sends flowers after a podium—”

“Of course he does.” His voice is sharp now. “You think that’s normal? You think that’s appropriate?”

“Ethan, please don’t do this,” you say softly, trying to diffuse it. “It’s just a gesture. He’s my friend.”

He scoffs. “Your friend? You mean the one who can’t take his eyes off you? The one who clearly wants you?”

“Stop.”

He takes a step closer. “You make me look like an idiot in front of everyone.”

“Ethan—”

The vase hits the wall before you can stop him. Glass shatters, water splashes across your legs, petals scattered across the floor like confetti from some cruel celebration.

You flinch instinctively, heart pounding. For a long second, the only sound is the water dripping onto the tile.

Ethan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—”

But you’re already kneeling down, silently gathering the broken glass. The small slice across your finger blooms red almost immediately, and you hiss softly, pressing it to your palm.

“YN—”

“Just—go,” you whisper. “Please.”

For once, he listens. He mutters something under his breath, grabs his jacket, and storms out, the door slamming behind him.

In the hallway, Lando and Max are just stepping off the lift, still in their club attire, laughter fading when they see him. Ethan’s face is flushed, his fists clenched, his eyes avoiding theirs.

Lando’s jaw tightens immediately. “What the hell happened to you?”

“None of your business,” Ethan snaps, brushing past.

Max doesn’t even respond — he just looks at Lando, eyes narrowing, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Something’s wrong.

They don’t even knock when they reach your door. Max uses the spare card you gave them both in case you lost yours.

And when the door opens — it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re kneeling by the bed, surrounded by water and broken glass, your hands trembling as you try to pick up the pieces. Tears streak your cheeks, a thin line of blood running down your finger.

“YN,” Max breathes, already kneeling beside you. He gently catches your wrist before you can reach for another shard. “Hey, hey—don’t. You’ll cut yourself worse.”

“I just… I didn’t want to leave it like this,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Lando crouches on your other side, his hands careful as he starts gathering the pieces into a towel. “You don’t need to clean anything. We’ve got it, okay?” His voice is soft, steady — the same tone he used when you fell off your bike at age seven and tried to insist you weren’t hurt.

The moment his hand brushes yours, something inside you cracks. The sob you’ve been holding back finally escapes — quiet and painful and raw.

Max pulls you gently into his chest without hesitation. You grip his shirt, shoulders shaking, and Lando sits close beside you, his hand rubbing slow circles over your back.

“You’re safe now,” Max murmurs.

Lando’s voice is low, firm, and full of something fierce. “We've got you. He can't hurt you."

You nod weakly, closing your eyes as they hold you — the two people who’ve known you longest, the two you've loved forever but have been too shy to say. And look at the mess that landed you in.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

f1gossipgirls

2,300,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : so instead of celebrating his gf's home podium...he is cheating. got it. @/lando & @/maxfewtrell take care of our girl.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

Morning light creeps through the thin hotel curtains, cutting soft gold across the carpet and the half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the steady rhythm of your breathing. You’re curled up in bed, finally asleep — deep, peaceful, undisturbed.

Across the room, Max and Lando are slumped on the small couch, both still in yesterday’s clothes. At some point in the night, you’d stopped crying. Max had wiped away the last tear, Lando had covered you with the blanket, and the three of you had sat there for hours in silence until exhaustion pulled them under too.

It’s early — not even seven — when Lando’s phone buzzes. He groans quietly, rubbing his eyes, and then glances at your nightstand. Your phone is lighting up too. Again and again and again. Hundreds of notifications.

He frowns. “Max,” he whispers. “Look.”

Max stirs beside him, his voice still heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Her phone’s blowing up.”

Max sits up, blinking the sleep away. When he sees the sheer number of alerts — social media notifications, message previews, news pings — his stomach tightens.

“She’s still asleep,” Lando says quietly. “You check it. You’ve got her passcode.”

Max hesitates for a moment — it feels invasive — but the worry in Lando’s face wins out. He picks up your phone and unlocks it. The screen fills instantly with headlines and tagged photos.

F1 WAG DRAMA AT SILVERSTONE? Ethan Hayes Spotted Leaving Club with Mystery Blonde!

Ethan Hayes Caught Kissing Another Woman Hours After Girlfriend’s Podium Finish

There are dozens of pictures — Ethan outside a bar, his hand around someone else’s waist, his mouth pressed to hers. The timestamps are all from last night, while you were crying on the floor. Lando goes pale.

“Tell me that’s not real.”

Max doesn’t answer. He just scrolls slowly, jaw tightening. “It’s real. Every outlet’s picked it up. Fans are tagging us in everything — they’re begging us to check on her.”

