seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Japan
seen from Sweden
seen from China
seen from China
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Indonesia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ: ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ✒️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ & ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ & ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ
ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘꜱᴇ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ
Thick Air of Arrival
The private jet descended through cotton-candy clouds into the airport near the Grand Prix venue, wheels kissing the runway with quiet urgency. Lando’s fingers danced on the armrest in rhythm with his heartbeat; (Y/n) sat beside him, rife with calm anticipation. Behind them, Zak and a few McLaren staff watched in pleased silence, the cabin humming with subtle triumph, not just of a return, but of a fragile healing.
As they collected their belongings, McLaren’s logistics team whisked (Y/n) to the suite before Lando even stepped onto European soil. The suite sat high above the paddock, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pit lane and grandstands, sleek and suffused with light. A welcome note lay on the marble table:
“For (Y/n): A place to remember. Love, M.”
Hearts flipped by the gesture, she found herself wanting to cry again, but these were tears polished with hope, not pain.
Friday: FP1—A Quiet Beginning
That afternoon, the air along the paddock shimmered with the low hum of tension, taut with expectation. Mechanics moved with precise urgency, radios crackled with clipped commands, and somewhere in the distance, an engine revved, a thunderous prelude to what was coming. The atmosphere was charged, electric.
Lando walked hand in hand with (Y/n), their fingers intertwined in quiet defiance of the chaos around them. She was nestled between Zak and Oscar at the edge of the McLaren hospitality stand, surrounded by a sea of orange and steel, but his world had narrowed to just her.
His grip tightened slightly, not possessive, but anchoring. Reassuring.
As if the moment itself might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
When it was time, he broke away with a final squeeze, striding toward the car as engineers opened the garage like gates to a battlefield. He slid into the cockpit, the carbon shell familiar yet always a little colder on high-pressure weekends. As the HANS device clicked around his neck and the mechanics tightened his belts, he found her again.
Just for a second—
Eyes locked across the distance.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply mouthed three words, almost like a vow:
“I need you.”
And she, steady as ever, nodded back. Her smile was soft, but unshakable, anchored in a kind of trust that made the earth feel less prone to collapse.
The lights went green.
The car jolted forward, engines roaring into life around him, a mechanical symphony of velocity and control. He shifted through the gears with instinctive ease, each downshift smooth, every apex kissed with precision. To the telemetry team, his laps would later read as “measured,” even “restrained.”
But he knew better.
This wasn’t restraint born of caution.
This was restraint born of devotion—
To her.
To them.
To something greater than a scoreboard.
Every lap was a vow. Every braking zone a conversation.
His heart didn’t race for the podium. It raced for what waited behind the garage doors.
When the session ended and he returned to the pit lane, his breath was steady but his hands trembled just slightly with adrenaline. Helmet off, curls damp against his forehead, he searched the garage, and there she was.
Waiting.
Her smile met him like sunrise after storm.
“You did great,” she said softly, as if anything louder might shatter the sacred stillness between them. Then, gently, “Just keep going.”
And for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could.
Not for points. Not for legacy.
But for her.
For the quiet kind of love that steadied his pulse even at 300 kilometers an hour.
Friday: FP2—Slip and Regain
The second session carried sharper teeth. The sun hung higher now, casting harsh shadows across the tarmac, and the asphalt simmered beneath the weight of hotter tyres, heavier fuel loads, and tighter margins. Engineers buzzed over radios, tension stacking with every lap.
Lando knew the tempo had changed the moment he crossed the pit exit line. There was less grace here, more grit. This session demanded more of him. And he offered it willingly.
But midway through the run, just as he carved into turn seven, a long, tightening left-hander, he felt it: a lurch in the chassis, subtle but sharp. Understeer. Unexpected. He adjusted quickly, instinct flaring. The steering wheel jerked beneath his hands, and the tyres screamed in protest, rubber cooking against the heat-glazed track.
He missed the apex by inches. A whisper of rubber flirted with the barrier, close enough to feel it, not enough to leave a scar.
For a split second, everything narrowed: engine tone, pulse, breath. His heart slammed against his ribs.
But he made it.
Held the line.
Finished the lap.
He coasted back into the pit lane, visor cracked open, the roar of the engine tapering into a low growl as he slowed in front of the garage. When the crew waved him to a stop and lifted the nose cone, his gloved hands hovered on the wheel for a beat longer than usual.
Only when the belts were undone did he exhale, deep, controlled, like he was emptying out the fear before it could settle.
Helmet off, balaclava pulled down to his chin, he stepped out of the car and immediately scanned the edge of the paddock.
She was there.
