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f1-mcmuffin · 28 days ago

Note

Hey! can you also do either a kpop soloist/blackpink 5 member/svt14th member au(whatever you want) but with charles leclerc? 🫶

Toxic Till The End

(Requested) Charles Leclerc x Kpop Soloist Reader

a/n: this was my opportunity to finally make a angsty story, hehe enjoy!! p.s sorry anon if you wanted a happy story.

Warnings: toxic relationship, slight abuse (him grabbing her wrist), manipulation, gaslighting

THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY, THIS DOES NOT DETERMINE HOW CHARLES LECLERC IS AS A PERSON AND ABSOLUTELY NO HATE TO HIM

| Charles Leclerc Masterlist| Main Masterlist|

She had never known love quite like this. The kind that was exhilarating and magnetic, but what she didn’t understand was how to handle love when it was broken, when it turned sufficating. She didn’t expect it to be so painful, especially not with him.

Charles Leclerc, Formula 1’s golden child. She was captivated by him. He was everything she wasn’t: carefree, fiercely independent, always on the go. She was careful, reserved, always aware of her image.

With Charles she didn’t have to be perfect. He made her feel free. Their connection was immediate, an undeniable pull that both fascinated and terrified her. But like all things that burn too brightly, it didn’t take long before things started to unravel.

She met Charles in a posh Monaco nightclub after one of his races. The night had started as any other—bright lights, champagne, laughter—but the moment their eyes locked, everything shifted. It wasn’t supposed to happen, not when they were both at the peak of their careers, surrounded by the constant hum of fame and expectations. But it did.

At first, it was the kind of love that made everything seem easier. Their connection felt effortless—too effortless, maybe. She was charmed by his boyish smile and his infectious energy, while he found peace in her quiet strength and the way her voice resonated with emotion.

They shared stolen moments in crowded hotel rooms, late-night phone calls, and the kind of passion that was pure and overwhelming. But the problem with love built on fire is that it can burn too brightly, too quickly.

They spent days talking, getting lost in each other’s worlds. The contrast between her glittering life and his racing-driven existence made them feel like opposites, but they balanced each other out in a way she hadn’t experienced before. The late-night calls, the stolen kisses, the intimacy—it all felt so natural, so right.

As soon as the honeymoon phase began to fade the cracks started to appear. Now there were moments where she felt like she was being ignored, or when fights started getting scarer . Their bond began to feel like a tug-of-war between love and frustration, and neither of them knew how to let go.

when Charles began pulling away. At first, she told herself it was normal. He was busy with races, and she was juggling a new album. But then came the first real sign that things weren’t as they seemed. Charles promised to meet her for dinner after one of his races. They’d planned it weeks in advance, circling the date on both their calendars, carving out time from two impossibly busy lives. She had been looking forward to it for days, clinging to the thought like it was a lifeline.

She arrived at the restaurant just before seven, dressed in a simple black dress that hugged her frame perfectly, her makeup soft but intentional. She sat by the window, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, a smile ready and waiting for him.

For the first half-hour, she kept glancing at the door every time it swung open, her heart leaping with hope — only to sink back down when it wasn’t him.

An hour passed. The waiter came by, offering her water, then wine, then just a quiet, pitying smile when she shook her head.

Another hour. The restaurant around her buzzed with quiet laughter and clinking silverware, and yet she felt like she was sitting in a glass box — separate, forgotten. Her phone sat face-up on the table, screen dark. No calls. No texts.

She tried calling him once, then twice, her fingers trembling just slightly as she pressed the screen. Straight to voicemail.

It wasn’t like him — not the Charles she’d first met. The Charles who used to make her feel like the center of the universe.

By the time she finally stood and walked out, the night had swallowed the city whole. The air outside was cool and sharp, and the lights of Monaco sparkled like they were mocking her — too bright, too happy, too alive. She climbed into the back of a cab and stared blankly at the passing streets, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay.

But they came anyway.

In the dim privacy of the taxi, she let her head fall back against the seat, silent tears tracing down her cheeks.

By the time the driver pulled up in front of his apartment building, she felt like her entire chest was one tight knot of hurt and confusion. She hated herself for still coming here. For still hoping he’d be home.