Lando stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll kill him. I swear to god, Max, I’ll—”

“Lando.”

“He threw a vase at her last night, Max! And now this? While she was crying over him?!”

“I know,” Max says quietly. “But right now she needs us, not a headline about you punching him.”

Lando stops pacing, chest heaving. He looks over at you, still asleep, hair messy, lips parted softly. There’s a band-aid on your finger now — the cut from last night. His anger twists into something else. Protectiveness.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But when she’s ready, I’m not holding back.”

They order breakfast — your favorite. Croissants with strawberry jam, a fruit bowl, black coffee for Max, oat milk latte for you, orange juice for Lando. It’s all they can think to do — something normal, something kind. Then they wait. The knock comes twenty minutes later.

Lando perks up, relief flickering. “That was quick. Must be room service.”

But when he opens the door, it isn’t.

Ethan stands there — rumpled, red-eyed, and already angry. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Lando’s face goes blank. “What did you just say?”

“I asked why you’re in my girlfriend’s room.”

Max’s head snaps up from the couch, his entire body going still.

“Your what?” Lando spits, stepping out into the hallway before his voice can wake you. “You don’t get to call her that anymore.”

Ethan sneers. “Oh, so what, you’re her bodyguards now? Because you care so much?”

Lando’s voice drops low. “You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

Inside, you stir slightly at the sound. Max is instantly by your side, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair from your face.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just stay here, yeah?”

You blink awake slowly, still hazy. “Max? What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says gently, thumb tracing soothing circles along your temple. “We just ordered breakfast. Lando’s talking to someone outside.”

You sit up slowly, confusion knitting your brow. “Someone?”

Before he can answer, Lando walks back in — tense, jaw tight. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, exhaling sharply.

“Who was that?” you ask softly.

Lando’s voice is quieter now, almost breaking. “Ethan.”

Your stomach drops. “What did he want?”

Max exchanges a look with Lando — that same silent conversation they’ve been having since you were all ten years old.

Lando moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours. “YN, there’s something we need to tell you.”

He hesitates. His voice cracks. “We saw the news this morning.”

“What news?”

Max hands you your phone. You unlock it, scroll once, twice — and freeze. The photos blur, your chest tightening as the captions sink in.

He’s with another girl. Smiling. Kissing her. The whole world knows.

“Oh,” you whisper. Your throat burns. “Oh my god.”

“YN—” Lando starts, but you can’t even look at them. The tears come hard, fast, unstoppable.

Everyone knew before you. Everyone saw before you.

“I look so stupid,” you choke out. “He was with her while I was— while I was—”

Max cuts in softly. “Don’t. Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You shake your head, hands trembling. Lando’s already pulling you into his arms, your cheek pressed against his chest. Max wraps his arm around your back, resting his chin on top of your head. They stay like that until your sobs turn into quiet hiccups, until your breathing evens out.

When room service finally knocks, Max handles it silently, tipping the attendant and setting the tray down by the couch. The scent of coffee and butter fills the air.

“C’mere,” Lando murmurs. He pulls you gently into his lap, one arm around your waist, the other brushing a stray tear from your cheek.

“You have to eat something,” Max says softly, holding out a croissant. You shake your head weakly, and he just smiles a little. “C’mon. You’ll feel better.”

You take a tiny bite, mostly to make him stop worrying, and he grins faintly. “See? Not so bad.”

You end up nestled between them on the couch, Max feeding you small bites between sips of coffee, Lando’s hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. It feels fragile — like glass balancing on the edge of breaking — but for a moment, it’s enough.

And for just a second, you remember another morning, years ago — The three of you at age ten, sitting on a swing set in Lando’s backyard. You’d scraped your knee falling off your bike. Max had handed you a melting popsicle. Lando had promised, mouth full of sugar, “We’ll always take care of you. No matter what.”

You’d laughed back then, called him dramatic. Now, sitting here with your head against his shoulder and Max’s hand brushing the back of yours — you realize he meant it. And they never stopped.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

several weeks later...

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

It had been weeks since Silverstone — weeks since the noise, the chaos, and the headlines that painted your heartbreak across every feed. Weeks since the hotel hallway, the broken glass, and the flowers that once smelled like comfort but now only reminded you of how easily love can bruise. Now it was race weekend again, and you were finally breathing.

Lando and Max had taken it upon themselves to guard your peace like it was something sacred. They’d practically built a little world around you — movie nights, post-run coffees, late-night drives with music turned up too loud. They were your constants. Your reminders that life could still be good.

And maybe, in some quiet corner of your chest, they were also your undoing.

The morning sun spilled through the glass of the building, soft and golden, filtering through the faint hum of paddock noise. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch in Lando’s driver’s room, wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours (and he didn’t bother to take back), eating half of his breakfast burrito while scrolling through notes for press.