(Y/n) stood just behind the barrier, arms crossed, her expression unreadable at first, but her eyes gave her away. Worry clung to them like fog, even as she tried to stay calm for him.
Without a word, he crossed to her. The crowd buzzed, a few heads turned, but none of it reached him.
He reached over the barrier, fingers brushing her skin, and pressed one finger gently to her temple.
A silent promise.
“I’ve got you.”
She closed her eyes at the touch, something in her chest loosening. Then she opened them again, brighter this time, and exhaled.
A small smile lifted the corner of her mouth. Not relief.
Trust.
And that was enough.
Saturday: FP3—Turning the Corner
Practice three arrived with the soft hush of dawn. The circuit shimmered beneath the golden wash of morning light, the grandstands slowly waking with scattered movement and yawning murmurs. It was the kind of sunrise that felt almost forgiving, like the world might just be kind today.
Lando rolled out onto the track with purpose. There was no bravado in his driving, just clarity. Each gearshift felt smoother, more deliberate. Each turn-in came with instinct instead of doubt. The car responded to him like a living thing, agile, eager, aligned.
No mistakes.
Just rhythm.
The kind that came from focus, yes, but also from faith.
And with every clean lap, every perfectly clipped apex, he felt it: the shift. A quiet turning. Something inside him settling, as if the weight he’d been carrying all season had finally started to lift.
When he returned to the paddock, the sun had fully broken through the cloud line, casting long shadows across the hospitality tents. (Y/n) was there, waiting near the barriers, a coffee in one hand, her other tucked beneath the sleeve of her jacket.
Her eyes found his, and in them, a gleam of quiet pride.
Not loud. Not performative.
Just unmistakably hers.
He walked straight to her and didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped into hers, calloused palm to palm, a grounding touch he hadn’t realized he needed until it was there.
He didn’t speak at first. Neither did she.
And then, in a voice low and resolute, Lando murmured, “Let’s do this.”
She nodded once, firmly.
No pep talk. No fuss. No fragile optimism.
Just shared certainty, weathered, wordless, whole.
The kind of moment forged not from fairy tales, but from pain endured, reconciliations earned, and love rebuilt in the quiet aftermath.
Her presence steadied him more than any telemetry data or last-minute setup tweak. She was his map, his margin for error, the only variable he could trust completely.
And as he stepped away toward qualifying preparations, the grip of her hand still lingered in his own.
Saturday Evening: Qualifying—Champions Made of Steel
By the time evening blanketed the circuit, the paddock thrummed with anticipation. The heat of the day had broken, leaving behind a velvet tension, cool air crackling with possibility, engines humming like caged thunder.
Lando strapped in for qualifying. Q1. Then Q2. Then Q3.
Each session carved out a version of him that was unrelenting, composed, almost surgical in precision. His lines were fearless, entry points kissed by instinct, apexes sliced like threads in a seamstress’s hand. Throttle feathered where it needed to be, and unleashed when the corners begged for speed.
The telemetry lit up green, sector after sector. The engineers on the pit wall barely breathed. Even the crowd, usually deafening, seemed to hold their collective exhale between turns.
In Q3, as the shadows of the grandstands stretched across the track like ink spills, Lando crossed the line.
A surge of numbers.
A beat of silence.
Then: Pole.
Oscar’s voice crackled over the team radio, controlled, but layered with a joy he couldn’t mask.
“Amazing lap, mate. Pole.”
The pit lane erupted. Mechanics threw arms in the air. Cameras swung to capture his every move.
But Lando didn’t soak in the celebration. Not yet.
Helmet off, curls tousled, sweat lining his brow, he moved like a man only half-present. Not with the moment. But with someone else.
His eyes swept past the paddock chaos, past the media hounds, the flashes of orange and silver.
There.
She stood alone, framed between fans and the crush of flashing bulbs. (Y/n)’s expression was unreadable at first, until he came closer.
Then he saw it.
Pride.
Raw, soul-deep pride.
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, not yet fallen. Her shoulders rose and fell with slow, purposeful breaths, as if she was trying to contain it all. He hadn’t just won a lap, he’d earned back something far greater.
He didn’t pause to soak up the crowd or bask in the limelight.
He walked straight to her.
When he reached her, he lifted his hand to her cheek, gently, reverently, as if even now he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch her. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, catching a tear before it could fall.
“We did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion and reverence.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
Then she leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second like she could still hardly believe it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Together.”
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the world quieted. Not because the cameras stopped flashing or the crowd stopped shouting, but because they stopped needing the world to notice.
They had each other.
And that, finally, was enough.
