does this feeling go both ways ? ⸻ lando norris x reader ⋮ part three .
“kit-kat.” the nickname is so familiar, so easy, and it makes your stomach flip in a way that is so utterly humiliating that you have to set down your chopsticks before you snap them clean in half. “that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard you say.” you bristle. defensively, out of habit, you go: “oh, fuck off.” or, the amylaurie au.
part one, two, three, four, epilogue. word count. 5.2k a study on. non-linear storytelling, words lifted straight from the little women (2019) script, gifted kid burnout, stem girlie!reader, mechanic!reader, childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending (!!), rooting so, so hard for the anti-hero. author's note. LANDO NORRIS P2 !!! i already told myself i was going to post a chapter today immaterial of the results but we got a 1-2 on mclaren baby !! makes me want to write a piastri series so bad … but i digress !! u might wonder why do i wanna know is constantly in the mixtape, and that's because that's where the title comes from ! + sorry folks this chapter is all angst . i would like to say that this touches reaaalll heavy on the burnout part of gifted kid burnout. i'm shaking y/n by her shoulders going it's so hard to root for you right now please just get out of ur own head !! but whatever ! i promise u all a happy ending (and then some … hehe u shall see soon.) mixtape. do i wanna know cover by hozier, anti-hero by taylor swift, quarter life crisis by taylor bickett, leonard cohen by boygenius, i'm worried it will always be you by katie gregson-macleod, backburner by niki.
NOW, 2024.
it starts with a text. and then another. and then another.
lando keeps his word. and maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it would’ve been easier if he hadn’t. if he had let that conversation in the park be the last of it, let your history fade into the sort of polite nothingness that most childhood friendships do. but no. he texts, sometimes even calls— stupid shit, mostly. memes, half-assed updates about whatever press work he’s stuck doing, complaints about travel schedules, about media duties.
he asks about your classes, about the internship, about whether or not you’ve had a proper meal today. you roll your eyes every time, but you still answer, still make time between your last assignments and your shifts at the mclaren office.
it’s pre-season, so maybe that’s why. maybe he’s just bored, filling the gaps of his time with your presence, the same way someone mindlessly taps a pen against the edge of a desk. it’s just because he has time, because he’s in between media duties and training sessions, because he’s restless, because you’re the easiest option. once the season starts, he’ll forget. he won’t mean to, but he will. the texts will slow, the calls will stop, and you’ll be left replaying voice notes just to hear him say your name. it’s fine. whatever. it’s not like you need him to stay.
but then, one night, your phone vibrates against the stack of notes you’ve been trying— and failing— to organize, and it’s him.
from: lando n can i come over
you blink. stare at your phone. type out a response, then delete it. then type out another one. then delete that too. finally, you settle on:
to: lando n what do u mean ‘come over’
three dots appear, disappear, reappear.
from: lando n look out your window from: lando n i actually DO hope this is ur flat because i’d be really embarrassed if i was standing outside some rando’s window
you push your chair back so fast it scrapes against the floor, legs catching on the warped wood. when you yank open the window, he’s there, standing on the pavement, takeaway bag in one hand, phone in the other. he looks up, grins. lifts the bag like an offering.
“what the fuck?” you say, but you gesture toward the door anyway.
he’s on the other side of the door when you open it, grinning wildly, all teeth, and holds up the bag of food like an offering. “thought you’d be hungry.”
you let him in because— well. because you do. because he’s already here, because it’s easier than standing in the doorway arguing, because you don’t actually want him to leave. “you need to stop bribing me with food,” you say, shutting the door behind him.
“why would i stop if it keeps working?”
he says it so easily, like it’s a joke, like it’s just that simple. like you’re someone he wants to keep around. you snatch the takeaway bag out of his hand and ignore the way your stomach flips.
your flat isn’t much. just a studio, one barely-big-enough rectangle with a kitchenette, a couch, a too-small dining table buried under half-finished projects and old racing magazines that date as early as july, 2014.
you never bothered decorating. never saw the point. mclaren was supposed to be temporary, and it’s not like you expect to be called back after graduation. you’re just here to do your time, finish the internship, figure out what’s next. even thinking about asking lando to put in a good word for you feels ridiculous— because he would, because he’s like that, and because it would just prove what you already know: you’re not good enough to make it on your own.
lando doesn’t seem to care about any of that, though. he drops onto the floor beside your coffee table without hesitation, already pulling open containers, and you follow, sitting cross-legged beside him, feeling too aware of yourself, of the space you take up. it’s stupid, feeling embarrassed when he’s the one who showed up at your place unannounced, but still. it’s kind of the principle of the matter.
you don’t know how the conversation gets there. or maybe you do, maybe it was inevitable, because he’s lando and you’re you and there are things you don’t say but still feel so achingly obvious.
but it starts with the season. his, not yours.