He was sprawled on the opposite end, hair still damp from his shower, scrolling on his phone until he wasn’t — because you’d said something under your breath and he looked up, smiling without even realizing it.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said, not looking up.

“What thing?”

“That thing where you stare like you’re memorizing my face.”

He grinned, slow. “Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart tripped over itself anyway.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. There was only the soft hum of air conditioning and the faint clatter of media crews setting up outside. He leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, chin resting on his hand as he watched you scroll, watched the small lines of concentration gather between your brows.

He’d missed this version of you — the easy laughter, the way your energy filled the room instead of shrinking into corners. The you that had been buried under the weight of someone else’s expectations.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You hummed.

“You’re really okay, yeah?”

You looked up, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. His gaze was steady — warm, protective, unflinching. The kind of look that held things unsaid.

You smiled, small. “I’m getting there.”

He nodded once, like that answer meant more than you realized. And then there was silence again. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was charged. A quiet hum in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge because you both knew what it was.

Your knee brushed his. Just lightly. A flicker. And suddenly, you both stilled — eyes meeting, breath catching. It lasted seconds, but it felt like falling.

Then, like clockwork, someone called from the hall — media time. You blinked first, exhaling shakily and forcing a laugh. “Guess it’s time to go pretend everything’s fine.”

Lando swallowed hard, looking away as he stood. “You don’t have to pretend.”

You grabbed your cap, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Then you better not, either.”

Later that afternoon, after press duties and endless cameras, you found yourself back in the McLaren hospitality lounge with Max — who was currently scolding you for not eating enough.

“Max,” you sighed, pushing the plate back toward him. “You sound like my mum.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll listen,” he teased, but his tone softened when you shot him a look. “Hey, I’m serious, YN. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. Just… take care of yourself, yeah?”

“I am taking care of myself,” you said, quieter now.

He looked at you for a long moment, then smiled — that small, boyish grin that had been a part of your life since you were fifteen. He reached across the table, fingers brushing yours when he pushed the plate back toward you.

It was the smallest touch, barely there, but it froze you in place. You looked up, met his eyes, and it was there again. That spark. That unbearable ache of what-ifs and maybes that you’d been pretending not to see.

You’d both felt it before — fleeting, messy moments through the years that always ended the same way. Laughter to hide the tension, silence to bury it.

You pulled your hand back gently, clearing your throat. “You know this isn’t fair,” you whispered.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know.”

The moment passed. It always did. And still, it left you with that hollow ache — not of longing, but of knowing that some people were meant to hold you up, not hold you close.

That night, you sat on the hotel balcony alone, phone buzzing with messages from both Max and Lando asking if you were okay, if you needed company.

You typed I’m fine, then deleted it. Typed come over, then deleted that too.

Instead, you set the phone face down and looked out at the glowing paddock below — the hum of a world that kept spinning, no matter who got hurt in the process.

And somewhere deep down, you felt the first quiet flicker of peace. Because you weren’t healing for anyone else this time. You were healing for you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

Belgium dawned soft and pale — the kind of early morning that carries the faint chill of mist and the promise of something new. The hotel room was quiet. No frantic laughter echoing through the adjoining walls. No boys knocking on your door with breakfast they insisted you eat. Just… silence.

You moved through it with a strange sort of calm. There was no rush, no noise, no voice tugging you into motion. For the first time in months, you weren’t adjusting your heartbeat to match anyone else’s pace.

You slipped on a flowy white sundress, simple and soft against your skin. The kind of thing you hadn’t worn since before Ethan — something easy, something you. You let your hair dry naturally, no fuss, no overthinking, just that quiet kind of peace that sits beneath your ribs when you stop trying to perform for the world.

The paddock car arrived downstairs, and you went alone. No Lando teasing you for making them late. No Max blasting music in the car. It was just you and the hum of the tires on the asphalt, winding your way to Spa.

When you stepped out at the circuit, the crowd erupted — flags, posters, a sea of red and yellow and your number scrawled across every other sign. It almost knocked the air out of you, the sound of your name echoing like a chant.

You smiled — for real this time. Not the polite, picture-perfect kind. The genuine one that reached your eyes and made the security guard beside you grin, too. You stopped for everyone who called your name, took every photo, signed every cap.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like anyone’s possession. You were just you.

Somewhere down the paddock walkway, Lando and Max arrived together — mid-conversation, laughing, before they froze mid-step.

Lando nudged Max, whispering, “Wait. Is that—?”

Max nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s her.”