Girl Squad: Support and Solidarity
Earlier that morning, before the engines stirred, before the cameras began their hunt and the tension of qualifying rippled across the paddock, the suite was filled with something far gentler, laughter, the clink of tea cups, the rustle of fabric and affection.
Lily Z., Kelly, Lily M., Alexandra, Carmen, and Rebecca had all gathered in (Y/n)’s suite just after sunrise. The air was thick with chamomile and the scent of rosewater from the glass cooler humming softly in the corner. Light poured through the sheer curtains like liquid gold, casting warmth over skin and soft edges.
They spoke in murmurs, not because there were secrets, but because the moment asked for softness.
The conversation drifted easily, from the strange summer weather in Monza, to the silly things the children had said over FaceTime, to a half-joking plan about sneaking out after the race for pancakes and wine.
But beneath it all, woven through every glance and shared breath, was something quieter. A pact. A promise. Living love.
Lily handed (Y/n) a leather-bound notebook, the spine already worn with thumbprints and memory. “For the next chapter,” she said simply. No pressure. Just belief.
Kelly reached into her tote bag and pulled out a care package wrapped in brown parchment string: a handful of polaroids from their slow walks in Forks, wildflowers pressed between pages, her favorite chamomile tea blend tucked in a glass vial. “To remind you,” she said, with that rare tenderness only found in people who’ve learned to love after losing.
Alexandra, grinning like mischief in a designer scarf, leaned in with a wink. “The Norris heir needs a soft landing, yeah?”
They all laughed, and in that laughter, something shifted.
(Y/n) brought her hands to her face, hiding her smile behind the tips of her fingers. “I’m okay,” she told them, voice steady, words careful.
But they knew her too well.
They heard the translation beneath it. I’m standing because you hold me. I can be strong because you are here.
They didn’t push. Didn’t try to stitch her back together. They let her cry, just a little, when the silence grew heavy enough to crack her breath.
And when the tears faded, they let her laugh again, tentative at first, then brighter. A laughter that could only be born in the presence of women who had loved deeply, survived worse, and still chose gentleness.
In a world spinning fast and ruthless, they were her stillness.
Not spectators. Not accessories. They were soft. Fierce. Love in motion. And that morning, before the chaos of the track reclaimed her, they wrapped her in it completely.
Saturday Night: Promises by Lamplight
That night the suite glowed with lamps low and amber. (Y/n) typed by laptop, tapping new superiors to her next novel whose working title was simply Healing, inspired by all this: rain, warmth, silence, triumph.
The bathroom door sighed as Lando emerged, droplets beading hairspray-gone-wrong from his damp scalp.
He slipped behind her, chest warm. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other brushed her hair tenderly.
“Why now?” she asked softly, not resentful—curious.
He took a breath. “Because I love you. Because you’re here. And I finally know I can’t live a life without you.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her temple: an apology, a promise.
Tears shimmered where they caught the light.
“I vow,” he said, voice solemn, “I will never hurt you again. I’ll spend every breath proving it.”
They cried until the world dissolved, until the weight of all they hadn’t said was drained through the salt of shared tears. The room held them in quiet reverence, its golden lamplight casting soft shadows on the walls as if even time had paused to let them breathe.
Each sob stripped away another layer of pain. There were no accusations left, no defenses. Only honesty. Only aching.
Grief curled between them like a third presence, heavy but no longer suffocating. Forgiveness moved quietly in its place, not loud, not dramatic, just real. It lived in the way her fingers gripped his shirt, and how he cradled her like she was something he couldn’t lose twice.
Hope stirred, not with fireworks, but with a single breath they took together. A fragile, resurrected thing.
Soon enough, they lay on the suite’s couch, wrapped in the oversized throw blanket someone had carelessly tossed aside hours ago. Her cheek rested against his chest, their hands loosely intertwined between them. Above, the ceiling light dimmed to a soft glow. Outside, the city buzzed with nightlife and noise, but here, in this room, was stillness.
Not peace, not yet. But something like it.
And as the minutes passed, the night seemed to bend around them, quiet, protective, holding them like the pages of a story still being written.
Sunday: Race Day—Victory of the Heart
Race day dawned not with sun, but with intention.
The air was taut, charged with a kind of electricity only the grid knew how to summon. Engines growled awake. Mechanics flew through final checks with practiced precision. The scent of rubber, fuel, and tension blanketed the paddock.
Fans chanted names like hymns. Cameras snapped. The asphalt shimmered beneath the weight of expectation.
Lando crouched beside (Y/n), one gloved hand grazing her knee, the other still clutching his helmet. His visor was up, eyes bloodshot from sleep and something more vulnerable.
