Reunion after years (part 1)
Summary: Lando Norris was thirteen when she used to help him with his homework. Y/N was just three years older, but back then it felt like a lifetime. She was untouchable, his parents’ favorite, the girl who always left before he could find the courage to say more than “thanks.”
What he never told anyone, not even her, was that he had the softest, childlike crush on her. The kind that never really went away.
When she came back into his life, he’s 25. She's 28. They are both adults. The age gap doesn’t seem so impossible anymore, but nothing is simple. Especially not when his older brother is suddenly in the picture too.
Genre : angst and fluff
World count : 8,4k
Series Masterlist
Author note : First part of this new series, hope you will like it :) This one is for forgetting the result of the Las Vegas race and the disqualifying of both papaya cars...
Age 13 & 16 :
Lando was sulking at his kitchen table, his arms were folded over his chest, chin tucked into his hoodie, eyes fixed on the math workbook in front of him like it had personally offended him. The numbers swam. The pencil felt heavy. His trophy from the weekend still sat on the sideboard behind him, gleaming in the late afternoon light.
He’d rather be with that than with fractions.
Lando had won the world championship in karting and still couldn’t sit still for ten seconds.
He bounced his leg under the kitchen table hard enough to make the pencil vibrate. The workbook in front of him lay open on a page of fractions he’d already decided he hated, numbers blurring together into one long, smug line.
“Lando, stop kicking,” Cisca, his mom, said from the stove, not even turning around. “You’re shaking the whole table.”
“I’m not,” he muttered automatically, even as he dragged his heel back under his chair.
“You are,” she replied. “And we’ve been over this page three times.”
“I don’t get it,” he snapped, quieter than he wanted. “It’s stupid.”
She sighed, tired in a way he recognised lately. “The fractions aren’t stupid. You’re tired. You’ve had a long week. We’ll wait for Y/N and then try again, okay?”
His chest pulled tight.
He pretended to flick dust from the corner of his worksheet. “She’s really coming?”
“Yes, she’s really coming.” Now she did turn around, wiping her hands on a towel. “She finished her own classes and said she’d be here by four.”
“It’s already four,” he pointed out.
“It’s three fifty-eight.”
“Same thing.”
She gave him a look that said don’t start and he dropped his eyes back to the page.
In his head, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen Y/N properly.
She used to live a few houses down. Used to babysit his younger sisters sometimes. Once or twice, she’d been the one to walk him home when he was younger and scraped his knee or had to leave the park early. He remembered her voice more than anything, teasing but not mean, soft when he cried, never talking to him like he was five.
Then everything had gotten busier.
Karting, flights, races, tutoring that didn’t stick, online classes he ignored. His parents had started snapping at each other more, his sisters get older, Oliver gone most of the time. The house felt full and crowded and somehow still like no one had time to sit at the table with him and make the numbers make sense.
So they’d called her.
The doorbell rang and Lando’s leg stopped bouncing on its own.
“I’ll get it,” Cisca said, smoothing her hair as she left the kitchen.
He heard the door open. Voices in the hallway.
“Hi, Mrs Norris.”
Her voice was the same. Older, maybe, but the same.
“Y/N! Come in, darling. Shoes off, you know the rules.”
There was a small laugh. “Wouldn’t dare break them.”
Lando stared so hard at his workbook his eyes hurt.
He heard footsteps, then she appeared in the doorway.
The first thing he noticed was that she looked… taller. It confused him for a second. Her school blazer hung open over her shirt, her tie was already loosened like she’d yanked it down the second she left the building. Her bag strap dug into her shoulder, heavy with books. Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped to frame her face. There was blue ink smudged along the side of her hand.
She smiled when she saw him, easy and bright.
“Hey Lando,” she said.
His cheeks burned. “Hi.”
Cisca clapped her hands lightly. “Thank you for coming, really. He’s been… a handful.”
“I’m not,” Lando muttered.
“You are,” she and his mum said at the same time, and to his horror, Y/N grinned.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’ve survived worse. Year elevens are feral.”
She walked over and dropped her bag on the chair beside him, not across from him like a teacher would. Already different.
“Okay,” she said, sliding into the seat and pulling his workbook closer. “What are we looking at?”
“Fractions,” his mum said dramatically, like she was announcing a villain. “He hates them.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Y/N said.
“I hate them,” Lando confirmed.
She snorted. “Alright then. Challenge accepted.”
Cisca placed a plate of biscuits on the table. “I’ll leave you to it. Lando, be nice. Y/N, if he gives you trouble, you have my permission to throw a biscuit at him.”
“Got it,” Y/N said, saluting.
When his mum left, the kitchen went quieter. Lando stared at the underlines in his workbook, feeling suddenly very aware of his own breathing.
“So,” Y/N said, leaning on her elbows. “How much do you actually understand here, and how much are you pretending not to?”
He blinked. “I’m not pretending.”
“Okay,” she said easily. “Then show me where it stops making sense. I’m not gonna tell your mum if it’s everything.”
No one had said that to him before. Every other adult had a tone: disappointed, impatient, too bright. Y/N just sounded like… someone older talking to someone slightly younger. Not a small child. Not a problem.
