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COULD YOU TELL WHERE MY HEAD WAS AT WHEN YOU FOUND ME? | Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Six months in and everythiing feels like it's new and fragile and safe all at the same time. Like it's right where they're meant to be. Just two people holding onto each other tight even when the world tires to pull them apart.

HELL & BACK MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER WARNINGS: None. I think this might hurt a little bit. Gets angsty at the end :)

Six months.

You’ve been his girlfriend for six months.

He’s kept you all to himself for six months.

And it’s been perfect.

Not the kind of perfect that’s loud and flashy, that demands to be seen or plastered across headlines. Your love is quieter than that. Softer. More gentle. A kind of perfect that breathes easy. A love he keeps close to his chest—not like a secret, but like a treasure. Something too precious to risk, too delicate to offer up to the noise.

You don’t exactly sneak around—Monaco’s privacy laws have done a lot of the heavy lifting—but you both keep things deliberately low-key. Moments spent tucked away in each other’s apartments, where the biggest decision is what to order for dinner and whether you can convince him to share.

He usually gets his meal plan—some overly calculated, protein-packed nonsense he pretends to enjoy—and you, of course, go for something that actually tastes good.

“You can have some, y’know?” you say, nudging your takeout container toward him with a grin.

“I gotta stay in shape,” he pouts. “Can’t be too heavy for the car.”

He bites his lip like he’s genuinely tempted, then dramatically digs back into what you’ve dubbed his ‘overly healthy disgusting athlete food’ after he let you try a bite that one time.

“Why is there no flavor?” you ask, nose scrunched like it personally offended you.

“Baby, I can’t have too much salt,” he says with a laugh.

“I’m begging you—save your tastebuds. I love you too much to let you keep eating this.”

His eyebrows lift, teasing. “Oh? You love me?”

Your cheeks flush immediately, giving you away. That’s all the answer he needs before leaning over and pressing a warm kiss to your temple, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

You take hikes together, too. Quiet mornings in the mountains, far from any cameras or curious eyes—where the only ones who know your names are the trees and the wind. Where the air is light and clean, and the sun kisses your skin just enough to leave you both golden by the time you come back down.

Other times, you take weekend trips to sleepy corners of France, little towns with cobblestone streets and no real plans. He walks beside you with his hand resting on the small of your back, stealing kisses like secrets whenever no one’s looking.

He gives you a paddock pass, of course. You go to races. You’re there, always there, just not seen. Tucked away in his driver’s room, tucked into him when the world is too loud. You stand in the back of the garage, behind tinted glass or shaded corners, watching it all unfold. You aren’t the first to congratulate him when he wins—but you are the last. The only one that really matters. The one whose arms he falls into when it’s all over.

And he thinks that’s enough.

He thinks this—what you have, what you’ve built together in this quiet little corner of the world—is everything he needs.

But you both know.

Love this good?

It never stays hidden for long.

It starts with a photo. Blurry. Shaken. Clearly taken in haste. But it’s enough to make out the shape of him, the shape of you—your hand resting lightly on his arm as you walk beside him down an empty street at night.

Gossip blogs latch onto it instantly, dissecting every pixel. Speculating who you are, what your relationship is, how long it's been going on.

A slip-up. An unfortunate one. But it passes quickly. Just a rumor. A whisper. Your name never even makes it into the captions. The world chalks it up to a fleeting thing—a casual fling. Temporary.

To them, it's nothing.

To him, it’s everything. A relationship that saved him, kept him grounded.

The next week, another photo surfaces. You’re getting into his car outside of your office. It’s grainy, poorly lit, the building mercifully unconfirmed. But the implication is loud, even without words.

He sees the shift right away—the way eyes linger a little longer when you walk into a room, the way people start connecting dots, even when they shouldn’t be looking.

But it’s the third photo that breaks the illusion entirely.

You’re kissing.

It’s not staged. Not careful. Just a stolen moment—quiet, affectionate, real. A goodbye kiss, probably. But now it’s on every screen. Tweeted, reposted, captioned with headlines in bold: “Who is She?” “Lando Norris’ Mystery Girlfriend Finally Revealed?” “Romance Confirmed?”

The internet explodes. Instagram threads, tabloid articles, TikTok theories. Everything from any photo of him with a woman from the last year to your Instagram profile–put on private, thankfully—gets put under a microscope. People start watching too closely. Noticing too much. Dissecting every interaction you’ve ever had in public like it’s a clue in some twisted game.