His voice came low, reverent. “This is for us.”
Her breath caught. Tears threatened again, not from sorrow, but from the swell of everything they’d survived to stand here now.
She nodded, lips trembling. He didn’t linger. There wasn’t time. Just the promise in her gaze, and the fire in his.
And then he was gone, climbing into the cockpit, shoulders square, jaw set. The car came alive around him, a symphony of engineering and nerve.
The lights blinked red. Red. Red. Out.
Launch.
P1 off the line. Clean through turn one. He flowed like instinct through every apex, each gear shift sewn together with mechanical grace. Cadence like poetry.
In his ears: “Gap 1.2 seconds.” He responded without hesitation. “Copy. I’ve got it.” “Push pace, conserve tires.” “Understood.”
Laps blurred, time distorted. Every corner became a ritual. Not just racing, but remembering: her hand in his, the nights he almost gave up, the morning she said I’ll go with you.
Final lap. Still the leader. His pulse drummed in time with the engine’s rhythm. Not panic, focus. Precision. Presence.
The chequered flag waved.
First.
Triumph didn’t hit all at once, it bloomed in waves. Relief. Exhaustion. A strange, surreal elation.
He slowed the car, pulled into parc fermé, pulled off his helmet, eyes already scanning the crowd. Searching. Finding.
There she was. (Y/n), standing on tiptoes behind the McLaren crew barrier, holding her phone up to record, face streaked with tears and joy so bright it stunned him.
He didn’t think, he ran. Through pit lane. Through noise. Through history.
She barely had time to brace before he scooped her into his arms, her laugh catching against his shoulder. He held her close, so close, like letting go was no longer an option.
And then he kissed her. Hard, honest, desperate. Loud and proud, in front of cameras, crew, the roaring world.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. He was breathless and damp with sweat, but smiling wider than he had in months. “We won,” he said, voice raw.
(Y/n)’s eyes sparkled, her hands still gripping the sides of his fire suit. She nodded, smiling through tears that didn’t try to hide. “Yes,” she whispered. “We did.”
Final Farewell: Love Sealed in Speed and Silence
Back in the suite later that night, the world had quieted.
The medals, cool, gleaming reminders of glory, rested on the glass table, catching fragments of city light filtering through the windows. Roses, half-wilted from celebration, lay scattered across the carpet and coffee table, the petals soft and fragrant like the hours they’d just lived through.
Laughter had echoed here earlier, his teammates had come and gone in a steady stream of elation and relief. Oscar had hugged him too hard. Zak raised a toast with a hand on (Y/n)’s shoulder. Even the engineers had offered soft congratulations, their smiles stitched with something close to pride.
But now, the door was locked. The music silenced. The world narrowed.
It was just them.
He stood in the middle of the room, peeling off his race suit piece by piece, exhaustion tugging at each limb. The water ran in the ensuite, hot, steady, but he paused by the window instead. His gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Just lights. Just breath.
The adrenaline was gone. But the clarity remained.
He needed her.
Not as someone to hold the camera. Not as someone to smile beside him when the champagne sprayed. Not as a trophy for public affection or a placeholder for loneliness.
He needed her because without her, all of it, every lap, every win, every cheering crowd, meant nothing.
She stepped quietly behind him, fingers brushing the base of his spine, anchoring him.
He turned.
His voice, when it came, was low. Stripped of ego. Bare. “Stay.”
No speech. No performance. Just a single, fragile word that held the weight of a thousand unsent apologies.
(Y/n) didn’t hesitate. She stepped into him, letting her forehead rest against his sternum, arms winding around his waist like she’d been there all along.
She lay her head on his chest, his warmth grounding her, their breath syncing in the stillness.
“I’m trying to.” she said.
They didn’t need more.
No promises spoken, no wounds picked at. Only presence. Only forgiveness wrapped in quiet contact. Only the rhythm of his heart, steady under her cheek, telling her what he couldn’t say again without shattering.
And so they remained, in the hush after the storm, in the afterglow of both a race won and a love restored. The greatest victory: not speed. Not silver. Not spectacle. But this, being here. Being seen. Being chosen again.
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.
📝 Note from the Author: Can you believe it’s my 20th day on Tumblr? Twenty days of headcanons, hurt/comfort, romantic tension you could slice with a racing knife, and yes, serving the Alarwynnites like it's a full-time job (with emotional damage benefits). 😌
I owe you guys an apology, I didn’t post yesterday 😭 Before you fire me from my own blog, hear me out:
I touched runway. With friends. In broad daylight. I know, shocking.