He pointed at the middle of the page, heat creeping up his neck. “Here. When they start doing… that thing. With… the lines. And the numbers change.”
“The thing with the lines. Very technical,” she said, mouth twitching. “Alright. So you get this part?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What do you get about it?”
He hesitated. “You, like… make the bottom numbers match?”
“There we go,” she said. “See? Not hopeless.”
He blinked again.
She pulled his workbook toward her and tore a sheet of paper from her own notebook, rewriting the first problem in bigger, clearer numbers.
“These books suck,” she said. “Everything’s tiny. No one’s brain wants to look at that after a race weekend.”
“Everyone says I’m just lazy,” he muttered.
“Well, everyone’s wrong,” she said simply. “You’re tired. And you’ve got a lot going on. So we make it easier to look at first, yeah?”
He nodded before he could stop himself.
They went through the question slowly. She didn’t rush him. Every time he answered, she let him finish instead of finishing the sentence for him. When he got something wrong, she didn’t sigh or tell him to “focus”; she just circled it and said, “Okay, cool, now tell me what you were thinking here.”
Sometimes she swore under her breath at the layout of the book. It made him snort, then pretend he hadn’t.
He caught himself watching the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating. The way her handwriting slanted slightly up at the end of words. The pen twirling between her fingers when she waited for him to answer.
It wasn’t like the boys at karting talked about girls. They talked about engines, about corners, about who’d crashed in the dumbest way that weekend. Girls were just… there. Sisters, cousins, people in the background.
Y/N didn’t feel like that.
By the time Cisca peeked back in, they were both hunched over the workbook, Y/N drawing little kart track diagrams in the margins to explain common denominators.
“So this is your lap,” she was saying. “And this is the other guy’s lap. You wanna be on the same bit of track to compare times, yeah? So you line them up. That’s all you’re doing with the fractions.”
“Ohhh,” Lando muttered, the penny finally dropping. “Why didn’t they just say that?”
Cisca’s eyes widened a little. “You’re still working? I thought he’d have given up by now.”
Y/N leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. “He’s killing it. We’re making peace with the fractions.”
Cisca smiled, a little surprised. “Well… that’s more than we got out of you yesterday.”
Lando shrugged, suddenly shy under both their gazes. “It’s… not that bad.”
“High praise,” Y/N said, grinning.
They wrapped up not long after. Y/N closed his workbook with a little thump and pushed it toward him. “You did good, Norris.”
He picked at the edge of the cover. “It’s just maths.”
“It’s also focus,” she said. “You were here the whole time. That’s harder.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. His chest felt weird again. Tight but not in a bad way.
Y/N slung her bag over her shoulder. “Alright, I’ve gotta go finish my own homework before my mum hunts me down. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” he repeated.
She looked at Cisca. “Same time okay with you?”
“Yes, please,” Cisca said immediately. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. We can pay a bit more if...”
“It’s fine,” Y/N cut in. “I like it. He’s… fun.”
Lando’s ears burned.
She turned back to him. “You okay with another round tomorrow? Or have I traumatised you too much already?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s fine. You can… come back. If you want.”
“I will then,” she said simply. “See you, champ.”
He watched her leave. Listened to the door click shut. The house seemed quieter, but not as heavy as usual. The numbers on the page didn’t look like a foreign language anymore, just a language he hadn’t fully learned yet.
Cisca started stacking plates in the sink. “So? What did you think?”
He pretended to shrug, heart beating a little faster. “She’s… okay.”
“Just okay?” his mum asked, amused.
He hesitated. “She… doesn’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Something in her face softened. “You’re not stupid.”
“I know,” he said quickly, because he did know… mostly. “She just… she’s different. She’s… cool.”
Cisca dried her hands. “Well, if it works, it works. We’ll see how long we can keep this going. She has her own exams, you know.”
Lando nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as he felt at the idea of that ending.
He looked at the workbook again. At the neat numbers, the stupid track drawings in the margins.
“Can we do maths again tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.
His mum paused. “Maths?”
“Yeah.” He tried to sound casual. “If she’s coming anyway, we should do more. Before I forget.”
Cisca actually laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”
He rolled his eyes and reached for his pencil, but inside, something uncurled slightly.
He was still too young to care about girls the way Oliver did. He didn’t have posters of anyone on his wall except drivers and cars. But he knew he liked the way Y/N talked to him. The way she made his brain feel less wrong. The way the afternoon didn’t drag when she was there.
He didn’t have a word for it yet.
He just knew that for the first time, he was actually looking forward to a maths lesson.
Age 15 & 18 :
Sunday night smelled like takeout and rain.
The race was still in his bones, engine noise echoing in his ears, phantom vibration buzzing under his skin, but the house was quiet in that post-weekend way. His suit was dumped somewhere in his room, his bag half-unpacked. His trophy for P2 sat on the sideboard next to the old karting ones, a newer, sleeker shape.
Lando sat at the dining table in a hoodie and joggers, knees bouncing, staring at the laptop screen that refused to make sense.
Physics worksheet. Email from his online tutor. A list of assignments he was technically meant to finish before next Friday, which was hilarious considering he’d be on a plane by Wednesday and hadn’t even unpacked from this trip yet.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” his mum warned from the kitchen. “She’s coming straight from school as it is.”