Neither of you are surprised.

You’d known it was only a matter of time.

But that doesn’t make it easier.

Because after that, everything shifts. The way people talk. The way they stare. The pressure. The questions. The quiet between you two starts to stretch longer than usual. Not because anything’s broken—yet—but because, for the first time, your little world doesn’t feel untouched anymore.

“You’re acting weird,” you tell him over dinner one night.

Chicken and pasta—a meal you’d carefully put together, following his mid-season diet to the letter. Even used that healthy pasta you hate but never complain about, just so he wouldn’t have to eat alone.

You’re too good for him, he thinks. Too gentle. Too thoughtful. Too willing to accommodate a life you never asked for.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, too flat.

“It’s just…” You move around the kitchen, setting plates down with a soft clink. “You seem a little paranoid lately.”

His brows draw together, tension instantly forming between them like it always does when he’s overthinking again.

You walk over—quiet, cautious—and reach up to smooth the crease away with your thumb. It’s such a small thing, but it makes his throat tighten.

“We’re home,” you remind him, voice calm and steady. “We’re safe here.”

“I know…” he murmurs, leaning into you, letting his head rest against your chest like it’s the only place he can breathe right now. Your heartbeat is steady. Sure. Unlike him.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

You hum in response, fingers running through his curls with that same quiet tenderness you always offer when you know he’s not ready to talk. And still, the guilt presses against his ribs like it’s trying to crack them open. He hates this. Hates that you’re caught up in a life that never asked for your consent. Hates that all you wanted was a nice, normal boyfriend—and he couldn’t even give you that.

“The food’s getting cold,” he says after a moment, pulling back.

“It’s alright,” you say, thumb grazing his cheek, trying to coax him back into ease. “We can always reheat it.”

But he shakes his head. Stands up, shoulders tense.

“It isn’t alright,” he snaps—not at you, never at you, but at the whole situation. “It’s not. I…” He sees the flash of confusion across your face, the slight recoil from his tone, and immediately softens. “You worked so hard on it. I don’t want it to go to waste.”

You furrow your brows, tilting your head. “Lando…I boiled pasta and baked a chicken with some lemon. It’s not like I made a feast.”

“It’s not about how hard it is,” he says, voice low. “It’s about the fact that you did it. For me.”

He bites his lip, the words struggling to form, but eventually they find their way out.

“You take such good care of me.” He swallows thickly. “You actually like me. As a person.”

You take a tentative step forward, heart aching at the way he sounds—small, uncertain.

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says again, more urgently now.

“But I’m not.”

“You could,” he insists, eyes wide, voice strained. “You’re already getting dragged online, people are making assumptions, twisting things, and it’s only gonna get worse. I know how this goes.”

“Lando,” you say carefully, “What exactly do you think is going to hurt me?”

He opens his mouth, searching for the right thing to say, but you don’t give him the space to spiral.

“I knew what I was getting into when we started dating. I knew the risks—the lack of privacy, the noise, the blurry camera phone photos, the comments from people who think they know us. I’m not saying I like it, but I knew. And I still chose this.”

He looks at you like he’s still trying to believe that could be true. That someone would willingly walk into the chaos and stay.

“Why?” he asks, barely above a whisper, “Why choose it at all? Why stay?”

You reach out, your hand finding his, warm and sure.

“Because you’re worth it.”

He wants to believe it. He really does.

Wants to take your words and wrap them around himself like armor. Wants to trust that you see something in him worth holding onto.

But deep down, there’s that whisper again—the one that says you deserve better, that he’ll ruin this too, that he’s not enough.

Still, the selfish part of him—the part that aches for you, that clings to your warmth and your steady heart—takes over.

So he slides his arms around your waist and presses his forehead to your shoulder. Holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

He doesn't say anything, just breathes you in and hopes it’s enough. Hopes that maybe, if he holds you close enough, long enough, the doubt will fade. That maybe trying to believe is the first step to actually believing.

It has to be.

Because he can’t lose you.

Not now.

Not when you’ve become the safest thing he’s ever known.

“You get used to it.”

He overhears Lily tell you during the next race weekend you attend—your first public one since the world found out about the two of you.