It was jarring — seeing you there, without them, radiant and whole. Your hair glinting in the sunlight, that dress catching the breeze. You looked… untouchable. Like the girl they’d grown up with but hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

“She didn’t tell us she was coming this early,” Max said, frowning slightly.

“Yeah,” Lando murmured, eyes still on you. “Or that she’d actually—” He trailed off, swallowing the word smile.

By the time you made it down to the garages, your drivers’ energy was electric. Ferrari had nailed qualifying the day before, and you were set to start on pole.

You stopped by McLaren before the driver’s parade — your ritual, one that had never been missed. Lando was standing by the rear wing of his car, Max perched on the pit wall beside him, both of them looking up when you appeared.

“Morning,” you said softly, tucking your pass into your lanyard.

Lando’s face softened immediately. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling faintly. “Just wanted to say good luck before the chaos.”

“You always do,” Max said, hopping down to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “But you’re quiet today. Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe you didn’t.

Lando tilted his head, studying you for a beat longer before letting it go. “Okay. Just don’t go disappearing again.”

You rolled your eyes, the smallest hint of your old sass slipping through. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Still, they exchanged a look behind your back — one that said we’ll keep an eye on her. When the lights went out, everything else ceased to exist. Spa has always been unpredictable — a monster of a track that demands everything. But today, it bowed to you.

From the first corner, you were gone. Your Ferrari looked untouchable. Smooth, ruthless, perfectly dialed in. The radio crackled with praise from the pit wall as you widened the gap — five seconds, then twelve, then twenty.

Lando was P2, doing everything to close in but grinning inside his helmet because, truthfully, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to watch you fly.

Even Max, standing on the pit wall with his headset, muttered under his breath, “Holy shit, she’s flying.”

Every lap was a statement. Every corner, a reclamation. Every heartbeat, proof that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to be great.

When the checkered flag waved, you crossed the line thirty-two seconds ahead of Lando. The roar from the crowd shook the fences.

“P1, YN. That’s a domination,” your engineer shouted. “You’ve done it again!”

You laughed breathlessly over the radio. “I missed this.”

Post race was chaos — laughter, adrenaline, sweat still clinging to you. Lando dropped his water bottle when he saw you, launching himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in circles until you squealed.

“Put me down!” you laughed, shoving him lightly.

“Not a chance, champ!”

Max burst through the door seconds later, jumping on both of you in a ridiculous group hug that knocked the wind out of you. “You’re insane!” he yelled, though his voice cracked like he was proud enough to cry. “Thirty-two seconds?! Are you trying to humiliate him?”

“Always,” you teased, glancing at Lando, who just laughed harder.

Cisca and Adam were there too, pulling you into an embrace that made your chest tighten. You weren’t their kid, but you might as well have been. For a few precious minutes, everything was exactly how it should be — simple, happy, home.

Later, when the crowds thinned and the cameras dimmed, you were packing up your things when the boys appeared at the doorway, identical mischievous grins on their faces.

“What are you two up to?” you asked suspiciously.

Lando crossed his arms. “So. We have a surprise.”

“Oh god.”

Max laughed. “Don’t make that face. You’ll like this one.”

Lando stepped forward, pulling a folded paper from his pocket and waving it like a ticket. “We were thinking… since summer break’s coming up and you’ve been, you know, actually alive again—”

“—barely,” Max added with a grin.

“—we thought we’d get away,” Lando finished. “Just us three. Somewhere warm, no cameras, no schedules. Just… us.”

You blinked, eyes darting between them. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Max said. “We already booked it.”

You stared for a second, then laughed — the kind of laugh that made your stomach hurt and your chest feel lighter. “You idiots,” you said, voice cracking a little.

“Your idiots,” Lando corrected gently.

And you didn’t even try to deny it.

You stepped forward, pulling them both into a hug — tight, messy, all tangled arms and heartbeats. For once, it didn’t hurt to feel this much. Maybe this was what healing looked like — not silence, not pretending. Just this. Just them.

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

The air smelled like salt and sunlight when you arrived. The coastline stretched out beneath the villa like something painted — sun-bleached cliffs, lemon trees, sea glittering beyond the stone wall. It was beautiful in the sort of way that almost hurt to look at.

The three of you had travelled light: one suitcase each, a bag of cameras and Polaroid film, and Lando’s insistence on bringing his ridiculous inflatable flamingo.

Max carried your luggage inside while Lando ran ahead to open all the balcony doors, letting the ocean breeze spill through the house. You stood in the entryway for a moment, bare feet on cool tile, sunglasses perched on your head, just breathing. It was quiet, and for the first time in months, the quiet didn’t scare you.

“YN,” Lando called from the terrace. “You need to see this view!”

