✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ✒️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ & ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ & ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ
ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ / ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ
ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘꜱᴇ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ
Days passed like the gentle turning of pages in a well-loved book, soft, familiar, and tinged with something bittersweet. Forks remained shrouded in its ever-present mist, a gauzy veil that clung to the trees and streets like a memory refusing to fade. The scent of pine and petrichor lingered in the air, soaked into every breath, every heartbeat, as though the very earth was steeped in longing. Rain tapped rhythmically on the rooftops, a constant, soothing percussion. It slid down windows in languid streams, painting watercolor trails that distorted the world outside, as if time itself had softened, willing—perhaps even eager—to accommodate the fragile beginnings of something not quite new, yet not quite old.
Lando stayed.
He remained in Forks with a kind of quiet desperation, a stillness rooted in a hope too deep, too sacred, to name aloud. Each morning, he rose with the sun that barely managed to pierce the canopy of grey. And each night, he lingered, tethered not to obligation or certainty, but to the heavy silence that held her name in every corner. He didn’t press. He never had. He simply stayed, on the fringes of her reconstructed life, waiting, aching, enduring.
(Y/n) had settled into the rhythm of the town with a quiet grace. It was a slow rhythm, unhurried, measured like a metronome set to a heartbeat. She frequented the local market, exchanged soft smiles with vendors who no longer asked questions. She wandered the forest trails with a thermos of tea cradled in her hands, her footsteps muffled by pine needles and wet earth. She sat by the lake, her laptop balanced on her knees, fingers dancing across keys as she sank into the kind of prose only she could conjure. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, a second shadow began to follow her, a presence that never imposed, never demanded, but offered quiet companionship in its purest form.
At first, her patience frayed.
“Why are you always here?”
“Because I miss you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
But the sharpness in her voice dulled over time. The edges softened. Her heart—still delicate, still learning how to hold weight again—didn’t splinter when he was near. It didn’t retreat. It pulsed instead, tentative and cautious, but open, curious. No longer afraid.
They began sharing moments again. Not grand declarations or sweeping gestures, but small, tender things. Things that lingered. A shared umbrella beneath a drizzle that never seemed to end. A warm mug of coffee left on the porch without a word, the steam curling like a quiet offering. The subtle way she let his fingers brush hers when passing a bowl of berries across the breakfast table, not pulling away.
One evening, she stepped outside to find him seated on the porch steps, his eyes fixed on the sky. The clouds had parted just enough for the stars to emerge, shy and blinking through the haze. The air was cool, and the silence between them felt thick and velvet-soft, draped gently over the house and the trees and the space between their hearts.
“You know,” he murmured, voice almost lost to the night, “I forgot how to be alone until you left. And then I remembered all too well.”
She didn’t respond. No words were needed. Instead, she sat beside him, their shoulders brushing, a quiet contact that said everything. She let herself lean into the warmth he offered, shared it like it meant something again, like it had always meant something.
But the world they had left behind was not done with them.
Calls began to pour in, like echoes from a life that refused to be forgotten. At first, it was just a few, polite check-ins masked as concern. Then they multiplied, growing louder, more insistent, like waves crashing relentlessly against a shore.
Zak. Oscar. Andrea. His mother. His father. George. Max. Even Alex and Carlos.
“You need to come back, mate.” “The team needs you.” “You can’t just disappear like this.”
But Lando wouldn’t move. Not an inch. He silenced their urgency with stillness, ignoring their pleas with a determination that made his silence feel deafening. Sometimes he turned his phone off entirely, needing the quiet more than he could admit. And when he did answer, his voice was distant, steady, final.
“Not yet.”
They didn’t understand. How could they?
But (Y/n) did.
She noticed the way his body tensed each time the screen lit up with a name from the past. The way his eyes would cloud over, fixed on some distant point beyond the trees, as if weighing an invisible scale he couldn’t bear to tip. The calls left him gutted in small, invisible ways, like they were slicing pieces off of him, slowly, persistently. And yet, he stayed. Every time. He chose her, again and again, even though she never once asked him to.
And that terrified her.
Because she knew exactly what he was giving up. What he was holding back. The sacrifices weren’t dramatic, they were quiet, steady, and absolute. And they were all for her.
It was devotion, raw and unflinching. And it felt like holding a flame in her bare hands.
That was when Zak decided to come.
No more calls. No more texts. No more unanswered messages eaten by silence. He was done waiting for Lando to come to his senses.
One rainy morning, the door to Lando’s rented cabin in Forks thundered with a kind of urgency that didn’t belong to the sleepy town. The knock wasn’t tentative or polite, it was a demand. Lando, bleary-eyed, hair sticking up in a dozen unruly directions, shuffled toward the door barefoot. His hoodie hung off one shoulder, a testament to sleepless nights and mornings that blurred into one another.
He opened the door and blinked.
There, standing on the porch like a storm given shape, was Zak Brown, soaked to the bone, rain dripping from the collar of his jacket, irritation carved into every line of his face.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Get your bloody shoes on,” Zak snapped, voice sharp and cutting through the grey like thunder.
Lando didn’t budge. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
“I’m not going back. Not without her.”