“I’m not sleeping,” he muttered.
“You look like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m reading,” he said, squinting harder at the screen. The words still blurred.
He wasn’t sure this counted as reading.
He heard the front door open. Voices. The familiar shuffle of shoes.
“Hi, Mrs Norris. Sorry, bus was a nightmare.”
His chest did that stupid little pull it always did now.
“In the dining room,” Cisca called.
Y/N appeared in the doorway a second later, hair damp from the drizzle outside, blazer unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around her neck. Her school bag looked even heavier than usual, a tube for drawings slung over her shoulder, sketchbook tucked under one arm.
“Wow,” she said, dropping her bag on a chair. “Look at Mr F3, pretending he does homework.”
He tried not to smile. Failed. “I do do homework.”
“Sure you do,” she said, shrugging off her blazer. “Between flights and podiums and photoshoots.”
He looked away quickly so she wouldn’t see the way his ears went hot when she said it like that. Mr F3. Like it meant something.
“Hi,” he said, because his brain suddenly couldn’t come up with anything else.
“Hi,” she echoed, smiling, and that stupid little pull in his chest got worse.
She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, revealing ink-smudged wrists and a thin bracelet he’d never seen before. He caught himself staring at it, wondering who’d given it to her, and snapped his gaze back to the laptop.
“So,” she said, dropping into the chair beside him, not across from him. Always beside. “What’s on the menu? Physics? English? Existential dread?”
“Physics,” he muttered. “And… the last one.”
She snorted. “Relatable.”
His mum drifted in with a mug of tea and a plate of leftover noodles. “Here,” she said, setting them down. “Food. Tea. Y/N, you’re an angel. If he were in normal school, I think they’d have expelled him by now.”
“I’m very charming,” Lando protested, even as he dug his fork into the noodles.
She laughed, and the sound nudged something warm under his ribs.
It was… weird.
Now she was eighteen, in her last year of highschool, buried in university applications and portfolios. He was fifteen, in F3, his life a blur of flights and simulators and interviews and tutors he never saw twice.
They still ended up here, though. Sunday nights in his dining room, bleary from travel and school, trying to cram a week’s worth of schoolwork into a couple of hours before the next race swallowed him again.
She leaned in, shoulder brushing his as she pointed at the diagram on the screen. “So. You’ve got your angle, your initial velocity. What do you do first?”
He tried to focus on the problem. Really, he did. Not on how close she was. Not on the faint smell of her shampoo, something citrusy and clean. Not on the way her hair had slipped from its ponytail and a strand was resting against his arm.
“Um,” he said intelligently. “You… split it? Into… up and sideways?”
“Components, yeah,” she said. “See? Your brain is intact.”
He worked through the question, mumbling the steps. She didn’t interrupt. Just waited. When he messed up, she didn’t sigh, just nudged him back.
“Check your units,” she said at one point, tapping the screen.
“What?” he asked, blinking.
“You switched from metres per second to kilometres per hour halfway through,” she said.
He groaned. “Stupid.”
“Not stupid,” she corrected, voice firm. “Just tired. You’ve been going since, what, six this morning?”
“Five,” he corrected. “Call time.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ve been staring at my personal statement for so long I’m starting to hate the word ‘architecture.’ We’re allowed to mess up units.”
He snorted. “You’d still get it right.”
“You’re annoying,” she said, poking his arm. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not dumb. You just learn fast, and school likes slow.”
He ducked his head, fighting a smile he didn’t want her to see. It felt… too vulnerable.
Something had shifted in the last year.
He’d noticed it first when she’d come over one evening in a dress instead of her usual hoodie and jeans, some school thing she was going to later. His brain had short-circuited so hard he’d forgotten the difference between sine and cosine for a full ten minutes.
Then he’d started noticing everything. The way she tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves when she was nervous. The soft crease that appeared between her brows when she talked about her future like she didn’t quite believe she’d get there. The way her laugh sounded different when it was for him versus when it was for his sisters or his mum.
He’d catch himself staring, eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of her smile, the slope of her neck, the ink stains on her fingers. His gaze clung, heavy, and he’d have to yank it back.
He hated it. And he loved it. And he hated that he loved it.
Because she still treated him like a kid.
“Your hair’s getting long,” she said idly now, mid-question, reaching over to ruffle his curls without warning.
He jolted. “Oi.”
“What?” she asked, amused. “It suits you. You look less like a baby bird.”
“I was never a baby bird.”
“You kind of were,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Big eyes. Messy hair. Constantly falling over.”
“I fall over in a race car,” he said. “It’s different.”
“Sure, sure.” She ruffled again, gentler. “You’re cute, deal with it.”
He swatted her hand away, but his heart was pounding embarrassingly hard.
Cute.
He didn’t want to be cute.
He wanted… he didn’t even know. Something that didn’t make her voice tilt like she was talking about a puppy.
He dragged his attention back to the laptop. “So if it lands after three seconds, then the height is…”
They worked through another set. Time blurred. The clock crept past ten, then ten thirty. The house got quieter. His sisters disappeared upstairs, his mum’s footsteps faded, even Oliver’s music turned down.