“I think it’s just one of those things you have to compartmentalize,” she continues, her voice calm, matter-of-fact, like she’s said it a dozen times before. “They don’t know you, so why let them ruin your life?”

She’s younger than him, around Oscar’s age, but she speaks with the kind of hard-earned clarity that only comes from living through the noise. From surviving it. From choosing love, over and over again, despite everything.

And he watches you listen—really listen—the way you always do, your brows pinched slightly in thought, the corner of your lip tucked under your teeth the way it always is when you’re taking in something serious.

Lily offers you a small smile before turning her attention back to her phone, and it’s quiet again, save for the distant hum of the paddock.

He lingers just a moment longer, then turns away before either of you can see him watching.

But he thinks about it all day.

He thinks about how right Lily is—how relationships like this force you to grow up fast, to develop skin thick enough to shield love from the storm that tries to swallow it.

He thinks that maybe that’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time—you start to take on pieces of each other, whether you mean to or not. A glance. A phrase. A way of looking at the world that’s softer, braver, more certain.

And he likes to believe it’s already happening with you, like it’s confirmation that he’s learning how to love with his whole chest, honest and without flinching.

He hopes that he’s taking in bits of your quiet strength, the way you stay soft even when the world tries to harden you, the way you notice the little things, like how he always taps twice on his door before leaving for a race weekend or how he craves the specific sandwich from the team’s hospitality on the long stretches away from the track.

He hopes he’s absorbing some of that calm steadiness, that warmth that makes people feel safe just being near you. He hopes he’s learning to carry himself with the same grace you do, even when you’re being watched, even when you’re being picked apart.

Maybe he’s learning how to be a little more patient. A little more open. A little more seen.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re taking in pieces of him too.

The win feels surreal. Even hours later, champagne still drying in his hair, his race suit half-zipped and tied around his waist, it hasn’t quite sunk in. He won.

And you were there. Right next to his mechanics and engineers, dressed in the number he got you, beaming with pride like you’d been holding your breath the entire final lap. He spotted you instantly, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on yours—and then, just like that, everything else faded.

He kissed you. Quickly, but sweetly. Right in front of everyone, in front of cameras and fans and anyone who had something to say about it. He hadn’t known how liberating it would feel to love you in public—to choose you out loud. There’s still a little fear, some anxiety coiled deep in his chest, but it’s outweighed by one simple truth: you were there. And despite the roar of the crowd and the sea of people, the moment felt like it belonged only to the both of you.

He finds you later on—after the podium, after the media duties and debriefs have wrapped up—in the back halls of the paddock, away from the commotion, from the flashes and microphones and celebration chaos.

And you smile at him like he’s the only thing that matters in the world.

Maybe that’s what he loves most about you. That no matter how loud everything gets, you’re always the calm. The center. The grounding.

“You did it,” you whisper, barely able to contain your excitement. You don’t run to him, don’t throw yourself into his arms like it’s some cheesy movie montage. You just open your arms, patient and sure, and it’s more than enough. He melts into you like it’s instinct, forehead pressing into your shoulder, your hand finding its place against his back, tracing gentle circles that anchor him in place.

“I did it,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, like he’s still convincing himself it’s real.

“You earned it.”

You pull back just enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual. He tastes salt—sweat and champagne, maybe tears—but also the faint sweetness of your lip balm, and something else. Something like home.

“I’m so proud of you,” you breathe.

He wants to stay here forever. Just like this. Wrapped up in you, the scent of your perfume, the rhythm of your breathing, the feeling of being known and loved and seen.

Because for all the glory and the cameras and the celebrations, this—you—is the part that means the most.

And then his phone buzzes.

Again.

And again.

He feels it in his hand like a warning bell—sharp and vibrating against his skin, a caution to ignore. But he doesn’t need to check it. He already knows.

Someone snapped a photo. Probably several. The two of you in the garage—his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair, the kiss you left on his cheek like a promise. The way he looked at you like you hung the stars and he was lucky enough to live under them.

It’s already made the rounds on social media. He knows how it goes: every good moment weaponized, every soft thing twisted into scandal. People dissecting who you are, if you deserve him, if he deserves you. If he’s distracted. If this somehow makes the win less about racing and more about gossip.

You notice the shift in him immediately—the way his jaw tenses, the subtle retreat behind his eyes.

“Hey.” Your voice is quiet, steady. You reach up and smooth the frown from his face with your thumb. “What’s in your head?”