I watched the British Grand Prix Free Practices like a woman possessed. Yes, all of them. FP1, FP2—live, screaming, holding back tears every time Lando turned a corner. I was there. Spiritually parked in the McLaren garage.
I enjoyed my time out too, and honestly... I think (Y/n) would’ve wanted that for me 😌✨
Now… To my beloved Alarwynnites: this is where I leave you. 🥺 I know, I know, "Bitin author!! Nasaan yung pag-uusap after the GP?" Trust me, I hear you loud and clear 😭 BUT—
You can imagine what happens next, right? The post-race talk… the real closure… maybe more soft moments and healing behind closed doors… iyakan sa hallway, sabay yakapan sa balcony, ganon vibes.
For now, this is where the curtain falls. I’m ending it here, at 11 chapters. I know it's short, compressed, maybe a bit bitin for some, but this felt like the right place to stop.
Thank you for reading, for crying, laughing, and spiraling with me. Let’s meet again in the next story. 😉
With love, me 🧡
Kawasaki ZX7R. Donington Park 16 May 2021.
Not mine but I have the urge to buy one at the minute. This one was tidy but owner had parked it for the weekend as it was running a bit flat so needs a carb tune up.
Hasselblad 500 C/M, Ilford FP4 (box speed), dev D76, scan epson V600.
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ🌅
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ
ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ/ʜᴀʀꜱʜ ᴅɪꜱᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ
ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ
ᴛᴏxɪᴄ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ
ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ
ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
How did she know the woman?
That question burned through (Y/n)’s mind ever since she first glimpsed Nanny Rosa’s eyes beneath the brim of her headscarf—that brief moment in the paddock when she helped the boy, her boy, and the older woman whisked him away with a look that said everything and nothing at once.
Because she did know her.
Not from Leo’s infancy, nor from some fleeting encounter in Monaco. No, the thread tied deeper. It led all the way back to childhood, back to summer afternoons and the scent of pomelo peel in the air, to another house in another country, Manila, and to a boy named Caleb Altamiras.
Caleb had been a part of her childhood as much as her brothers had. They had played together, studied under the same private tutors, attended formal balls their families hosted to show off legacies and surnames. From a young age, they had been promised to each other, not out of love, but alliance. The Altamiras name came with old money. The Young name came with power.
It was a neat agreement. Polished. Inevitable.
But the heart rarely walks the path the world lays out for it.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
She was nineteen when everything changed.
It had been a rainy April in London, her second year at the Royal College of Art—her focus then still on jewelry design, a quiet passion nurtured in secret behind the walls of boardrooms and stock valuations.
He was twenty, already in Formula 1, already known, a name murmured across screens and speed headlines.
She hadn’t recognized him at first. He was in the corner of the café, hoodie drawn low, nursing an espresso like it held the answers to the universe.
They’d fought over the last warm croissant.
He offered it to her anyway.
That was how it started.
Casual. Unexpected.
Lando Norris—British, fast, infuriatingly disarming—became the bright interruption in her otherwise planned life. They began to meet between lectures and late-night races. Sometimes he'd fly back just to see her, only to leave again with the taste of her kiss still lingering in the air.
She hadn’t meant to fall in love.
But it was the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission.
The kind that shattered childhood promises.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Caleb had not taken it well.
He had tried to be polite at first, tried to believe it was a phase, a rebellion, something fleeting and excusable.
But the months passed. The photos spread. The stories leaked.
(Y/n) was smiling with someone else now.
And the boy who had once traced the shape of her name in cursive on his palm turned cold.
When the Young family severed ties with the Altamiras, citing the relationship’s irrelevance to (Y/n)’s future, the Altamiras name, once a close ally, vanished from their circles like a stain scrubbed out.
But anger lingers where silence settles.
And so, Caleb, quietly, over the years, let that rage consume him. He used his inheritance, his access, his charm. He built masks and wore them well.
And when the moment came, when (Y/n) and Lando had their child, and the world celebrated with champagne and headlines, Caleb made his move.
He took what he thought had always belonged to him.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
It was Rosa who had watched it unfold. She had raised Caleb since he was eight—watched the boy grow bitter, possessive, too quiet when he should’ve laughed, too calculating when he should’ve loved. She had tried to stop him that night in Monaco. Screamed. Cried. Threatened.
He had turned on her with eyes like glass.
“You raised me,” he hissed. “Now raise him.”
And so, she had.
For five years, she raised Leo with all the love she could give, all the gentleness she could sneak in between Caleb’s wrath and suspicion. She kept his scars hidden. Tended his bruises when Caleb turned away. Hid the truth until Leo was old enough to feel it.