When she stepped inside, the apartment was dark.

Empty.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a long moment, her breath catching in her throat. Finally, she slid down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.

The black dress felt heavy now, suffocating.

How could he stand her up like that? How could he let her down so easily — as though she were nothing but an afterthought?

She buried her face in her hands, the sobs breaking free at last.

For the first time, she let herself wonder if she’d made a mistake falling for him.

But even then… she knew she’d still pick up if he called.

The next day, he finally called.

She answered on the first ring, even though she’d told herself she wouldn’t.

"Hey," he said, his tone maddeningly casual, as if nothing had happened. "Sorry about last night. It just… slipped my mind. I had a lot going on after the race."

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands knotted in her lap. She’d been waiting for this — for him — all night, and all morning, too. But hearing his voice didn’t soothe her the way it usually did. Not this time.

"You didn’t even think to call?" she asked, quiet, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"I’m sorry, I just didn’t. It’s not a big deal," he replied with a light laugh, like her question was unnecessary.

Her throat tightened, but she pushed anyway. "It is a big deal, Charles. You promised. You said you’d be there."

There was a pause on the other end of the line — just long enough to sting — before his voice sharpened, more defensive than apologetic. "I don’t need this right now, Y/n. You knew what you were getting into when we started. I’m busy. I have commitments. You can’t expect me to be available all the time."

Her breath caught.

This wasn’t the Charles she knew — the one who’d made her feel like he’d move mountains just to see her smile. The one who’d sworn she was worth making time for, no matter what.

"I know you’re busy," she said softly, her voice cracking now, "but I… I thought I mattered too."

On the other end of the line, he exhaled impatiently. "Baby, don’t do this. I said I was sorry. Can we not turn this into something it’s not? I’ll make it up to you, okay?"

She nodded before she realized he couldn’t see her. "Okay," she whispered, even though nothing about it felt okay.

When the call ended, she just sat there, staring at her phone.

Her chest ached — not just with sadness, but with confusion. Because this was the first time. And first times leave you reeling.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe it really had just slipped his mind — that the race, the press, the cameras, the adrenaline had swallowed up his night, and that he hadn’t meant to hurt her.

It wasn’t long after that night that she found herself in a familiar cycle of hurt. Charles would drift away again, only to return with grand gestures of apologies and declarations of love. Their arguments, always explosive, always emotional, only left them more entrenched in the pattern. She was hurt by his constant disappearing acts, him pulling away, but then he’d come back—always promising to change, to be better.

But deep down, she knew things weren’t healthy. She had tried to set boundaries, to explain how his actions were hurting her, but Charles would always twist the narrative, turning the focus back onto her—how she was too needy, how she didn’t understand his lifestyle. When they broke up for the first time, she didn’t even know what she was supposed to feel.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Charles said one night, after another heated argument. “I need space. You need to stop depending on me for your happiness.”

She felt the sting of his words, but a part of her knew he was right. She had been clinging to something that was never solid in the first place.

A few days later, Charles texted her, asking if they could meet. She had felt the pull of the familiar emotional magnetism, agreed. When they saw each other, he apologized, pulled her close, kissed her forehead, and promised things would change.

She believed him.

One late night, he showed up at her apartment after a race weekend, looking wrecked — eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, a storm brewing behind his calm facade.

“We need to stop this,” Charles said flatly, pacing in her living room. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand what it’s like for me right now. I don’t have the time. I don’t have the energy. You deserve someone who can give you more than this. More than me.”

She just stood there, frozen.

“What are you saying?” she asked, even though she already knew.

“I’m saying we’re done,” he said. Her heart dropped into her stomach. He didn’t even stay the night.

That was the first time he broke her heart — clean and sudden, leaving her to pick up the pieces on her own.

Two weeks later, her phone rang in the middle of the night. It was him.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low, rough with emotion. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I… I made a mistake. Please. Meet me. Let me explain.”

Against her better judgment, she agreed.

He met her on the pier by the harbor. The moonlit water behind him shimmered like a promise he couldn’t quite keep. “I messed up,” he said, stepping closer. “I panicked. You mean everything to me, Y/n. I can’t— I can’t do this without you. Please. Give me another chance. I’ll do better this time.”