You followed the sound of his voice out into the sunlight, and there it was — the sea, endless and gold. Lando was leaning on the railing, hair blowing messily, and when he turned and saw you, his grin went soft. Max stepped up behind you, sliding his sunglasses onto his head. “Told you it’d be worth the trip.”

You smiled. “You two might actually have good taste.”

By the afternoon, the villa felt lived in: towels draped over chairs, sunscreen and water bottles scattered everywhere, the smell of espresso clinging to the kitchen. You’d changed into a bikini top and linen shorts, sprawled across a lounger while Lando tried to teach Max how to properly blow up the flamingo without passing out.

“Why do we need this thing again?” Max groaned.

“Because it’s tradition,” Lando said, muffled around the air pump.

“It’s stupid.”

You looked over your sunglasses. “It’s hilarious,” you said, barely hiding a smile. “I’m documenting this for future blackmail.”

“Traitor,” Max muttered, but his grin betrayed him.

When the flamingo finally took shape, Lando threw himself onto it triumphantly and drifted across the pool. You dipped your feet in the water, watching him float, watching the sunlight dance across his face. He caught your eye and splashed water at you until you shrieked and jumped in after him, laughter echoing off the walls.

Max watched from the edge — laughing too, but quieter, fond. He’d seen this version of you before, years ago, before everything complicated the simplicity of being young and fearless. Seeing you happy again twisted something in his chest.

Dinner that night was a mess of pasta and wine and sunset. You sat at the long outdoor table, hair still damp from the shower, legs pulled up in your chair. Max had taken over cooking, Lando was claiming credit for the playlist, and the evening melted into the easy rhythm of old jokes and too much laughter.

“Remember when YN decided she could skateboard down that giant hill?” Lando said, smirking.

“I made it halfway,” you protested.

“You made it halfway before you crashed into my mum’s car,” Max said.

You gasped. “You said you’d never bring that up!”

They both burst out laughing, and for a moment the years fell away — it was the three of you at ten years old again, barefoot, sunburnt, invincible.

After dinner, you ended up on the couch with Lando beside you and Max stretched on the floor, talking about everything and nothing. The villa hummed with quiet music and the cicadas outside.

Lando reached up, absently brushing a curl from your face when you leaned over to grab a blanket. His hand lingered a second too long. You both felt it — that small spark that had been buried under years of friendship. You met his eyes, something unspoken flickering between you, until Max’s voice broke the moment.

“Hey,” he said softly, looking up from the floor. “Don’t fall asleep on us yet.”

You blinked, sitting back quickly, cheeks warm. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Lando gave a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The air felt thicker now, full of things no one wanted to say.

Later, when you were finally asleep, Lando stood by the open balcony door, watching moonlight ripple on the water. Max joined him quietly, holding two glasses of water.

“She’s glowing again,” Lando said after a while, voice low.

Max nodded. “Yeah. She’s… herself.”

They stood there in silence, the waves breaking softly below. Neither of them said what they were thinking — how it terrified them to feel this way again, how every smile from you pulled them closer to something they shouldn’t want.

Lando exhaled. “You think she ever—”

“Feels the same?” Max finished for him. They both looked back toward the couch where you slept, curled up beneath a blanket, peaceful.

“Yeah,” Lando whispered.

Max gave a small, sad smile. “Maybe she does. But that doesn’t mean we should.”

Lando nodded, but his gaze lingered anyway. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The next morning, you woke early and padded out to the terrace. The sun had just climbed above the sea, painting everything in gold. You rolled out your yoga mat — one you’d brought from home — and stretched, eyes closed, breathing in the ocean air.

Inside, Max and Lando stirred awake almost simultaneously, both drawn by the quiet sound of your laughter from your friend on the other line of the phone.

Lando leaned against the doorway, watching you move. Max joined him, mug of coffee in hand.

“She’s back,” Lando murmured.

“Yeah,” Max said softly. “She is.”

And maybe that was the hardest part — seeing you healed, happy, radiant again. Because loving you had never stopped being easy. Letting you go was going to be the impossible part.

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The next morning unfolds slow and golden, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains of the coastal villa. You wake first — barefoot, hair tied up loosely, wearing one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts you’d stolen from his suitcase. The salty air drifts through the open doors, carrying the gentle crash of waves and the faint call of gulls. For the first time in a long time, you feel… light. Free.

You step out onto the terrace. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, glinting under the sun, and for a moment it feels like everything — the heartbreak, the noise, the weight — has finally quieted.

Lando appears a few minutes later, curls messy, half-asleep but smiling softly at the sight of you. “Morning,” he says, voice still gravelly. Then Max joins you, already more awake than either of you, holding three coffees like a hero.

“Alright,” Max says, handing you one. “Beach day. No arguments.”