He forced his eyes back to the notebook, but her laugh slid under his skin, warm and familiar.
Halfway through the session, her phone buzzed, she ignored it at first, but it kept going.
“Someone’s desperate,” Lando said, trying to sound like he didn’t care.
She huffed and checked it. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Who is it?” he asked, casual. Too casual.
“Just… Tom,” she said.
“Tom who?” he pressed.
“Boy from school,” she replied. “We’re, uh, going to prom together. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Something sharp and stupid flared in his chest.
“Oh.” He tried to make his voice flat. “Cool.”
“He’s not that cool,” she said quickly. “He just… keeps asking what colour my dress is gonna be so he can match his tie. Which is… sweet? Maybe? I don’t know. Feels weird.”
Lando picked at a crumb on the table. “You’re going with him, though?”
She shrugged, cheeks pink. “I guess. It’s just prom. Not that deep.”
It felt deep. He didn’t know why. He’d never been to a prom. He didn’t even go to normal school anymore. But the idea of her dressed up, dancing with some guy called Tom who got to be there just because he sat in the same classroom as her every day...He shoved that thought away.
“You’d look nice,” he muttered.
She looked up. “What?”
“In… whatever dress,” he said, ears burning. “You’d look nice.”
Her face softened. “That’s sweet, Lando.”
He pretended to be fascinated by his pencil.
“Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat. “Enough about my weird almost-prom. Back to you. Racing going okay?”
He shrugged, grateful for the subject change. “Yeah. I mean. I won last weekend.”
“I saw,” she said. “Your mum sent me the livestream link. You were amazing.”
He tried not to glow under the praise. “I had a good kart.”
“You had good lines,” she corrected. “You always see where to go before everyone else does.”
They ended up on the floor in the living room, sitcom reruns playing in the background while she scribbled building facades in the margin of her notebook and he half-watched, half-listened as she talked about cities she wanted to visit.
“Barcelona,” she said dreamily. “The architecture there… Gaudí… it’s like the whole place is a sketchbook that came to life.”
“You should go,” he said.
“Maybe one day,” she replied. “If I get into the uni I want.”
“You will,” he said, too certain.
She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“You just… will,” he said, shrugging. “You always see the whole picture. Not just what something is. What it could be.”
She stared at him for a second, something unreadable in her eyes.
Then she smiled, soft. “Thanks.”
He pretended it didn’t make his heart sprint faster than it did on the longest straights.
That night, when she left, he walked her to the door without being asked.
“You’ll… come next week?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“If you still wants me,” she teased.
“I do,” he blurted, then immediately looked away. “I mean. For… homework. And stuff.”
She bit back a grin. “I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”
He watched her walk down the path, backpack bouncing against her hip, phone lighting up in her hand.
He tried not to think about Tom. And prom. And ties matching dresses.
He didn’t have a name for the twisting feeling in his chest yet. He only knew that when she was here, everything made more sense.
And when she was gone, it didn’t.
Age 18 & 21 :
By eighteen, Lando had everything he’d ever said he wanted.
Almost.
The email from McLaren was still open on his laptop, the orange logo staring back at him like it knew how badly his hands were shaking.
We’re delighted to confirm your position as reserve driver…
He didn’t read the rest again. He’d already memorised it. The words blurred now, not from speed but from the thousandth reread.
Reserve driver. McLaren.
He was in.
“Lando!” his mum called from downstairs. “Have you told your grandparents yet?”
“In a minute!” he shouted back, though his voice cracked halfway through.
His phone buzzed non-stop: team notifications, mentions, texts from drivers, emojis from friends, a voice note from Max that just sounded like screaming. He ignored most of it, thumb hovering over one chat that had been dead for months.
Y/N.
Their last messages were buried under everyone else’s. A reaction to a race result. A “Proud of you, kid” she’d sent after he’d won a race. A picture she’d sent once of a building model she’d made, asking, Does this look stupid or kind of cool? and he’d replied Very cool. Obviously.
Nothing recent.
He locked his phone and shut the laptop, heart pounding. He should go downstairs. Celebrate. Be the son his parents had pushed and sacrificed for, the success story everyone kept saying he was.
Instead he sat on the edge of his bed for a second, breathing.
Reserve driver. Probably F1 next year. Full-time racing driver. No more online school, no more tutors, no more “balancing.”
No more excuses.
No more homework.
No more Y/N.
The thought dropped into his chest like a stone.
They’d already drifted. It hadn’t been sudden; it was worse than that. Slow. Gradual. She’d moved to London for uni, just like she’d said she would. First year had been chaos for her: new city, studio projects, late nights. His racing calendar had swallowed him whole with F3, then more testing, more travel, more everything.
Sunday lessons had become Sunday calls. Then Sunday texts. Then just… sometimes. When they both remembered. When one of them wasn’t exhausted or in another time zone.
He’d told himself it was normal. People grow up. Lives split off, like branching lines on a track map.
Still, every now and then in hotel rooms at midnight, in long flights staring at nothing, he’d think of her. Of the way she’d scribbled formulas next to little racetrack doodles. Of her laugh echoing off his kitchen walls. Of her hand in his hair, messing it up like he was something small and breakable.