“so,” you say, through a mouthful of rice, “do you actually think the car’s going to be better this year, or is this just the yearly pre-season delusion?”
lando makes a wounded sound, clutching at his chest. “kit-kat, you hurt me.”
“don’t dodge the question.”
he sighs, leaning back on his palms. “i mean… yeah. i think so. hope so. but it’s always a gamble, isn’t it? you never really know until you’re actually out there.”
you hum. “and what if it’s shit?”
he grins. “then it’s shit. but at least i’ll look good driving it.”
you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “that’s the most lando norris thing you’ve ever said.”
he nudges your knee with his own. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
it’s not. you don’t say that, but it’s not.
you’re halfway through your spring roll when he turns the question on you.
“what about you?”
you blink. “what about me?”
“what’s next?” he asks, and there’s something too earnest in his tone, “after you graduate. what are you going to do?”
the question is simple. so simple. “i don’t know,” you say, too nonchalantly, shoving another bite into your mouth. “probably go home.”
lando frowns. “you’re not staying with mclaren?”
you snort. “why would they keep me?”
“because you’re good?” he says, matter-of-factly.
you don’t know why it grates on you, why it makes something bitter rise in your throat. maybe because you don’t believe it, not really. maybe because he does.
“i’m a failure.” you don’t mean to say it, but it slips out anyway, quiet and raw and ugly. you don’t look at him, just stare at the mess of containers on the coffee table. “josie is off in new york making an actual difference, and i’m a failure.”
lando flinches, just a little, at josie’s name. barely noticeable, but you catch it anyway. you wish you hadn’t said anything.
“that’s a pretty big statement to make at twenty-one,” he says instead, setting down his chopsticks. “and while interning for mclaren.”
you let out a humorless laugh. “well, oxford took all the vanity out of me, and the mclaren program made me realize i’d never be a genius.” the words come out before you can stop them, before you can filter them into something less pathetic. but it’s late, and you’re exhausted, and maybe you don’t care as much as you should. “so i’m giving up on all my foolish hopes.”
lando just looks at you, head tilted, brows drawn together like you’ve said something particularly insane. “seems like a waste of your talent and energy.”
you snort. “but talent isn’t genius. and no amount of energy can make it so.” you push a stray grain of rice around with your chopsticks. “i want to be great, or nothing. and if i can’t have that, why should i even try?”
there’s a silence. a heavy one. he looks at you, properly looks at you, and you wonder if he’s seeing right through all the ways you’ve tried to make yourself small.
and then— “kit-kat.” the nickname is so familiar, so easy, and it makes your stomach flip in a way that is so utterly humiliating that you have to set down your chopsticks before you snap them clean in half. “that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard you say.”
you bristle. defensively, out of habit, you go: “oh, fuck off.”
but he doesn’t. he keeps looking at you, keeps holding your gaze like he actually gives a shit about what you just said, and it throws you off balance more than anything.
“i mean it,” he says, voice even. “you always used to go on and on about how things worked— cars, engines, whatever— and you knew everything about them. like, to a terrifying degree. that doesn’t just go away. you’re good at what you do.”
you press your lips together, suddenly feeling small in a way you don’t like. “you haven’t seen me in years. you don’t know that.”