And when he kissed her that night, she let herself believe him.

She always did.

For a few weeks, it felt like things were back to normal. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t the change she had longed for. It was another cycle, another round in the game they were both playing, too afraid to truly let go.

Things went from bad to worse. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut whenever Charles’ name appeared on her phone, but his behavior became increasingly possessive and manipulative. He began to control where she went, who she spoke to, and who she was seen with. At first, it was subtle. He would question her about her interactions with other men, especially the photographers or the dancers she worked with.

“I don’t like how close you were to that guy last night,” Charles remarked one evening after a performance, his voice like ice, his eyes narrowing with jealousy.

She looked up from her water bottle, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone. “Who? The backup dancer?” she said finally, laughing nervously, trying to brush it off. “Charles… he’s just a friend.”

His gaze didn’t soften.“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Charles muttered, stepping closer. She opened her mouth to explain, to soothe, but he cut her off, his voice low and bitter. “And I don’t like the way you look at him.” His eyes were cold now — not the warm brown she’d fallen in love with, but something darker, something that made her stomach churn.

And over the next few weeks, his words grew sharper. His moods more volatile. His accusations more frequent.No matter how many times she tried to calm him — tried to show him he was the only one — it was never enough.

It became a cycle: Charles would pick at her, belittle her, twist her words until she questioned her own intentions. Then he’d show up the next day with flowers or tickets to somewhere beautiful, kissing her cheeks like nothing happened. And she would forgive him.

Until one night, it all broke open.

She had gone out with a few close friends after a brutal, exhausting week. She hadn’t even thought to tell him — mostly because she didn’t want to invite another lecture.

The party was warm, loud, carefree — a tiny pocket of happiness she’d been clinging to. But halfway through the night, the air shifted. He was there.

Charles stormed into the private room without asking, his face a storm cloud of fury. Conversations faltered. Music seemed to dim.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he barked, his voice cutting through the air like glass.

She froze, her glass half-raised. Her friends stared, wide-eyed.“I’m just having a good time, Charles. What’s your problem?” she shot back, her nerves fraying at the edges.

His eyes blazed. “You think you can just go out and have fun without telling me? Without checking in?” His voice rose, pulling all eyes to them now. “You think I don’t see what’s going on?”

Her heart pounded in her chest as heat rose in her cheeks. “Charles, you need to stop,” she said, her voice shaking but firm. “You can’t control me like this.”

But he was already moving closer, then his hand shot out — and he grabbed her wrist.

Hard.

“Don’t you see how it bothers me?” he hissed, his fingers digging into her skin. “You don’t see me all over different girls, do you? You don’t see me embarrassing you like this.”

His grip was starting to hurt. Really hurt.

“Charles,” she said through gritted teeth, “you’re hurting me.”

The whole room had gone dead silent now — even the DJ had stopped the music. Her friends stared in shock. Some looked away. Others exchanged glances, unsure whether to step in.

And that — that silence — was when it really hit her. The room was still, like everyone was holding their breath. Charles’ grip on her wrist was tight enough to make her wince, but she managed to find her voice — soft but cutting.

“Let go of me,” she said.

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring, but after a long, tense moment, he finally loosened his fingers.

She could feel the eyes of the entire room burning into her back. People she called friends. People who wouldn’t meet her gaze. People who already had their own opinions.

She straightened her shoulders, forcing down the lump in her throat, and looked at Charles. “Let’s go,” she said flatly.

He didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed her bag off the couch, slung it over his shoulder, and placed a possessive hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the silent crowd.

The music slowly started back up behind them, awkward and hollow.Nobody said a word to stop her.

The cab ride home was quiet. He sat next to her, jaw still tight, staring out the window, while she kept her eyes on her hands folded in her lap. Her wrist already throbbed. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

When they got to his apartment, she went straight to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She sat on the closed toilet seat and slowly rolled up her sleeve. The faint outline of his fingers was already starting to darken against her skin — red and pulsing angrily.

She stared at it for a long time, her chest tight, her throat burning.