He still heard her voice in his head sometimes. You’re not dumb. School just likes slow.
She was twenty-one. At uni. In London. Designing impossible buildings and going out with friends and doing all the grown-up city things he only saw on Instagram.
It was stupid, to miss something that never really existed. But it still hurt.
His eighteenth birthday crept up on him in a blur of simulator sessions and press things and people asking if he felt different yet.
He didn’t.
He felt… tired. Busy. Like his whole life was about to turn up a notch and no one had given him the manual.
“Big eighteen,” Oliver said, clapping him on the back one night. “We doing anything? Or are you going to celebrate with a protein shake and an early night?”
“Funny,” Lando said. “I was thinking house party.”
Oliver blinked. “Here?”
“Yeah. Mum and Dad said they’d go to some friends’ place,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Like, give us the house for the night. As long as we don’t burn it down.”
Oliver’s grin turned feral. “My little brother, throwing a proper party. I’m so proud.”
“Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m going to be very weird about it.”
Somewhere in the middle of planning: group chats exploding, someone making a playlist, people talking about turning the living room into a dance floor and the garden into a smoking area, someone mentioned alcohol.
“Obviously we’ll have drinks,” one of his mates said. “You’re eighteen, mate. Legal now. It’s basically mandatory.”
He pretended not to hesitate.
They got beer. Some cheap vodka. Someone’s older brother promised to bring something stronger. Girls from his old school were added to the invite list, people who’d never really talked to him before he started showing up on TV, now suddenly sliding into his DMs with, Heard you’re doing F1 stuff, that’s sick.
It made his stomach twist, but he didn’t stop it.
Being a racing driver helped with girls, apparently. Even if the confidence part of his brain hadn’t quite caught up.
Late one night, while Oliver argued with someone about playlists over the phone, Lando lay on his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the search bar.
He typed her name.
It popped up after three letters.
Her profile picture was different now. Not the one he remembered from before. This one was at night, fairy lights blurred in the background, her in a black dress, shoulder bare, eyes crinkled mid-laugh, mouth open like someone had just said the funniest thing.
Still, his thumb hovered over the message button for a long time.
He could not message her. That was an option. Let the memory sit where it was: old notebooks, pizza cut into squares, Sunday nights that had faded into something hazy and warm.
Or he could.
He opened the chat before he could talk himself out of it.
Hey Y/N :) Long time no see like properly. Hope London hasn’t eaten you alive. It’s my 18th next Saturday & I’m doing a thing at my parents’ place – just some friends & stuff. Would be cool if you came by, if you’re around. Also I, uh, became reserve driver for McLaren so… yeah. That’s a thing. Hope you’re good
He hit send before he could change his mind.
Immediately, he wanted to throw his phone out the window.
He set it face down on his chest and tried to think about literally anything else. Tyre compounds. Setup changes. Snake. The ceiling.
The buzz came sooner than he expected.
He snatched the phone up so fast he nearly dropped it.
Y/N: Landoooo no way 🧡 that’s amazing, congrats!! Proud of you doesn’t even cover it
His lungs started working again.
Another bubble appeared.
Y/N: 18 already wtf, you were like 13 yesterday. Time is fake
He rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself.
Y/N: I’m probably going to be in London that weekend, deadlines are murdering me slowly BUT if I can escape for a bit I’ll swing by, okay? No promises, I suck. If I don’t make it, happy early birthday you menace 🎂 and congrats again on McLaren. You’re smashing it.
He read the message three times. Four.
Probably busy. No promises.
He typed back:
All good, I get it. Uni stuff sounds brutal. Would be cool to see you though :)
He hovered over send, then tapped it. This time, no reply came back straight away.
The next day, his chat with her had slid down the list again, buried under planning and memes and someone sending a screenshot of a truly horrifying amount of alcohol.
The night of his birthday party, the house looked almost unrecognisable.
Furniture pushed back. Fairy lights strung along curtain rails. A Bluetooth speaker that definitely wasn’t theirs thumping bass through the walls. The kitchen counters lined with bottles and mixers, red cups stacked next to the sink.
“Remember,” his mum said, giving him The Look before leaving. “No broken bones. No broken furniture. No calls from the neighbours.”
“We trust you,” his dad added. “Sort of.”
“Thanks,” Lando said dryly.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Cisca said, pulling him into a quick hug. “We’re proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“And if you’re sick, aim for the toilet,” she whispered.
“Mum.”
Then they were gone, the car pulling out of the driveway, leaving him standing in his own house that suddenly didn’t feel like his.
“THIS IS GONNA BE SICK,” one of his mates yelled, barging past him with a bag of ice.
It started slow. A few people trickled in, mates from karting, neighbours, Oliver’s friends. Someone started the playlist. Someone else started pouring. The house filled with voices and music and the sweet-sour smell of fruity alcohol.
Some he recognised from old school days, others from friends-of-friends.
“Happy birthday, Norris,” one of the girls that he barely knows said, fingers curling around his wrist for a second. “Heard you’re big time now.”
He laughed it off, ducking his head. “Something like that.”