“You know what.” He leans into your touch, needing the warmth of it like oxygen. “They saw.”

“Let them see,” you tell him, calm and collected. Direct. “Let them make stories in their heads and judge and post and twist it all. We know the truth.”

His gaze flickers to yours—guarded, hesitant, like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

“Don’t let them take this away from you,” you continue, softer now. “You won today. You gave a beautiful performance. You drove your heart out—made it look easy. That’s all you. That’s who you are.” You lace your fingers through his. “Let them talk, yeah?. We don’t owe them anything.”

He exhales, long and slow, as if the weight of the world loosened just a little from his shoulders.

And then—

He smiles.

Soft. Full. The kind of smile he only ever saves for you.

“Come with me,” he says, standing a little taller, tugging gently on your hand.

“To where?” you ask, matching his grin.

“Anywhere.” He tilts his head. “Somewhere with cake.”

A beat.

“Or alcohol.”

You laugh—really laugh—and just like that, the rest of the noise fades.

For now, it’s just you and him again.

Just love.

Everything comes to a head on a random afternoon.

The kind of afternoon that starts slow, lazy, golden. The kind meant for thumbing through the pages of a book with soft music playing in the background, the sun casting gentle rays through the windows. The kind meant for lounging around in socks and oversized shirts, for dancing in the kitchen when no one’s looking. The kind where he stands behind you, arms draped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as you half-heartedly try to cook.

“I’m trying to focus,” you protest with a laugh, elbows nudging him away, but not really.

“You’re doing amazing,” he mumbles into your neck, not letting go. “Very professional. Extremely precise stirring technique.”

He’s warm and drowsy with contentment, and he would’ve liked nothing more than for the day to stretch out just like that—lazy and uninterrupted. But, of course, it doesn’t.

Your phone rings. Twice. Then dings with a new email. And then again.

You sigh as you check the screen, posture already shifting into something stiffer.

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“One of our team members went AWOL and I’m next in line to clean up the mess.”

“On your off day?” he frowns.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t like it. Not even a little. But he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask you to put it away or remind you it’s supposed to be your break. He just watches you sigh again and mutter something about needing caffeine before you settle on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees.

So he makes it his mission to be as close to you as humanly possible while you work. He brings you water. Makes coffee. Adjusts your blanket. Scrolls quietly through his own phone while stealing glances at you every other minute. You’re focused, brow furrowed in that way he finds maddeningly attractive. You chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re deep in thought. You mumble phrases under your breath when you type too fast and lose your place.

And even though he knows he shouldn’t—because you’re busy and clearly stressed—he can’t help but press a soft kiss to your temple when you let out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.

You sigh again, leaning into his touch just a little. “I’m trying.”

After a moment, you look around like you’re searching for something.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get my phone for me? I need to contact someone. I think I left it charging in the kitchen.”

“‘Course,” he says immediately, already standing up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You give him a tired smile. “Not planning to.”

And as he walks off to grab your phone, he feels it again—that tiny little ache in his chest.

The need to protect your peace.

To make all this easier.

To keep the world quiet just for you.

When he comes back, you’re typing fast, eyes glued to the screen, lips pursed in concentration. Your coffee sits forgotten on the table, half-full and growing cold. He figures you’ve probably pushed aside your contacts and messages for later, choosing to lock in and power through the work in one sitting.

He doesn’t bother you. Just settles in beside you, thigh pressed against yours, and reaches for your phone where it’s now resting on the arm of the couch. If he can’t have your attention, he might as well amuse himself.

Every now and then, he takes over your Instagram for fun. It started as a joke—one random post captioned “she’s in a meeting so I’m the boss now” that had your friends in stitches—and somehow became a bit of a tradition. Your close friends list is basically a fan club for his antics now, and while it was a little shocking for everyone involved the first time, it’s now just expected that he’ll hijack your socials from time to time.

He flicks open the camera and starts filming himself dramatically sighing, pouting, and flopping back against the cushions.

“She hates me now, actually,” he writes across one story in bold text. “She doesn’t want to cuddle anymore. Pray for me.”

He adds another clip where he zooms in on your focused expression.

“She used to look at me like that,” he writes underneath, adding a crying emoji for dramatic effect.

Within seconds, your best friend replies:

“Deserved, really.”