“doesn’t matter.” he shrugs. “i still believe it.”
you don’t know what to do with that. with the way he says it so simply, like it’s fact. like his belief in you is solid, unshakable, something you couldn’t undo even if you tried. it’s the kind of certainty that used to come so easily to you— when you were younger, when everything was laid out in neat little steps, when you could open up a manual and follow it piece by piece and end up with something that made sense. there was an answer for everything back then, a method to follow, a way to be right. you had been good, then. not just good— great. brilliant, even. just like lando had called you.
but somewhere along the way, something shifted. the equations got messier, the answers became less certain. talent wasn’t enough anymore. you were supposed to push further, aim higher, but every time you did, it felt like you were grasping at something just out of reach. and then, eventually, you stopped reaching. because it was exhausting, because the effort felt pointless, because maybe— maybe— you had never actually been that great to begin with. maybe they had all just been wrong about you.
that’s what oxford did to you. tore you down, stripped you of whatever confidence you used to have, made you look at yourself in the mirror and see someone painfully, infuriatingly average staring back. and mclaren— oh god, mclaren only made it worse. because now, you weren’t just average. you were below average. surrounded by people who were actually brilliant, people who could take apart an engine and put it back together with their eyes closed, who could run calculations in their heads before you could even pull out a pen.
so no, you don’t believe him when he says you’re good. because you know better now. you know that being good isn’t enough. great or nothing, right?
and that’s the worst part, isn’t it? because he believes it. and the fact that he does makes something ache deep in your chest.. it would be easier if he just let it go, if he let you disappear into your own insignificance the way you’ve been trying to for years. but no— he sits here, in your tiny flat, looking at you like you’re still that eight-year-old kid who used to explain aerodynamics to him using the pieces of a half-disassembled toaster.
like he still thinks you’re brilliant.
you shift, uncomfortable, needing to change the subject before you start to believe him. “you’re actually an idiot if you drove a sports car all the way here.”
he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there’s something in the curve of his mouth that gives him away— amusement, maybe, like he knows exactly what you’re doing, how you’re dodging the weight of his words, but he lets you get away with it anyway. “oh, shut up. it’s in the parking lot if you wanna go look at it.”
you roll your eyes but get up anyway, making your way to the window near your bed. he follows, falling into step beside you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes against yours.
when you peer down, the lamborghini miura p400 sticks out like a sore thumb, sleek and ridiculous and so incredibly orange among the rows of sensible, ordinary cars. you almost laugh. of course he fucking would. “jesus christ,” you mutter. “you actually drove all the way to woking in that?” you ask, more for something to say than anything else.
“course i did.” his voice is laced with amusement, and you don’t even have to look to know he’s still grinning. “what else was i gonna take? the bus?”
you shake your head, and when you turn back around, lando’s already making himself comfortable on your double bed, arms stretched behind his head, ankles crossed. like he belongs here. like this is easy.
“no outside clothes allowed.” you say, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind, because your brain is scrambling, because your face is growing hotter and hotter.
he barely lifts his head, just smirks at you, all lazy and self-satisfied. “i’m sure you can make an exception for me.”
your stomach twists, and you whip a pillow at his face without thinking. he dodges, laughing, and you roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. he’s still sprawled out on your bed, utterly at ease in a way that makes your skin prickle, like he belongs here, like he’s not intruding at all. like you’re the one who should feel out of place.
you don’t know why you let him in. you don’t know why you keep letting him in.
there’s a beat of silence. you hear him shifting behind you, the rustle of fabric, the creak of your mattress as he moves. then, his voice, casual, teasing: “you gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna sit down?” again, you think, with a twinge of fond annoyance, like he owns the place.
you glance back at him, scowling. “you’re taking up all the space.”
he lifts his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “fine, i’ll move.” except he doesn’t. if anything, he spreads out even more, one arm behind his head, the other now draped lazily over his stomach.
you exhale sharply, pressing your fingers to your temple. you should kick him out. you should tell him to go. but your bed looks warm, and the weight of the evening is pressing down on you, and the thought of sitting alone in your too-quiet flat, left alone with your thoughts, makes your stomach twist.
so you sit at the edge of the bed first, testing the waters. he doesn’t say anything, just watches you, the amusement in his expression tempered with something softer, something unreadable.
your legs feel stiff, so you stretch them out, curling your toes against the fabric of your blanket. then, carefully, cautiously, you shift backward, lying down with a sharp exhale, as if the movement itself is something to be endured. you stay on your back, arms folded loosely over your stomach, your entire body tense like you’re expecting him to comment on it.
he doesn’t.
instead, the silence stretches, comfortable, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside. you focus on the overhead light, how it flickers slightly, how the buzz of it fills the quiet.
lando looks at you. you can see in your periphery, his eyes flickering over your face, your expression, and for a second, it feels like he sees too much.