It was such a small thing, she told herself. Just a bad night. Just emotions running high. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have. But the voice in her head — the one she’d been pushing down for weeks now — whispered back anyway: You don’t deserve this. You deserve better. Her eyes stung.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low. “Come out. Please.” She took one more breath, wiped at her eyes, and opened the door.

He was standing there with a bouquet of white roses — like he’d run down to the all-night florist on the corner. His expression was softer now, contrite. That boyish charm she’d fallen for shone through his cracks.

“Baby,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off, his hand reaching to touch her cheek. “You just… you don’t understand what it does to me. Seeing you with other guys. It makes me crazy. Because you’re mine. And I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

He pressed the flowers into her hands, forcing her to grab them. “I’ll be better,” he promised. “You know I’ll be better.” She stared up at him — at his eyes, so full of desperation, like he really believed what he was saying.

Her head screamed no, but her heart… her heart betrayed her, the way it always did.

“Okay,” she whispered. She let him wrap his arms around her. She didn’t hug him back at first. But eventually, her hands rose to his back, and she buried her face into his shoulder, breathing him in.

The roses slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

The cycle felt endless, and she couldn’t help but fall back into it.

Like she always did.

Her world was falling apart in ways she didn’t know how to fix.

Her schedule had slowed down slightly — fewer appearances, fewer interviews — but the quiet didn’t feel like relief. It felt like suffocation. She was still carrying the weight of her fame, the endless scrutiny, her fragile emotions, and the tangled mess that was her relationship with Charles.

She tried to throw herself into her music — it had always been her safe place. But now every song felt hollow. Every lyric she wrote was laced with a sadness she couldn’t shake, every melody tainted by the quiet ache of loving someone who only hurt her.

When her manager asked if she’d do one more concert, she didn’t even think before saying yes. One last concert. One more chance to pretend she was okay.

It was in Paris — the city of love, what a joke.

She had always adored Paris, it had always cradled her heart during her loneliest nights. She thought maybe it would soothe her now, too.

But standing backstage, the crowd’s roar swelling beyond the curtain, her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded, her palms clammy. Her mind was a blur of Charles — his words, his hands, his apologies, his anger. The endless cycle of love and pain. The pressure to smile. The demand to be perfect, no matter how much it hurt.

The lights went up.

She stepped out onto the stage, swallowed by the glow and the deafening cheers of thousands of voices screaming her name. Suddenly, it all crashed down on her at once.

The weight of it. The futility. The Heartbreak. The exhaustion.

She forced a smile, gripping the microphone tight enough that her knuckles whitened and opened her mouth to sing. But the words… they didn’t come. Her voice wavered, cracking on the first note.

The first verse came out fragile, trembling like a bird in a storm. She could hear the waver in her voice — so could everyone else — but the cheers only grew louder, the fans screaming her name like a chant, a prayer. She forced herself to keep going, but each lyric felt like a lie her throat couldn’t form. Her hands started to shake.

And then the tears came. Hot and unstoppable, streaking down her cheeks as her breath caught. She faltered mid-song, clutching the microphone like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

The audience didn’t understand — not really. They cheered louder, thinking it was emotion, passion. Some of them even screamed her name, urging her on.

But she couldn’t stop crying. Her chest heaved, her ribs aching from the effort of holding everything in — everything she’d been burying for months.

The hurt.

The anger.

The endless cycle of loving him and losing herself, over and over.

She pressed a hand to her chest like she could physically hold herself together, but it was no use. Her voice cracked again, and this time she couldn’t force the next line out. One by one, the fans stopped cheering, their hands falling to their sides. The band faltered, the music tapering off into an awkward, uncertain silence.

But the silence didn’t soothe her — it roared louder than the cheers ever could. The sob tore out of her before she could stop it. A broken, ugly sound. The kind of sound that silences a crowd.

She stood in the center of the stage, clutching the microphone with both hands now, her head bowed.

The tears kept coming, dripping down her face, her makeup smudging under the heat of the lights and the weight of her heartbreak. Her shoulders shook. Her knees felt weak. And still — the crowd didn’t stop staring but the noise only made the silence inside her feel louder.