He tried to be present. To enjoy it. To be the version of himself everyone expected, fun, cocky, the kid living his dream.
But every time the front door opened, his head snapped toward it.
It was never her.
He told himself she wouldn’t come before midnight. She’d have stuff to finish. Uni deadlines. Night buses. London things.
He checked his phone secretly in the kitchen every half hour. No new messages from her.
At some point, someone shoved a drink into his hand and pushed him toward the living room.
“You gotta do a speech!” a mate shouted.
“I really don’t,” Lando said.
He ended up on the coffee table anyway, Oliver hyping him up in the background, everyone cheering when he muttered something about being grateful and not remembering any of this tomorrow.
He laughed. Played along. Took stupid photos. Let people sling arms around his shoulders and yell happy birthday in his ear.
There was a girl who stuck close, a blonde from his old school. She laughed at his jokes and asked him about racing and touched his arm a lot. Eventually they ended up in the hallway, half-shouting over the music.
“It’s so cool what you do,” she said, eyes bright. “You’re like, actually famous now.”
“Not really,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Come on,” she said, stepping closer. “McLaren? That’s huge.”
He smiled, but it felt thin. “Yeah. It’s… good.”
She tilted her head. “You okay? You seem… I don’t know. Distracted.”
He glanced toward the door without meaning to.
“Just tired,” he lied. “Long week.”
“If you want to, like, sneak off for a bit,” she said, lowering her voice. “We can… you know. Get somewher more quiet.”
He blinked at her.
She was pretty. Nice. His age. Interested.
A few years ago, he’d have combusted on the spot at the idea. Maybe he still would, another day.
But right now, his brain just… stalled.
He pulled a smile. “Maybe later. Need to make sure no one burns the place down first.”
She laughed, flicking his arm. “You’re such kid.”
She drifted back toward the crowd, and he let her go.
Time blurred. Midnight ticked past. People sang an uncoordinated version of “Happy Birthday.” Someone smeared cake on his face. Someone else filmed it. He played beer pong and lost disastrously. He drank more than he meant to and less than everyone expected.
Every time the door opened, he still looked.
Every time, his chest fell a little more.
By two in the morning, some people had gone, taxis called, lifts arranged. Others were half-asleep on couches or in corners, music turned down to appease the neighbours. Oliver was arguing gently with someone about not throwing up in the kitchen sink.
Lando slipped out the back door into the garden.
The cold hit him immediately, sharp against his overheated skin. He sucked in a breath and sat down on the back step, hoodie pulled over his head.
The faint thump of music carried through the walls. Someone laughed. A door banged. The world felt fuzzy at the edges.
He unlocked his phone.
No new messages from her.
She was probably out somewhere in London. Or asleep, exhausted from work. Or curled up on some couch with friends, or with her boyfriend, because of course she had one by now, some tall art guy who knew about buildings and wine and didn’t have to fly to different countries every week.
He was just… him.
Still the kid she’d once walked home with a scraped knee. The one who’d cried over maths and followed her around the house. The one she’d ruffled and called cute.
Eighteen was technically an adult on paper. But for her?
He doubted it meant much.
He tipped his head back against the door, closing his eyes.
He’d done it. The thing they’d talked about in half-finished sentences over worksheets and pizza squares. McLaren. Reserve driver. F1 within reach.
He should’ve been thinking about that. About the cars and the tracks and the fact that his life was about to become something even crazier than it already was.
Instead, all he could think about was a girl three years older who hadn’t been in his kitchen in years, who’d maybe thought about coming tonight and then… didn’t.
The back door creaked behind him.
“You hiding out here?” Oliver’s voice asked.
Lando cracked an eye open. “Just… getting air.”
Oliver dropped down onto the step beside him with a soft grunt. “Good party.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” his brother asked after a beat.
“Fine.”
“You sure? You’ve got your moody face on.”
“This is just my face,” Lando muttered.
Oliver snorted. “Right.”
They sat in silence for a minute, breath fogging in the cold.
“You did it, you know,” Oliver said eventually.
“Yeah,” Lando said quietly.
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“I am,” he insisted. It was true. Somewhere under everything, the excitement hummed, constant and bright. “Just… tired.”
Oliver hummed.
Lando didn’t mention her. Or the way his brain kept replaying old scenes like someone stuck on a highlight reel.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this looked.
A boy on the edge of the thing he’d always wanted. Clinging to a crush on someone who’d already run ahead into a different life.
He hadn’t seen her in person in… what, a year?
He’d thought, stupidly, that tonight might reset something. That her walking into his house again, him eighteen now, might shift the way she saw him, even a little.
It hadn’t happened.
He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket.
“Come back in when you’re done brooding,” Oliver said, standing. “Before you freeze to death and Mum blames me.”
Lando huffed. “I’m not brooding.”
“You’re absolutely brooding.” Oliver ruffled his hair on the way back inside. “Happy birthday, idiot.”
The door clicked shut.
Lando sat there a moment longer, the cold seeping through his jeans, stars faint behind the thin layer of clouds.
Then he pulled in a breath, pushed the thoughts down where he kept old race results and half-forgotten lap times, and stood.
Inside, the music picked up again.