“hi.” he says, softly.
your chest feels tight, breath catching, forcing yourself to turn, to look at him, really look at him.
you swallow, heart in your throat. “hi,” you whisper back.
THEN, 2017.
the wind is soft, curling through the new grass, the spring sky is a half-hearted shade of blue, still too stubborn to let go of the winter season. you’re on the swingset, not swinging, just letting yourself rock slightly, toes digging into the dirt. it’s still too cold to really enjoy it, but you like being outside. you like the quiet.
inside, you can hear them. not the words, exactly, just the shape of the argument. the sharp-edged rhythm of josie’s voice, the shorter, clipped replies from lando. it’s almost funny. in a not-funny way. lando doesn’t argue. he complains, sure, he whines, but he doesn’t fight back like this. not usually.
you don’t need to hear what’s being said to know how it ends, so you don’t listen.
instead, you focus on the wildflowers pushing up from the ground, the ones by the gate, sprouting in uneven clusters like they couldn’t quite agree on where to grow. people think flowers are delicate, soft, but they’re not, you know they’re not. they’re engineered for survival, roots gripping tight, petals opening and closing like moving parts in a machine. people think they just bloom because it’s spring, because the sun is out, because it’s pretty. but it’s all a process, isn’t it? cause and effect, survival instincts older than anyone could trace.
you wonder if you should be learning something from them.
because you know you’re smart. not in a vanity kind of way— just in a fact kind of way. you always have been. tests have always been easy, classes have always been something to ace without thinking too much about it. it’s never been a question. but it turns out there are things in life that don’t follow the exact science, things that aren’t a matter of logic or problem-solving. like the way people can leave. like the way they can decide, one day, that they don’t want you in their life anymore. like the way you can like someone, really like someone, and it won’t change a single thing.
the door slams.
the sound pulls you from your thoughts, but you don’t look up right away. you already know who it is.
lando moves like he doesn’t want to be seen, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps off the porch. his head is down, his shoulders tense. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just another restless boy with nowhere to go. but you do know better.
he doesn’t say anything. neither do you.
instead, you watch him from the corner of your eye as he walks across the lawn, kicking at a stray pebble like it personally wronged him. you don’t need to ask what happened. you don’t need to hear it. josie made her decision.
and it’s stupid, it’s so incredibly stupid, but all you can think, for one terrible, selfish second, is: i wouldn’t have done that if you asked me.
but he didn’t. and he won’t.
you grip the rusted chains of the swingset a little tighter, feeling the rough metal bite into your palms. it’s grounding, in a way— simple, tangible, something you can hold. something that makes sense. not like this. not like him.
because here's the thing: you understand machines better than you understand people.
machines are easy. they break for a reason. they wear down from friction, from heat, from stress applied in the wrong places. there’s always an answer, always something you can point to— a clogged filter, a part too old and rusted to function anymore. but people— people are different. unpredictable. people leave for no reason at all. they look you in the eye, say things you want to believe, and then walk away before you can decide if you should.
machines, you can fix.
lando, you don’t know how to help.
you stand from the swing, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. this is probably the last time you’ll see him in a while. maybe ever.
it’s an in-between. the moment before something ends, the breath before something is lost.
he’ll leave, because that’s what he does. you’ll stay, because that’s what you do. another in-between.
he lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave, barely looking back.
you wave back, even though he doesn’t see it, doesn't see you, then turn and walk inside.