But now, now that Caleb had begun to slip further into cruelty, Rosa could no longer remain still.
She risked everything.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The message came at midnight.
“Aquaria KLCC. 3PM. I’ll bring him. Come alone.”
(Y/n) had stared at the screen for minutes before her breathing returned.
Her fingers trembled.
She didn’t ask her brothers. Didn’t alert the team.
This was something she had to do on her own.
By sunrise, she had slipped out of the estate in a modest grey sedan, hair pinned beneath a scarf, sunglasses heavy on her nose. She crossed the border into Malaysia without drawing a single eye. Years of diplomatic privilege had taught her how to disappear when she needed to.
The journey felt endless.
Her hands remained clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. She played no music. Spoke no words. Her only companion was the hope that bloomed so violently in her chest it hurt to contain.
By the time she reached Kuala Lumpur, the sky was low and humming with heat.
Aquaria KLCC, the vast aquarium beneath the glittering towers, SSSstood like a submerged dream. Children rushed through the entrance. Tourists posed beside plastic sharks. Life buzzed.
And then she saw them.
A small boy, hand in hand with a woman whose back she knew even after so many years.
Nanny Rosa.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
(Y/n) didn’t move too quickly. She kept her distance, heart pounding. Her steps were steady, composed—though her entire soul burned with the urge to run and sweep the boy into her arms.
Rosa turned slightly. Her face had aged, but her eyes, deep and kind and endlessly tired, met hers.
She smiled. Small. Sad.
Then she stepped aside and murmured, “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Just like that, she slipped away.
And (Y/n) was left with the boy.
Her boy.
Leo.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
He was crouched near a tank of jellyfish, pointing at their glow with a kind of awe only children possessed. The light played over his features—high cheekbones, soft curls, and those eyes. Her eyes.
She knelt down beside him.
“Hello again.”
He turned, then stared.
“You…” he whispered. “You’re the lady I bumped into. In Singapore.”
She smiled, lips trembling. “Yes. That was me.”
He blinked at her for a long moment, then gave the softest grin. “You helped me with my hand.”
“Yes,” she said. “It looked like it hurt.”
He held out the same hand— now clean, the skin nearly healed—and she gently took it in hers.
“I still have your handkerchief,” he added. “Nanay said I should keep it.”
(Y/n)’s throat closed. She swallowed hard. “That was sweet of her.”
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. No words. Just the sound of water and muffled footsteps.
Then Leo tilted his head.
“You look like me,” he said.
And she broke.
Not visibly. Not loudly.
But inside, every wall shattered.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
They spent the afternoon walking the winding halls of the aquarium, pausing at every tank, watching the sharks drift by in the long glass tunnel. She bought him snacks. A toy turtle. A novelty fish hat he insisted on wearing sideways. He giggled freely. Spoke endlessly.
He told her he liked drawing.
He hated green beans.
He didn’t understand why his Papa never smiled at him.
At that, (Y/n)’s heart splintered again.
“You know,” she said softly, crouching beside him near the penguin enclosure, “if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”
Leo beamed at her. “You’re nice.”
She laughed gently. “Thank you.”
“You should meet my Nanay,” he added. “She says nice people are rare.”
“I think I already have.”
He blinked, confused, but accepted her hand when she offered it.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
By the end of the day, Rosa returned.
She didn’t speak at first. Only looked at (Y/n), eyes glistening.
Then quietly, she said, “He’s starting to remember.”
(Y/n) nodded.
They exchanged a long look—heavy with gratitude, regret, and something deeper.
And when Rosa walked Leo back toward the car, the boy turned, waving enthusiastically at (Y/n).
“I hope I see you again!”
She smiled through the ache. “You will.”
And she meant it.
To be continued...
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴꜱ🌅
📝 Note from the Author: Hello, my dear Alarwynnites!
So… how are we feeling after that chapter? HAHAHAHAHA
Because personally, I am not okay. Ehhhh, not really HAHAHAHA
Leo spent five years unknowingly missing his real family, Rosa has been carrying the most heartbreaking secret imaginable, and (Y/n) nearly got taken out by a six-year-old casually saying, "You look like me." Like EXCUSE ME??? SIR??? ~(>_<。)＼
Also, can we please talk about Rosa for a second? Everyone say thank you, Rosa. Everyone give Rosa a hug. Everyone buy Rosa flowers. Because this woman has been doing the Lord's work for FIVE YEARS while Caleb has been busy collecting red flags like Pokémon cards. 💀
And Caleb… My guy really saw a happy family and said, "I think I'll make that everyone's problem."
Therapy was free compared to whatever this was.