She looked out at them — at all those faces that adored her, that thought she was strong and perfect — and she hated herself for letting them see her like this.

Her breath came in short, uneven gasps as she tried to speak into the mic, but the words wouldn’t come.

She had broken.

Right there, on stage.

And the cruelest part?

Charles wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t.

He never was when she needed him.

The sobs came harder now, her whole body trembling, and she sank to her knees right there under the lights, curling forward like the weight of everything was too much to bear.

The crowd didn’t know what to do — some whispered her name, some shouted “We love you!”, but the words barely reached her.

She was too far gone.

Too tired.

Somewhere offstage, her manager mostioned for the crew to help her.

Two stagehands appeared at the wings and hurried to her, their footsteps echoing like thunder in the silence. One of them gently took the microphone from her hands — she didn’t even notice — while the other knelt beside her and murmured, “Y/n. Come on. Let’s get you offstage, okay?”

Her body didn’t feel like hers anymore.Her limbs moved because they guided her — not because she had the strength to stand.

The cheers of the crowd started up again when she was on her feet, but she couldn’t even look at them. She stared down at the floor as they led her off, one on each side, holding her elbows like she might collapse again at any moment.

Her legs barely worked. Every step felt like a lifetime.

When they reached backstage, her manager was already waiting, his face drawn tight with worry and something else — maybe guilt, or maybe just sadness.

“Take her to her dressing room,” he said, low and firm. The stagehands exchanged a quick look but nodded.

She didn’t protest when one of them bent down and hooked an arm under her knees, lifting her like she was weightless. She just let her head fall against his shoulder, her tears soaking into his black crew t-shirt.

The hallway back to her dressing room was quiet — too quiet, the roar of the crowd muffled now behind heavy curtains and closed doors.

Every light they passed made her flinch. Every poster of her smiling face on the walls felt like a lie. She kept her eyes closed until they finally set her down on the couch in her dressing room.

The door shut behind them, and for the first time, she was alone. The silence pressed in on her like a second skin.

She sat there for a moment, her breath ragged, her cheeks wet, before forcing herself up and shuffling to the vanity.

The mirror was merciless. Her eyeliner was streaked down her face. Her cheeks were blotchy, her nose red, her lips trembling. Her hair stuck to her damp temples, loose curls falling limp.

She didn’t even recognize the girl staring back at her.

This wasn’t her — not the version the world worshipped, the one who smiled and waved and hit every note perfectly.

This was someone raw. Someone undone.

She leaned closer, her fingers gripping the edge of the vanity so tight her knuckles ached. Her reflection blurred as fresh tears filled her eyes.

Behind her, the door opened quietly.

She didn’t look up. She heard her manager’s voice — soft now, nothing like his usual sharp, efficient tone.

“Y/n,” he murmured. She turned just slightly, and that was all it took. He was by her side in two long strides, crouching in front of her as she finally let herself collapse forward into his arms. Her body shook against him, the sobs coming fast and broken now, muffled against his suit jacket.

“I can’t…” she gasped through her tears. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay.” He wrapped his arms tighter around her and just held her, letting her cry until her breath came in shallow hiccups.

No reassurances. No empty promises.

Just silence — and the quiet, steady rhythm of someone who wasn’t letting her fall alone anymore.

She made the decision to break up with Charles for good. There were no grand confrontations. No screaming matches, no dramatic tears on his doorstep. Just a quiet moment alone in her apartment, her phone in her hands, her heart heavy.

She made the decision to break up with Charles for good.

There were no grand confrontations. No screaming matches, no dramatic tears on his doorstep. Just a quiet moment alone in her apartment, her phone in her hands, her heart heavy.

She sent him a simple message: I need to let you go.

When he responded, it was typical Charles — distant, aloof, a little too casual. "Y/n, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I still care about you, but I just don’t think we’re meant to be right now."

And that was it. No more promises of change. No more apologies. No more excuses she wanted so desperately to believe.

It was over.

But moving on was harder than she imagined.

There were nights she doubted herself — when the silence was deafening, when she missed the good parts of their relationship. The spark. The chemistry. The way he could be so sweet and attentive in those rare, fleeting moments.