He snorts, already halfway through typing a sarcastic reply—something about being emotionally neglected, maybe tossing in a meme or two—when a new notification pops up.

It’s from your message requests.

His thumb hovers. He knows he shouldn’t. You’ve both always had an open-door policy with each other’s phones—no secrets, no locked messages—but still, this feels different. A quiet line he shouldn't cross. But something about the way the name looks, the small preview of the message beneath it—long, too long for a normal DM—makes his stomach twist.

He hesitates. Then, against his better judgement, taps the message open.

And instantly wishes he hadn’t.

“Why don’t you just stop pretending like you’re not with him for the clout and money and end it already?”

That was just the first line.

His chest tightens. A strange, acidic kind of anger burns in his stomach as he scrolls down, eyes locked on the words. He reads through the entire message—every insult, every cruel assumption about you. They dig at your work, your background, your family, your worth. Each line more venomous than the last.

And then he sees it.

“Just go and kill yourself already. You don’t deserve him.”

He stops. Stares at the sentence like it might change if he blinks enough times. Like maybe he read it wrong. But it’s still there, clear as day, etched into a DM from someone who didn’t even have the decency to use their real name or face.

His throat is dry. The room suddenly feels smaller, tighter. Was this… what you were going through behind his back? And for how long?

His fingers scroll shakily to the rest of your requests. They’re all the same. Cruel messages. Graphic insults. Threats to your life. The occasional guy sending disgusting messages and unsolicited photos like they had any right to your attention.

Some of them are already opened.

Which means…you saw them. You read them. And you never told him.

He swallows hard. There's a sting behind his eyes that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. You shouldn’t have had to carry this alone. And yet, you chose to protect him from this?

He would’ve done something—spoken out, pushed back, made statements, anything. But what could he have done that wouldn’t have made it worse? What would his team have let him do? But does any of that matter when it comes to you? When it's you being hurt like this?

He grips the phone tightly, heart pounding.

You're still working just a few feet away, your head tilted in focus, earbuds in, completely unaware.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time again—not just as the person he loves, but as someone who's quietly fought battles for him that he never even knew existed.

And suddenly, that soft, ordinary afternoon doesn’t feel so ordinary anymore.

He waits until you’re done with work to bring it up. Part of him is grateful it takes a little longer—it gives him time to process, to calm down, to figure out how to say what needs to be said.

Except, when the time finally comes, he still doesn’t really know.

You’re so calm, always. Grounded in a way he admires and clings to. So he assumes you’ve got it under control. No—knows you do.

But those messages… they weren’t just mean. They were vile.

Anger bubbles in him all over again when he thinks of the words strangers used against you.

Why would anyone treat you like that? You, who has only ever been kind, soft, patient. Who’s taken care of him when he’s been at his worst. Who’s stayed—despite the pressure, despite the headlines, despite everything.

And that’s when the guilt creeps in.

Because this? This is on him.

It’s his name. His spotlight. His fans. His world.

It’s his career that dragged you into this storm. That opened the door for people to hurt you just because you love him.

So he retreats for a while. Puts on his headphones and doom-scrolls in the bedroom, letting the noise of the internet distract him from the noise in his head.

A couple hours later, you appear at the doorway, arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“What happened to my clingy boyfriend?” you tease gently, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I thought he didn’t want to be apart from me for more than five minutes.”

He looks up.

You’re tired—he can see it in the slight slump of your shoulders, the faint exhaustion under your eyes—but you’re still the most radiant thing he’s ever seen.

“Join me for dinner so I can prove I don’t hate you,” you say, laughing softly.

Okay.

So…you saw the stories he posted from your account.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Actually,” he says, patting the bed beside him, “C’mere for a sec?”

You cross the room and settle next to him, legs folded beneath you.

He shifts to face you, expression unreadable.

“I wanted to bring something up,” he says, slowly, carefully. “It’s not really about you, but it kind of…is.”

You tilt your head, confused.

“Lando, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

He nods too quickly. “Yeah—well, no. Not really.”

He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Earlier, when I was messing around on your Instagram…I, uh…I looked through your message requests.”

Your expression falters. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, guilt creeping into his voice. “I know we share passwords and all, but it still felt wrong. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear. There was a notification and I just—”

He hesitates, his voice softer now. “I saw what people have been sending you.”

Silence.