But honestly, my favorite part of this chapter is that despite everything, Leo's heart is still so kind. He doesn't know the truth yet. He doesn't understand why meeting (Y/n) feels different. He just knows she makes him feel safe.
And if that doesn't hurt your feelings, I don't know what will.
Thank you so much for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, screaming, crying, throwing your phones across the room, and joining me on this emotional roller coaster. Every interaction means the world to me ヾ(≧▽≦*)o(≧∇≦)ﾉ(/≧▽≦)/
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go continue writing a story that is somehow becoming more painful with every chapter.
With love, me 🧡
ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ-ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ, ᴀʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ɪɴᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄɪᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ 1, ᴍᴏɴᴀᴄᴏ, ꜱɪɴɢᴀᴘᴏʀᴇ, ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴅᴜʀᴇꜱ, ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇɪʟ🌅
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ
ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ/ʜᴀʀꜱʜ ᴅɪꜱᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ
ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ɴᴇɢʟᴇᴄᴛ
ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ
ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
The house where Leo grew up was perched on a quiet slope in the highlands of Malaysia, tucked behind rows of betel trees and jasmine bushes that bloomed thickly in the humid air. From the outside, it looked like a forgotten estate—too grand to be simple, too remote to belong to the ordinary. Stone walls had long since weathered, but the structure still stood tall, its wooden shutters closed most of the time, keeping secrets sealed behind heavy panes of glass.
Inside, the air was always dim.
Leo had grown up in half-light.
The rooms echoed with silence, even though voices came and went. Men in suits, always speaking in hushed tones. A television that stayed on but never loud. The occasional laugh, but never from the man who called himself Papa.
The man was never unkind in public. He never raised his voice when others were around. But Leo learned early that silence could also wound, that a cold stare across a dinner table could make food taste like dust. That being ignored for days was its own kind of punishment. And when things truly went wrong, he was not spared.
Discipline came swift. Measured. Sharp.
A broken plate. A misstep. A question asked at the wrong time.
Leo never understood why his Papa was so hard on him.
Only that he had to be better. Quieter. Smarter.
So, he tried.
And when it was too much to bear, when his knuckles burned from punishment or his stomach turned with hunger, he ran to her.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Nanny Rosa.
She had been there for as long as Leo could remember. She smelled of powder and gardenias, and when she hugged him, it was the only time he ever felt warmth.
Rosa was a Filipina woman in her sixties, short and sturdy, her hair always tied in a neat bun. She had a face full of lines, not just from age, but from years of watching things she could not stop. She had seen cruelty behind closed doors and learned to stay silent when the truth would only get her hurt.
But when it came to Leo, she never stayed silent long.
She had raised him like he was her own.
She cleaned his cuts. She taught him how to write when no one else had the time. She told him stories in Tagalog and sang lullabies when he couldn’t sleep. She kept a small box under her bed with his baby teeth, pressed flowers from walks they took in secret, and even a lock of his hair from his first real haircut.
He called her Nanay.
She never corrected him.
And though her bones ached from age, and her eyes tired more easily these days, she never stopped protecting him.
Even when the man, the one who took Leo, threatened to fire her.
Or worse.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
She had seen the man grow up. From a boy no older than Leo to the cold, obsessive figure he had become.
She still remembered that night, five years ago, when he returned from Monaco. There was a baby in his arms. Rosa had been frozen in the doorway, towel in hand, mouth open.
“You said you were just going to Europe for business,” she’d whispered.
He’d said nothing, only brushed past her and told her to prepare the nursery.
Rosa had tried to intervene. She’d cried. She’d threatened to call the police. But the man had been prepared. His father was powerful. His contacts were deeper than she could touch. One call, he warned, and she’d be deported before morning, and Leo taken elsewhere, somewhere worse.
So, she had stayed.
And she raised the boy.
And every night, as she tucked Leo into bed, she whispered an apology he didn’t yet understand.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Leo never knew he’d been taken.
He never questioned why there were no baby pictures in the house.
He simply accepted the life he had, a strange, quiet life with a sharp-edged man and a soft-hearted nanny.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.
Something missing.
A tug in his chest whenever he watched movies with families who laughed too loudly, or saw children walking hand-in-hand with mothers in the markets when Rosa dared take him out for air. He would stare at them, the way some people stare at the stars—something distant, unreachable.
And then came the day that changed everything.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
They were in Singapore for the Grand Prix. Leo had only been brought along because Rosa insisted he was too sick to be left alone at home. The man had allowed it, reluctantly, but kept Leo away from the crowd, tucked in the shadows, always monitored.
Rosa saw her chance.
She whispered quickly in his ear as they passed the McLaren hospitality entrance.