You grin, tipping your head playfully. “You say that like I wasn’t already planning to destroy you both in beach volleyball.”

“Confident,” Lando hums, stepping closer, his eyes flickering briefly down to your lips before darting away. “You forget I’m the one who taught you to serve.”

“And I’m the one who won last time,” Max fires back, smirking.

You roll your eyes, laughing, the sound light and bright.

By midday, the three of you are down on the beach, sun warm against your skin, volleyball net set up unevenly in the sand. You’re wearing a bright bikini under a linen shirt, the hem fluttering around your thighs, and Lando keeps pretending he’s not staring. Max pretends not to notice him pretending. You and Lando team up against Max, which he immediately declares unfair.

“You’re basically the same brain,” Max protests.

“That’s just your excuse for losing,” you tease.

It’s chaos. It’s perfect. The three of you dive, yell, and laugh until you’re breathless. Max’s “competitive streak” turns into him tickling you for cheating, which turns into Lando accidentally tripping over the both of you. Sand everywhere. Screaming laughter echoing over the waves.

Eventually, you collapse in the sand, chest heaving, hair sticking to your forehead. Max drops beside you, head falling lazily against your shoulder. Lando flops down on your other side, brushing your arm — it’s nothing and everything all at once.

“God,” you sigh, staring at the endless sky, “I missed this.”

The words hang in the air, delicate and unguarded. Both boys fall silent. They know exactly what you mean — not the beach, not the game. The real you. The version of you that laughs like this. The one who doesn’t flinch when someone reaches for her hand. The one they both love more than they should.

Max nudges your ankle softly. “It’s good to have you back, sunshine.”

You turn to look at him, and your smile — warm and unfiltered — knocks the air right out of his chest. Lando notices it too, glancing away quickly, pretending to watch the waves.

That night, you all get ready to go out. The villa hums with easy noise — Lando’s music playing from a speaker, Max calling dibs on the shower, you teasing them both for taking too long. You wear a sleek, short dress that glitters faintly under the light, and when you step out, both of them just… stare.

“You look—”

“—insane,” Max finishes for Lando.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re both dramatic.”

But their eyes linger a little too long.

At the club, everything feels hazy and warm. The music pulses, the drinks flow, and for the first time in ages, you let yourself be in the moment — laughing, dancing, glowing again. The three of you find yourselves on the dance floor together, bodies close, lights flickering over your faces.

Lando’s hand is on your waist. Max’s fingers brush yours when you reach for him. You turn your head — and suddenly you’re inches from Max. He looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for months.

You almost kiss him. You want to. The air is thick, and everything inside you is begging to give in—but you freeze.

Reality slams back. Ethan. The heartbreak. The cameras. The fallout. You pull away abruptly, shaking your head, your throat tightening. Before either of them can say a word, you turn and bolt.

“YN!”

They call after you, panic rising in their voices, but you don’t stop until you reach the beach — the one in front of your villa, now dark and quiet. The ocean looks endless, reflecting the club lights in distant glimmers.

You’re sitting in the sand when they finally find you. Max stops a few feet away, breathless. Lando kneels beside you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears streaking your cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I’ve just— I’ve always felt something for both of you and I don’t know what to do with it and—”

Before you can finish, Lando leans forward and kisses you.

It’s soft. Desperate. Real.

You freeze for half a second before melting into it, your hand clutching his shirt. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “Stop apologizing,” he murmurs.

Max drops to the sand on your other side, voice low but steady. “You think we haven’t felt it too?”

You look between them, eyes glassy, chest trembling. “But it’s wrong. It’s confusing, it’s—”

“—it’s us,” Lando interrupts. “And maybe that’s enough.”

The three of you sit there under the moonlight, waves crashing quietly against the shore. The air feels charged, fragile, alive. You rest your head on Lando’s shoulder, Max’s hand finding yours in the sand. None of you know what comes next. But none of that matters in the moment.

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flashback

You were maybe eight, the boys a year older, sitting in the Norris’ backyard in that rickety little treehouse Lando’s dad built for him and Oliver.

You remember the way Max sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a little toy car while Lando peeked through the window slats at the sky turning gold.

“YN?” Max said suddenly, in that tiny, nervous voice only kids have when they’re about to say something big.

You looked up from your coloring book, crayon in your mouth. “Yeah?”

He looked at Lando, who immediately looked away and blushed bright pink.

“We, um,” Max stammered. “We both like you.”

You blinked. “Like… like-like?”

Lando nodded quickly, hair sticking to his forehead. “Yeah. We both said we were gonna tell you today. So now we did.”

You stared at them — two little boys sitting there, awkward and red-faced and earnest — and then you grinned so wide it made your cheeks hurt. You dropped your crayon, reached out your hands, and grabbed theirs.