NOW, 2024.
the bed is too small for two people. the company housing you’ve been stuck in for months now is cheap, everything here barely above the standard, bare minimum functional. the mattress is thin, the pillows aren’t much better, and the heater has been broken for the past few days, kicking in and out like it can’t make up its mind.
but you’re warm, and you’re not sure if it’s because the heater decided to cooperate for once or because lando is here, lying next to you, his arm tucked under his head, his curls pressed awkwardly against the pillow.
the mechanic in you wants to test the hypothesis— press your cold toes against his shin, see if he jolts away or if the heat lingers, trace a hand against his wrist, against the veins that press up faintly against his skin, check his pulse, compare it to the way your own heart is beating too fast for a moment like this.
but you don’t. because you’re sososososososoooooo normal. and sane. and completely, absolutely unaffected by him being here.
lando says something, something stupid and sarcastic, and you huff out a laugh, shaking your head against the pillow. it feels almost normal, almost like before, like you’re fifteen again and he’s still the boy with the stupid grin and the easy charm, and you’re sitting next to him, rolling your eyes, pretending you’re not laughing at his dumb jokes when you always are.
“what?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching, and you shake your head again, pressing your face into the pillow for a second before looking at him.
“you’re so fucking annoying,” you tell him, and he gasps dramatically.
“me? me?” he says, putting a hand over his chest like he’s offended. “this is how you treat me? after all these years?”
“you always do this,” you grumble, not meeting his eye.
“do what?”
“make me laugh when i don’t want to.”
he grins, fully now, something boyish and triumphant. you hate him. except you don’t. you never could.
you want to ask him again. if he drove here from glastonbury. because even now, even after years of knowing better, some stupid part of you still associates him with that town, that he still belongs to sleepy english countryside roads and not monaco, that he still exists in the same orbit as you and not constantly thousands of miles away. he hasn’t lived there in years, you know that, has spent most of his time in monaco, in hotels, in paddocks and airplanes and places you’ve only ever seen in pictures. he hasn’t been the boy with the curls and the stormy eyes you once knew for a long time.
but right now, he looks like him.
“i’m flying to bahrain tomorrow,” he says, offhanded, like it’s not important. like he’s not leaving again.
and you know you shouldn’t ask. you know you shouldn’t. but you do anyway, because you’re tired, and you’re frustrated, and he’s here, in this stupidly cramped company housing, the night before one of the most important nights of the season, and you just don’t get it. “then why are you here?”
and he looks at you.
and it’s— god.
it’s the softest you’ve ever seen him, like the edges of him have blurred, like he’s looking at you and actually seeing you, like you are something he has just now realized he wants to reach for. his expression is open in a way it almost never is, something that makes your chest feel tight, something that makes your stomach twist.
“why?” he says, and then he smiles, something small, something stupid, something devastating. “you know why.”
your heart stutters.
he says it like it’s simple. like it’s a fact. like the answer has been in front of you this entire time and you were just too blind to see it.
but that’s the problem. you do see it. you see it too clearly, and it’s terrifying.
your breath catches. your fingers curl into the sheets. something in your chest tightens, seizes, and you don’t even realize you’ve frozen up until he tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing in frustration.
“no,” you say, pushing yourself up off of mattress, voice sharp. “no, lando, don’t— don’t do this.”
he sits up too, mouth curving into a frown, reaching for you, but you pull back, swing your legs over the side of the bed, standing too fast.
“you’re being mean,” you say, and your voice cracks on it, and you hate it.
“you don’t—” you inhale sharply, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead, pacing the few steps the room allows. your heart is beating too fast, your hands shaking, your chest tight with something too big to hold in. “i have been second to my sister my entire life, and i will not be the person you settle for just because you cannot have her. not when—” your breath hitches, your throat closing up. “not when i spent my whole life loving you.”
there’s a part of you— a small, sick, selfish part— that wants to take it back. that wants to let him stay. that wants to be the afterthought, the backburner, the waiting room. that wants to sit in the wreckage of this moment and pretend it’s fine, fine, fine.
"get out," you seethe, but it doesn’t feel like enough. it doesn’t feel like it holds all of what you mean, what you want to say. because what you actually want to say is: how dare you. how dare you come here, how dare you look at me like that, how dare you make me think i can want something i cannot have.
“don’t do this,” he says, rough and quiet, and it’s not a demand, not even an argument. it’s something closer to a plea. and fuck him for that. fuck him for making it sound like you’re the one ruining things. like you’re the one breaking his heart.
the laugh that escapes your lips is humorless, bitter. “you don’t get to ask me that,” you say, and you’re trembling now. you shake your head, blinking rapidly, like it might stop the way your vision is starting to blur. "you don't get to do this. you don’t get to— to show up after years and say that and expect me to—"
you stop yourself before you can finish the thought. before you can make it worse.
lando's jaw clenches, and he steps forward, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you, like he wants to fix it.
but he can’t.
you step back, out of reach, your throat burning.