“Stay close. But if I say run, run to her.”
Leo frowned. “Who?”
But she was already pulling him forward.
It wasn’t part of the plan. Rosa had no guarantee the woman would even be there. But she had heard whispers. Seen news clips on the television when no one thought she was watching.
“Singapore Grand Prix welcomes heiress (Y/n) Young…”
She saw the woman’s face.
And knew.
And then, as fate would have it, Leo broke away.
A man knocked over a tray of drinks. The crowd surged. Leo’s small feet stumbled, and suddenly, he bumped into her.
The woman.
(Y/n).
She smelled like vanilla and orchids. Her voice was soft, careful. Her hands were warm, and when she wrapped her handkerchief around his grazed palm, he felt... calm.
Safe.
He looked up at her and smiled—not because he knew who she was, but because something inside him did.
And then Leo looked up at her with a bright smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Thank you," he said, holding up his newly bandaged hand as if to show her he'd be okay.
Something in (Y/n)'s chest tightened unexpectedly.
She smiled softly.
Leo beamed at her one last time before jogging back toward Rosa, completely unaware that he had just thanked the woman who had spent five years mourning him.
Later that night, back in their hotel room, Leo sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the handkerchief still wrapped around his hand.
He refused to take it off.
“She was kind,” he whispered.
Rosa sat beside him and brushed his curls back gently. Her throat was tight. “Yes. She’s very kind.”
“What was her name?”
Rosa hesitated. “She’s someone very important.”
“To who?”
Rosa smiled faintly. “To you.”
Leo blinked. “Did she know me?”
“Not yet,” Rosa said softly. “But maybe one day… she will.”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
After that, Leo couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He sketched her face from memory on the back of his schoolwork. He asked Rosa why her voice had made his chest feel warm. He even wrote her name, secretly, in the pages of his notebook after Rosa finally told him who she was.
He didn’t understand everything yet.
But he felt it.
And when Rosa finally sent the first message, He’s alive, she did so with trembling hands and a heart full of fear.
She’d found a moment alone, snuck Leo’s photo from the old phone she kept hidden under the floorboards, and sent it to a burner number she’d managed to get from an old friend still working in intelligence.
One shot.
One risk.
Because the man was beginning to unravel. He was drinking more. Shouting more. Talking about “finishing what he started.”
Rosa knew what that meant.
And she would die before she let him harm Leo.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
That was why (Y/n), once she’d learned more from her brothers, insisted on joining the next phase of the search. She sat across from Alaric and Cassius in the war room they had built inside the Young estate's west wing.
“She’s the one sending the clues,” (Y/n) said, voice steady. “The wrapper. The bracelet string. The route map.”
“You’re sure?” Alaric asked.
“She looked at me,” (Y/n) said quietly, “right before taking him away. There was something in her eyes. Fear… but also hope.”
Cassius leaned back in his chair. “If she’s risking contact, she must know he’s close to the edge.”
(Y/n)’s eyes filled, but she didn’t blink. “We need to find them before he does something irreversible.”
Alaric slid a new photo across the table. Grainy CCTV. A man in a dark cap, holding Leo’s hand, walking down a service corridor the day of the race.
Cassius narrowed his eyes. “That’s him.”
(Y/n)’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s the man who took my baby.”
Her fists clenched.
But her tears stayed where they were, behind the steel of her resolve.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Meanwhile, in a different part of Kuala Lumpur, Rosa tucked Leo into bed once more.
She kissed his forehead, then walked to the far end of the room, where the photo she’d printed out from the race still sat — a blurry still of (Y/n) helping Leo to his feet.
She stared at it.
Then whispered, “Just a little longer.”
To be continued...
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ🌅
ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ-ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ, ᴀʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ɪɴᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄɪᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ 1, ᴍᴏɴᴀᴄᴏ, ꜱɪɴɢᴀᴘᴏʀᴇ, ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴅᴜʀᴇꜱ, ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.
Castle Combe 2018.
Nikon F5, Agfa Vista 200, Dev Tetenal C41 kit, Scan Epson V600.
Latest images in my series from around the modern race paddocks. This meeting was a little different as there were parade laps and all sorts of different machines and people. Some special bikes and famous faces floating around. I think I’m going to title the body of work “Petrol Smells Nice”
Josh Brookes. Winner, Brands Hatch 2018.
Nikon F5, Expired Kodak Ektachrome 100.
Shaun (left) and Jack (driver) prior to their first finish in a National Race. Brands Hatch 2018.
Sue, Physio in the background.
Nikon F5 on expired Kodak Ektachrome.