Your gaze drops to the blanket between you. He watches the subtle way your jaw tenses, how your fingers curl just slightly in your lap.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“It’s not your fault.” You take his hand again, gently, tracing circles into his skin like you always do when you’re trying to soothe him. “People can be mean, is all.”

“Mean?” His voice catches, sharp. He pulls away, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tense. “Did we read the same messages? Those weren’t just mean, they—”

“I know what they are,” you say, a little firmer now. “They were written for me.”

You lean forward, propping your chin on your palm, your eyes soft but resolute. “I just mean they don’t mean anything.”

He falls silent. Not because he agrees, but because he’s fuming—quietly, the way he does when he’s trying not to spiral.

Because how can you sit there and act like this isn’t a big deal?

“Lando, they’re strangers,” you say. “What have they ever done to me?”

“Y/N,” he says, almost incredulous. “They’re telling you to go and die! How is that nothing?”

“It’s nothing because they’re words, and—”

“Words can hurt too!” he snaps, voice breaking just slightly. “I would know!”

Silence.

It’s heavy. Stretched.

You look at him then—really look at him. The tension in his shoulders, the tremble in his fingers. His eyes, wide and red at the corners. You see it all. And suddenly, you understand.

“What are you really so upset about?” you ask quietly. “Because I know it’s not just the messages.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you want a list?”

You nod once. “Try me.”

He throws his hands up, not in anger but in frustration, like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

“Where do I begin? Maybe at the fact that this is happening to you? That I had to read those things and imagine you seeing them and just…dealing with it alone?”

He shakes his head, breath catching. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t tell me at all? Like I’m not supposed to care?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” you argue, “These things happen all the time—for us, for people watching you guys on the sidelines. Ask Kika, or Lily, or Alex—”

“That’s my point!” he says, eyes bright with emotion. “It’s bad that it’s happening to any of you!”

“But it’s not like we can stop them!” you say, your voice starting to rise now, not in anger, but in desperation. “Why can’t we just ignore them? Why can’t we just let them be?”

“Because I did this to you!” he bursts out.

The words land heavy in the air between you.

You blink. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“Land—”

“This is my fault,” he cuts in, voice cracking around the edges. “If you never loved me, if we never got together, if I never approached you at that party, then—then you wouldn’t have to go through this. You wouldn’t be dragged through the mud, humiliated, harassed—hated, just for being with me.”

You blink, stunned. “Lando, I…”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, backing up like he can put space between himself and the mess he feels he's made. “You don’t get it. You keep saying you’re fine, and maybe you think you are, but I’m not. I’m not okay. And I can’t just sit here and pretend like you should be.”

“I already said I was fine, Lando!” your voice rises, not from anger, but from frustration, from exhaustion. “Why are you trying to insist that I’m not?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to be!” he yells, louder than he intends. “You shouldn’t have to be fine with this. With people sending you that shit, with people twisting everything we do, with strangers threatening you just because you love me.”

You flinch slightly at the force of his words, and he immediately regrets the volume. He lowers his voice, but the intensity stays.

“I know you. I see you. And I see you act like it doesn’t matter. I see you smile through it like it doesn’t hurt. But I saw those messages.” He runs a trembling hand through his curls, tugging slightly like he needs the sting to stay grounded. “I fucking saw them. And I know you saw them too—and you’re just holding it all in because you think if you can pretend it’s fine, then I won’t feel guilty. But I do, Y/N.” His voice wavers. “God, I feel sick.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, protective, instinctual. Like you’re trying to hold all your pieces together. The words are there, caught in your throat, but nothing comes out.

“You know, I’m not dumb. People think I am—think I just smile and drive and don’t notice anything. But I do. I know exactly how easily I could lose you.” His voice drops, ragged. “How easy it would be for you to just look at everything you’ve had to go through just to be with me and think—‘It’s not worth it.’ That no matter how much you feel for me, no matter how much we love each other, it’s not enough to put up with all this shit.”

He laughs, low and hollow—completely devoid of joy. “And the worst part? I couldn’t even blame you. Because let’s be honest, what am I actually giving you? What do you even get from this?”

You open your mouth, voice barely a whisper, soft and shaking like it’s made of glass. “You. You’re giving me you.”

He flinches like the words hurt. And maybe they do. Because he doesn’t believe he’s enough. Not really.