Zak’s lips flattened. “Then I’ll go speak to her.”
But (Y/n) wasn’t anywhere near the cabin.
Undeterred, Zak did what he did best, he strategized. He wiped the rain from his brow and made his way into the center of town, standing out with his clipped accent and impatient stride. He asked questions with the quiet insistence of a man used to getting answers. He stopped by the café where she bought her chamomile tea, speaking to the barista who knew her order by heart. He visited the corner shop where the grocer stocked her favorite honey, the kind imported from some small farm three towns over.
Eventually, they pointed him in the direction of her cottage, nestled beyond the edge of town, where the trees grew thick and the path narrowed into something almost forgotten.
He found her at home.
She answered the door in a sweater far too big for her frame, sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric soft and worn. Her face was calm, composed, but there was a flicker of guardedness in her eyes, a quiet steel.
Zak didn’t waste time.
He laid it all out: the team’s schedule, the races piling up, the calls unanswered, the sponsors growing restless. But beyond the logistics, beyond the professional concerns, he said something else, something that didn’t come from a team principal, but from someone who had known Lando long enough to see past the surface.
“He doesn’t say it aloud,” Zak said quietly, “but I see it in his eyes. He’s afraid he’ll lose you again.”
(Y/n) didn’t cry. Not anymore. Those tears had dried up in the months it took to rebuild herself. She didn’t need drama. She didn’t need promises. She just stood still for a long moment, heart pressed against the inside of her ribs like a fist.
Then she gently closed the door.
She didn’t speak, didn’t explain. She simply turned, pulled on her boots, and stepped outside. The rain had softened into a mist, and the trees parted like they had been waiting for her.
She walked through the woods, silent and steady, until she reached Lando’s cabin.
And then, without hesitation, she knocked.
He opened the door and froze.
Her voice was quiet.
“Pack your things.”
His throat tightened, the words scraping out like they were made of splinters. “I can’t. Not without you.”
The silence that followed nearly broke him. It rang too loud, too empty.
Then his legs gave out beneath him, as if everything inside had collapsed at once. He dropped to his knees in front of her, not out of drama, not out of desperation, but because there was nowhere else left to go.
His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, clinging like a man anchoring himself to the last piece of solid ground. His forehead came to rest against her belly, warm and trembling, the rhythm of her breathing beneath his skin like a fragile answer.
He didn’t cry, not audibly. But his shoulders rose and fell with a silent tremor, and his grip only tightened, as though letting go would mean losing her all over again.
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a plea.
It was a prayer. Wordless. Raw. Reverent.
Because in that moment, she wasn’t just someone he loved.
She was home.
“Please,” he whispered, “I can’t leave you here again. I won’t survive it.”
Her hands moved of their own accord, threading gently through his curls, grounding him.
“I’ll go with you, okay?” she whispered, her voice soft with tired affection, like a lullaby meant only for him. Her fingers brushed gently through his hair, grounding him. “So pack your bags now. Please?”
He froze against her, the weight of her words sinking in slower than his heartbeat. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy, cheeks streaked with tears he hadn’t even noticed falling. His lips parted, stunned. “You will?”
She nodded, a small, certain smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yes.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, as if the world had jolted back into motion, he stood, still breathless from the collapse of everything he’d been holding in. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a lingering one, reverent and grateful.
And then he moved. Faster than he had in months.
Not because he was afraid of losing her again—
But because for the first time in a long while,
He believed he didn’t have to run alone.
An hour later, their bags were packed. She had her laptop, the stories that had saved her, and he had the photograph that had haunted him. Zak, (Y/n), and Lando boarded the private jet just before the rain fell again. Forks disappeared beneath them like a dream slowly fading in the sunlight.
She sat beside him on the plane, watching clouds drift past.
“Do you think it’ll ever be the same?” he asked softly.
(Y/n) tilted her head.
“No,” she said. “But maybe it can be something better.” And for the first time in a long while, hope didn’t feel so far away.
To be continued...🧡
✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ: ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ✒️
📝 Note from the Author: Second post of the day! Which, let’s be honest, probably explains why I’m running on vibes and iced coffee at this point. 🫠
But seriously… this chapter? This chapter?? I wasn’t prepared. You weren’t prepared. Even Lando wasn’t prepared, and he lived it.
Let me paint the mood: Forks has officially become the romantic version of emotional purgatory, Lando’s out here giving up the entire F1 calendar like it’s a casual hobby, and (Y/n) is dodging conversations with more precision than Max Verstappen in a Red Bull. Meanwhile, Zak Brown’s new side quest is called “Fetch My Emotionally Unstable Driver Out of the Woods Before We Miss Qualifying.”
The man literally knocked on her door like a soaked raccoon in a business suit. And don’t even get me started on that scene where Lando folds like a dying Victorian poet. That wasn’t a breakup, it was a spiritual collapse. We went from, “I’m not going without her,” to “full-body kneel into emotional exorcism” in under sixty seconds. 🫡
Anyway. Hope you’re hydrated. Hope your feelings survived. If not, I’ll meet you on the floor, right next to Lando.
With love, me 🧡