“Well that’s perfect,” you said, matter-of-factly. “Because we’re all going to get married one day.”

Both boys froze.

Lando’s eyes went huge. “All of us?”

“Mhm,” you hummed proudly. “You two are my best friends. And I’m not picking. So we’ll just all get married. Easy.”

Max looked at Lando, who looked at you, and then they both burst into giggles — the kind that made your stomach hurt.

Lando finally said through his laughter, “Okay then. It’s a deal.”

“Deal,” you echoed, pinky-swearing with both of them at once.

And that night, under the soft hum of summer crickets, the three of you fell asleep shoulder-to-shoulder in that little treehouse — the world still small, the future still kind.

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The sun slips in gently through the sheer white curtains — soft, golden, unhurried. You wake slowly, tangled in the warmth of two bodies beside you, the air in the villa still carrying the faint smell of salt and night.

Your cheek is pressed to Lando’s chest, his arm heavy and protective around your waist. Behind you, Max breathes evenly, his arm draped lazily across both of you, fingers brushing Lando’s shoulder in his sleep. The three of you fit like puzzle pieces that have spent years trying to find their way back together.

You don’t move for a while — just listen to the sound of the waves outside, the soft rhythm of Lando’s heartbeat under your ear. Every so often, he stirs, murmuring something sleepy and unintelligible, his hand tightening at your hip.

Then Max shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck. “You awake?”

“I wouldn't say fully,” you whisper, smiling to yourself.

He hums, thumb drawing lazy circles against your arm. “Good. Stay like this, then.”

Lando chuckles quietly, voice muffled. “Of course you’d say that. You’re practically drooling on her.”

Max groans, throwing a halfhearted slap over your shoulder that hits Lando’s chest instead. “Jealous, mate?”

Lando only grins, looking down at you. “Maybe.”

You laugh softly, the sound so natural between the three of you again. You shift slightly, propping yourself up so you can see both of them. Their hair’s a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, and they both look so content — so free.

And suddenly it hits you all over again. Last night. The beach. The confession. The kiss. The words you’d buried for years finally said aloud.

You swallow, glancing between them. “So… that wasn’t a dream, right?”

Max opens one eye, smiling. “No dream, sunshine.”

Lando stretches out beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Unless we all had the same one.”

You look between them, heart racing. “I meant what I said. On the beach. I’ve loved you both for as long as I can remember.”

There’s a pause — that soft, sacred kind of silence where the world holds its breath.

Lando sits up, reaching for your hand, fingers intertwining with yours. “You don’t have to pick,” he says quietly. “Not with us. We’ve never wanted you to choose.”

Max nods, sitting up on your other side. “We’ve loved you together before. We can love you together again.”

Your throat tightens. You look between them — the two constants in every version of your life. Every memory. Every victory. Every heartbreak.

“I really did mean it,” you say softly, smiling through the lump in your throat. “When we were kids. That I’d marry you both one day.”

Max laughs, that low, familiar sound that always makes your chest ache. “I remember. You were so bossy about it.”

“You both agreed!” you protest, smacking his arm lightly.

Lando grins. “Because you told us we’d all get matching rings and a big cake. How were we supposed to say no?”

You laugh so hard you nearly fall back into the pillows, and they both follow you down, laughter mixing with yours until it turns to something quieter — tender.

Lando leans in first, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Max follows, his lips brushing your shoulder. You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of them both settles around you.

It’s easy, the way you all move together — soft touches, quiet smiles, fingers lacing and unlacing as though testing this new rhythm.

Lando’s hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing along your jaw. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, voice low but sure. “Whatever this is — however it looks.”

Max nods, resting his chin on your shoulder. “We’ve already spent years together. Might as well make it forever, yeah?”

You giggle, leaning back against him, reaching for Lando’s hand. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Lando corrects, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

You turn your head slightly — just enough that the kiss deepens for a moment before you pull back, cheeks flushed, heart light.

Max grins at the two of you and then leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “She really did mean it,” he murmurs to Lando. “About the three of us.”

Lando hums in quiet agreement. “Guess we better start saving for that cake.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, but they both kiss your cheeks at the same time, and for a fleeting second — tangled in sunlight and laughter and the familiar smell of sea salt — you feel that same certainty you did at eight years old in that little treehouse.

The three of you against the world.

Still. Always.

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lando

liked by yourusername, maxfewtrell, charles_leclerc, ciscawaumannorris and 7,809,000 others.

lando : silly me. my soulmates were always there all along. love you both forever

tagged : yourusername and maxfewtrell

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The house feels alive in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s all laughter and sunshine and the faint smell of something baking in the kitchen. Lando’s family home has always felt like a second home to you, Cisca’s soft warmth, Adam’s quiet humor, the sound of the garden fountain trickling somewhere beyond the open windows. But this time, it feels different. This time, it feels complete.