“Is that really enough?” he asks again, quieter now. Like he already knows the answer.

You reach for him, slow and careful, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean in, doesn’t close the gap. He just watches you—eyes glossy, guarded, like he’s already lost you and is trying to memorize the way you look while he still can.

“You’re not being fair, Lando.” Your voice wavers, but it holds. “Because, yes—you’re right. It wasn’t easy. And no, it wasn’t fun being picked apart or threatened or turned into some fucking headline. But I knew what I was getting into. I chose this. I chose you. I choose you every day.”

He shakes his head—not to argue, not to deny—but like the words are too heavy to hold. Like he wants so badly to believe them but doesn’t know how.

“I love you.” You say it like a prayer, like a promise. “I love you. That doesn’t change just because the world outside is loud and cruel and fucking relentless.” You blink back the burn in your eyes, swallowing hard. “So tell me—please—why are you so scared of me choosing you? Why do you keep preparing for me to walk away when I’m standing right here?”

He looks at you—really looks at you—like the breath’s been knocked out of him. His eyes are wide, glassy with tears, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he’s drowning in the weight of it all and trying not to break apart.

And then, finally, quietly—like it hurts to say but it would hurt more to keep it in—he whispers:

“You’re real,” he says. “And I’m scared.”

Your breath hitches. There it is. The pure, honest reason. The vulnerability beneath all of it.

Then—

“And I wish I never met you.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and the silence that follows is suffocating.

“What?” you ask, gentle. But he hears it—the crack in your voice, the way you barely manage to get the word out. God, he’s going to break you. But maybe it’s better this way. Better for you to break now because of him than to keep breaking later because of everything else.

“I just—Y/N, god—” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then drags them down his face like it might ground him. “I don’t know how to fix this. I love you. I love you so much I feel it in every bone in my body. But I don’t know how to protect you. I can’t stop what’s happening. I can’t stop them from doing this to you. I want to save us, but I can’t.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you say, voice firmer now, though still soft. “I never asked you to.”

“I know. I know you didn’t. But I want to. I need to. And yet all I can do is watch you smile through it like it doesn’t hurt. Pretend like you’re fine. I hate that. I hate knowing you’re holding it in for me. Just so I won’t fall apart.”

“And it’s alright if you are,” you start, trying to reach for him, “Just—”

He lets out a bitter, breathy laugh. “You’re right. I am. I’m spiraling and tearing myself apart and I’m dragging you down with me whether you want to admit it or not.”

“You’re not.”

“I am, Y/N.” His voice rises, breaks. “Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Because I know—I know you would’ve gone farther without me. You would’ve been so much greater, so much happier, if you never met me. But I pulled you into something you never should’ve been a part of.”

You stare at him, throat tight, lungs burning. “So what? What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to save you.” His voice is a whisper now. Raw. Defeated. “I’m trying to let you go.”

Your lips part like you want to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. Because somewhere, deep down, you feel it too. The shift. The weight. The ache.

There’s a pause. A hollow silence where you swear you can hear the exact moment your heart begins to crack—splintering quietly, almost politely, like it’s trying not to make a scene.

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.” You step toward him, voice trembling but steady enough. “Don’t run from this. From me. I’m right here, so don’t run away.”

His hand lifts—fingers twitching like they want to reach for you, to hold on—but it falls back to his side. Useless. Empty. His eyes lock onto yours like he’s trying to memorize them. Like he already knows this is the last time he’ll see them this close.

“I love you,” he says. Like an apology. Like a confession carved from grief. “But I’m going to ruin you—I’ve already ruined you.”

“You haven’t.” Your voice breaks on the edges. “And if you have…let me choose that. Don’t take away my choice to choose you just because you’re scared. Let me decide.”

“I already have.”

And just like that, something shifts. Something final.

He moves slowly. Like his body’s heavier than it was moments ago. Like each step costs him something. He picks up his keys from the dresser with a quiet finality.

Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t let himself. Because he knows—if he does, he’ll stay.

And you don’t follow. You just stand there. In the middle of the room you built together. In the middle of everything that used to feel safe and whole.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And then it’s quiet.

So painfully, achingly quiet.

Like the aftermath of a storm you didn’t realize would be the last.

tags: @natashaklein @freyathehuntress

#lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fic #lando norris #f1 fanfiction #formula one fic #formula one x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩#✶ Hell & Back ✶

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