“just go,” you say, and it’s barely above a whisper.
he exhales sharply, running a hand through his curls, tugging at them in frustration. “you’re not being fair.”
"fair?" you echo, and something inside you snaps. "you want to talk about fair, lando? fair is not spending my entire life in the fucking background, waiting for you to— to see me. fair is not you showing up after all this time and making me feel like this, like i'm just—like i’m just—”
you bite down on the words, pressing your lips together so hard it hurts.
"i do," he says, “see you.” and his voice is softer now, careful in a way that makes you want to claw at your own skin. "you make yourself small," he murmurs, searching your face, "but i see past that."
you freeze.
it's unfair, the way he says it. unfair, the way he looks at you— like he means it, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it isn’t utterly ridiculous. like you’re someone worth seeing at all.
because he can't be serious. not really.
because if he sees you, then what the hell is he still doing here?
you stare at him, stomach twisting. the longer this stretches, the more impossible it feels. the longer he stands there, in your tiny, freezing room, after driving all the way here, after finding you, after telling you all these things you never let yourself want to hear— the more it feels like a joke.
your jaw tightens, and you force out a breath, shaking your head. “you’re so full of shit.”
lando exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "you think i'm lying?"
you don’t answer.
because of course you do. of course, you think he's lying, because what other explanation could there be? people don’t just show up like this, not for you. people don’t just say things like this, not to you.
lando is— lando is bright lights and roaring crowds and champagne on podiums and gold stars you stopped earning a long time ago. he is big and brilliant and out in the world, his name on headlines, his face on screens, and you are this. you are small and tired and standing in a too-cold room in a life that is barely yours, trying to pretend like the walls aren’t closing in.
so why the hell is he here?
you cross your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “you’re telling me—” you say, slow and deliberate, “that you drove all the way here, to my shitty flat, the night before you’re supposed to fly to bahrain— just to tell me that you ‘see me?’”
lando looks at you, and it’s almost frustrating how unaffected he seems. "yes."
a bitter laugh slips out before you can stop it. "right." because that makes sense. because that's fucking believable.
lando's expression tightens, his patience beginning to wear thin. "why is that so hard for you to believe?"
why? that's the million-pound question, isn't it?
why? because you are not brilliant anymore, if you ever were. because you are a little fish in an impossibly large pond, and the tide has long since pulled you under. because people like him don’t choose people like you. because if you believe him— if you really believe him— then you’ll have to face the fact that you’ve spent years telling yourself a lie.
you let out a sharp breath. "because you don’t mean it."
lando flinches like you've struck him. “you think i came here to lie to you?”
you have to believe that. you have to.
because if you don’t— if you believe him, if you let yourself think, even for a second, that he might really be here, that he might really want you— then you won’t survive it when he eventually realizes he was wrong.
“i think,” you say, voice colder now, “that you’re here because i’m convenient. because i’m familiar. because i’m the easiest thing in your life right now, and you needed something easy. right before the season starts.”
lando’s eyes darken, something like hurt flickering across his face before he masks it. “that’s not fair.” he repeats.
“isn’t it?” you shoot back. “you live in fucking monaco. you race cars for a living. you could have anything, anyone, and you came here? to me?” you scoff. "be fucking for real, lando."
his jaw clenches. “i came here because i wanted to.”
“and that’s what doesn’t make sense.”
he stares at you, eyes searching, as if looking long enough might make you understand.
but you do understand. and that’s the problem.
because a part of you— some small, traitorous part, buried deep beneath all the years and tests and report cards of self-doubt and exhaustion— knows he means it. knows that he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. knows that he sees something in you that you can’t see in yourself.
but you refuse to let it take root. refuse to let yourself believe in something that will only crumble in your hands.
so you shake your head, step back, put as much space between you as you can. “just go, lando.”
his brows knit together, like he wants to argue, like he wants to fight back, but he doesn’t.
he just looks at you, long and quiet, something unreadable in his expression. and then he nods. and he leaves.