You’ve been here for a few days now, hiding away from the world in your tiny trio-shaped bubble. After months of figuring yourselves out—of whispered “I love yous,” of balancing three careers, of learning how to fit together again—you finally found your rhythm. It’s not perfect. It’s not traditional. But it’s yours.

And you’ve never been happier.

You’re sitting at the dining room table with Cisca, sipping tea and helping her sort through some old photos. She’s been showing you pictures of the three of you—tiny, sunburned faces, scraped knees, toothy grins. There’s one of you sitting between Lando and Max in that same little treehouse out back, both of them kissing your cheeks while you giggle into the camera.

“Oh, I remember this day,” Cisca says, her voice soft and nostalgic. “You three were inseparable. Lando cried when you had to go home.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “He still does.”

Cisca chuckles knowingly. “He always loved you, you know. Both of them did. It was impossible not to.”

You blush a little, but she reaches out and squeezes your hand gently. “I’m glad you’ve all found your way back to each other.”

Before you can answer, Adam’s voice carries from the garden. “Cisca! Come see the roses!”

She smiles and excuses herself, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You stand, stretching a little, and pad barefoot toward the sound of quiet voices coming from around the corner.

And then you stop.

In the kitchen, sunlight pours through the big window, catching the dust motes in the air. Lando stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, laughing quietly as Max tries—and fails—to crack eggs without breaking the yolks. There’s flour on the counter, flour in Lando’s hair, flour on Max’s cheek.

“Mate,” Lando snorts, brushing at Max’s face with a dish towel. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly charming,” Max counters, grinning. “Admit it—you love me.”

Lando rolls his eyes but leans forward anyway, kissing him lightly, sweetly, without hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”

You can’t help the soft smile that spreads across your face as you lean against the doorframe, just watching. The way they move together, laugh together—it’s everything. They haven’t noticed you yet, and you let yourself soak in the moment a little longer.

Your heart feels full to the brim.

Finally, you step forward, clearing your throat dramatically. “If you two are done making out, I’d love some pancakes.”

They both spin around, startled and red-faced, and you burst into laughter.

“YN!” Lando groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been standing there?”

“Long enough to know Max still can’t cook,” you tease, walking over and swiping a bit of batter from the bowl to taste.

Max narrows his eyes. “Careful, sunshine. I might withhold your pancakes.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He grins, shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you.”

“I know,” you say softly, and when they both look at you, you feel that familiar little spark—the same one you felt on the beach, the same one you’ve carried since you were kids.

Later that evening, after dinner and too many stories from Adam about Lando's younger days, the three of you wander out into the garden. The air smells like lavender and sea salt, the horizon brushed in gold as the sun dips low. And there it is—the treehouse.

It’s smaller than you remember, the wood worn and sun-faded, but it’s still there. Still sturdy. Still yours.

You look between the boys and grin. “Think it’ll hold us?”

“Only one way to find out,” Lando says, already climbing the ladder.

You follow, Max close behind, the three of you laughing like children as you squeeze inside. It’s cramped, limbs tangled and knees bumping, but none of you care.

“Wow,” Max says softly, looking around. “It’s exactly the same.”

There’s a moment of silence—the good kind, the kind filled with memory. The treehouse creaks faintly beneath you, the air warm and still.

Lando reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. Max does the same on your other side. You rest your head against Lando’s shoulder, Max’s chin coming to rest atop your hair.

“Do you remember what we said here?” you whisper.

They both hum softly.

“That we were all going to get married someday,” Lando says, voice barely above a murmur.

You smile, tears pricking at your eyes. “I meant it.”

“We know,” Max says gently, squeezing your hand. “And so did we.”

You look up at them—two faces that have been the backdrop of your whole life, two hearts that have always held pieces of yours.

Lando leans down and kisses your forehead, slow and soft. Max follows, pressing one to your cheek.

The three of you sit there for hours, talking about everything and nothing—the races ahead, the ridiculous things you did as kids, the way the world feels less scary when you’re together. The stars come out one by one, and the night hums quietly around you.

At some point, Lando wraps his arm around your shoulders, Max shifts closer, and you close your eyes.

“Feels like home,” you murmur sleepily.

“It is home,” Lando whispers.

And somewhere between laughter and whispered promises, the three of you drift off—tangled up, hearts steady, the world below you quiet and small.

Just like it was back then. Just like it will always be. Three hands still intertwined under the same soft sky. Still together. Still home. Always.

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