He squared his shoulders, plastered on the easy grin he’d been practising for cameras, and went back into the party.
He had his dream lined up in front of him. That would have to be enough.
25 & 28 :
Lando had always imagined what it’d be like to see Y/N again.
Not in a dreamy, still-a-kid kind of way, but in that vague, persistent daydream he got sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. The Y/N he remembered was warm, familiar. Always a little ahead of him. Always looking back to make sure he kept up.
But he hadn’t expected this.
Y/N was standing in the hallway, chatting with his mum like no time had passed, like she wasn’t the exact ghost he kept trying to outgrow.
Her hair was longer now, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her smile, still bright, still her, came easier somehow. Like she didn’t second-guess it as much anymore. The confidence in her posture, in her laugh, it was new. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed before.
“Lando,” his mum called, “look who showed up.”
Y/N turned.
He froze.
“…Hi,” she said, a little too quiet.
“Hey,” he replied, voice lower now. Scratchier. A little hoarse.
She blinked. He had a beard now.
Not a full one, just enough to notice. His jaw was sharper. His curls longer. He looked older, yes. But also more tired, somehow. Like he’d lived a whole life she hadn’t seen.
“You, uh…” she trailed off, eyes scanning him. “You look different.”
He smirked. “So do you.”
“Really?” she asked, half-teasing. “I feel like I look exactly the same.”
“Nah,” he said. “You’re… brighter or something.”
She glanced at his mum, who had tactfully stepped away, then back at him. “So. F1 driver now, huh?”
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah.”
“Kind of a big deal.”
He met her gaze for a second before looking away. “Yeah it is.”
She studied him. The rings under his eyes. The slight edge to his voice. The way he stood like he was never quite still. Like he didn’t know how to be anymore.
She nodded, eyes flicking to the watch on his wrist, the way his phone buzzed constantly in his back pocket. “You’re not the kid who used to cry whenever you didn’t figure out your math exercises anymore.”
“Thank God,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “You really did hate those exercises.”
He grinned, and for a second, just a second, he looked like the boy she remembered. The one who sat on the floor with her eating pizza and asking if she’d still come around when he got older.
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Want tea? Or something stronger?”
“Tea’s fine.”
He didn’t protest.
In the kitchen, he moved with practiced ease. Everything about him was smoother now, like he knew people were always watching. Like he’d gotten used to being looked at.
She leaned against the counter. “Your mum says you’ve been home less and less.”
“Racing schedule’s brutal,” he said, not looking at her.
“And the afterparties?”
He gave her a look. “What, you keeping tabs?”
She shrugged. “Just heard things.”
“Figures.”
She sipped her tea, watching him. “This… this isn’t how I pictured you’d turn out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How did you picture it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Quieter. More… focused. Not clubbing at 4am.”
He smirked again, but this one didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m not who you expect huh?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“You’ve really made it tough,” she said softly. “You did it.”
He nodded once, lips pressed into a line.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” she added. “Even if you’re a little messier than I imagined.”
That made him laugh. A real one this time.
“You’re still designing buildings?” he asked, shifting the subject like he needed to breathe again.
She smiled. “Yeah. I'm working for a firm in London now. It’s good and it pays well.”
“Knew you’d be good at that.”
She glanced at him. “How?”
“You always saw the whole picture. Not just what something was, but what it could be.”
Her breath caught, just a little.
He looked away again, almost shy. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say it.”
She nodded, eyes gentle. “Thanks.”
She didn’t say more, and neither did he.
But when he walked her to her car an hour later, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders curled slightly inward, he looked at her like maybe, just maybe, he’d finally caught up enough to be seen.
Days later his mum mentioned Y/N’s name, casually, saying she will come by for dinner tonight.
“She said yes?” Lando asked, trying not to sound like he cared too much.
Cisca smiled over the stove. “Of course. She always loved us.”
Oliver, his older brother, seated lazily at the bar with a glass of wine. “Who are we talking about?”
Lando stiffened.
“Remember the girl who used to babysit Lando?” Flo chimed in, flipping through her phone.
“She didn’t babysit me, she helps me with homework.” Lando muttered.
“Yes, she did,” Cisca Jr. said bluntly. “You used to cry when she left.”
“Traitor,” Lando shot back.
Oliver leaned forward, more interested now. “Wait...her? She’s coming for dinner?”
His mum nodded. “She’s back in town for a bit. Thought it’d be nice.”
Oliver smirked. “Isn’t she, like, my age?”
“She is,” Cisca said, far too casually. “Three years older than Lando. Just like you.”
By the time the doorbell rang, he didn’t move at first, just listened.
He heard her laugh as she came in. Hugged Flo like a little sister she hadn’t seen in ages. Kissed Cisca on the cheek, hugged Adam with a warmth that reminding him of old time, where she used to pass all evenings taking care of him and when he used to pretend, he didn’t look up to her.
“Hey,” she said, soft and sure when she turns to him.
He looked up and everything in his chest knotted a little tighter.
She was radiant. Not in some overdone, movie-style way. Just… her. Smiling, eyes kind, coat slightly windswept from the evening air. Still the same in all the ways that mattered.
He barely got out a “Hey” before Oliver was already moving.
“Look who finally made it,” Oliver said, stepping in like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Y/N smiled at him. “Oliver! God, it’s been...what, years?”
He leaned in for a hug. “Far too long.”
Lando watched, silent and tense, as Oliver’s hand slid to the small of her back, just a little too low. Guiding her inside like she didn’t already know where the dining room was. Took her coat without asking. Took the bottle of wine she brought. Even pulled out her chair like she needed help sitting down.
It made Lando want to scream.
Dinner was torture.
It started fine. Y/N caught up with his sisters, laughed at Flo’s latest dating disaster, asked about Cisca Jr.’s internship. Adam beamed as he served the roast, proud of himself like always.
But the shift came, subtle and slow, when his mum started her little... hints.
“So, remind me,” Cisca said sweetly, “you’re still in London, yes?”
Y/N nodded. “Yeah. Been there two years now. Working with a firm in Shoreditch.”
“Funny,” she replied, slicing into her roast. “That’s not far from where Oliver lives.”
Oliver looked up, pretending it was the first time he’d heard about it. “It’s really not.”
Y/N glanced over. “Oh, really?”
Lando stared at his plate, jaw clenched tight.
“And you’re single now?” Cisca continued, far too pleased with herself.
Y/N smiled politely. “I am.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Cisca said, like this was a sitcom. “So is Oliver.”
Y/N laughed. “Cisca…”
“I’m just saying,” she added lightly. “You’re both in the same city. Same age. Seems like fate, doesn’t it?”
Lando wanted to disappear.
And Oliver, of course, leaned right in. Asked Y/N about her firm, her office, her commute. Gave her his favorite spots in Shoreditch. Complimented her dress like it was normal.
And she laughed.
She laughed.
And what burned worse than Oliver’s smug charm or the way his hand brushed her arm every time he joked, was the way Y/N looked at him.
Like Oliver mattered.
Lando sat through all of it. Barely spoke. Pushed his food around, forced polite smiles, watched her through the glow of candlelight and felt something ancient and aching claw up his throat.
Because Oliver didn’t know her.
He didn’t know that she hated horror movies but still watched them if someone else wanted to. That she pulled at loose threads on the couch when she was nervous. That she always cut her pizza into squares instead of triangles because she said it felt “less chaotic.”
Oliver didn’t know any of that.
But it didn’t seem to matter.
Because she was smiling. Engaged. Open. And it was so easy for Oliver to slide into the space Lando had never let himself touch.
When dinner ended and everyone filtered into the living room for dessert and tea, Oliver gestured to the seat beside him.
And she took it.
Lando sat across the room, hands gripping the armrest, jaw tight.
He didn’t say much after that, just watched. Watched Oliver lean closer when Y/N spoke. Watched her lean back. Watched everything unfold in slow motion.
And when she finally stood to leave, hugging everyone again, thanking Adam for the food and Cisca for the invite, Lando stood last.
Half-hoping.
Maybe she’d look at him too, not like a little boy anymore but as maybe more.
But her smile was kind. Familiar. Polite.
Not the kind he wanted.
“Bye, Lando,” she said gently. “Good seeing you again.”
He nodded. Couldn’t quite get the words out.
As the door shut behind her, Oliver strolled into the kitchen, humming under his breath. “She’s really nice. Smart. Pretty. Even more than I remembered.”
Lando felt the words land like punches.
Cisca clutched her chest like she’d won a lottery ticket. “Oh, I love her. I always have. I told you, didn’t I, Adam? I always said she was like a daughter already.”
Adam just smiled, nodding at his wife words.
“She was such a part of this house,” Cisca went on, hands waving with joy. “Can you imagine if she ended up with Oliver? It would be perfect. Like fate. Like the universe fixed it all for us.”
“She’ll be around more too,” Cisca continue, suddenly turning to him. “Isn’t that nice, Lando? You always liked her, didn’t you? Used to follow her around like a little shadow when you were small. So cute.”
Lando said nothing.
Oliver laughed, eyes glinting. “Now she could be your sister-in-law. Funny, yeah?”
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t funny at all.
Lando forced a smile, one he’d mastered for press conferences and fake interviews, one that never reached his eyes.
His chest was tight. Hot. He could hear the sound of your laugh in his head, the way she had laughed at Oliver’s jokes that night. The way she leaned toward him. Let him touch her arm. Looked at him like he belonged in her world.
He hated it, he hated every second.
He pushed back his chair slowly. “I need air.”
“Lando,” his mum said, halfway rising. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just… tired.”
He stepped outside onto the porch, the night colder than expected. The air sharp against his face. He gripped the railing, breathing like he’d just come out of a spin on track.
From inside, he could still hear them. Laughter. His mum telling Oliver how it would be so lovely if she came for Christmas. How natural the two looked together.
His stomach twisted.
He always knew she was out of reach. He’d accepted that. Told himself he was just a kid, just a footnote in her life. But hearing his brother, Oliver, say her name like that, hearing his mum call it fate…
It made everything inside him crack open.
Because he didn’t want her to be a memory.
He didn’t want her to be someone else’s.
He stayed out there a while, jaw tight, heart louder than the wind.
Wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
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