But with every happy memory came its counter-part: the hurt in his words, the bruises on her heart, the person she had become in his presence — a shadow of her true self.

She reminded herself, over and over, that she couldn’t keep holding onto someone who was so emotionally unavailable, so unwilling to fight for her.

For the first time in months, she felt like she could breathe again. She didn’t return to the stage right away. She took a step back, allowing herself the space to heal, to rebuild the parts of herself she’d lost.

She focused on herself — quiet mornings with coffee and a notebook, late-night walks through Seoul where no one recognized her, the soft rediscovery of her own voice when she sang alone in her living room.

The breakup hurt — more than she wanted to admit — but it was also liberating. She wasn’t waiting anymore. Not waiting for him to call. Not waiting for him to change. Not waiting for another apology she already knew was empty.

Months passed, and the relationship became nothing more than a painful memory. They no longer spoke. No longer met-up. The final blow came quietly — the way heartbreak so often does.

Charles won his home race finally— the culmination of years of hard work, a victory he’d been chasing for his entire career.

She was one of the first to see the announcement. She stared at her phone for a long moment, her thumb hovering over his name. She didn’t congratulate him. She couldn’t bring herself to. She had spent too many nights waiting for him, giving pieces of herself he never fully appreciated, and now she was done.

When he reached out later — as he often did — sending her a simple, empty text: “Hey, I won.”

She realized just how far apart they’d drifted.

She didn’t respond.

Her life moved on.

When she was ready, she toured the world, wrote music that spoke of heartbreak, of love lost, of strength regained. Her lyrics became her confessions, her healing. She stood on stages bigger than she’d ever dreamed of, her voice stronger, her presence unshakable.

Charles kept racing — chasing after victories, breaking records, raising trophies. The joy of winning felt hollow now. He never quite found peace. Never quite found the connection he’d had with her.

They were both successful, both powerful in their own right — but they no longer belonged to each other and maybe they never really had.

Looking back, She could see it clearly now — what they’d been.

They were two stars, burning brightly in their own orbits, but never destined to be together.

And though the scars remained, she knew now — with quiet, steady certainty — that she could rebuild.

And she did.

For herself.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Hey if you are in a toxic relationship or don't feel safe in your relationship call 1 800 799 7233 or text "start" to 88788

REMEMBER THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY, THIS DOES NOT DETERMINE HOW CHARLES LECLERC IS AS A PERSON AND ABSOLUTELY NO HATE TO HIM

83 notes · View notes

f1-mcmuffin · 1 month ago

Note

Hii can i request a y/n and the wags moments in the paddock or in public in general

We need more interactions between themmm aghhhh

MORE WAGS

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

a/n: this is just me yapping fr lol, 15k words AHHH help me, soak it up while you can lol jkjk but please do answer the question at the end

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Kelly Piquet

She had slipped out of the apartment while Lando was still asleep, dragging her hair into a bun and shoving her sunglasses on. Just a weekend in Monaco, where the sky was a clean blue and the air smelled like sea salt and money.

The café was tucked just behind a florist, with seating that leaned into the sidewalk and croissants that felt stolen from a French dream. She ordered an ice latte and sat outside, letting the sun coat her shoulders and the quiet soak in.

She was halfway through a page in her book when she heard, “Is this seat taken?” She looked up.

Kelly Piquet.

In a white linen shirt, sleek sunglasses, her hair gathered in a clip that looked effortless but probably wasn’t. She blinked once, surprised, then smiled.

“Nope. All yours.”

Kelly sat down with a sigh that said thank God in three languages. “I saw you from the corner and thought—either I interrupt or I miss a chance at the only quiet table in Monaco.”

She chuckled. “You made the right choice.”

Their drinks arrived — Kelly’s drink of choice was some kind of tea she didn’t recognize — and for a moment they both just sipped, letting the comfort of women not needing to fill the silence stretch between them.

“You here solo?” Kelly asked eventually.

She nodded. “Lando’s still sleeping. I figured I’d get out before anyone made me do something useful.”

Kelly laughed. “That sounds familiar.”

They talked a little after that — nothing heavy. Just soft topics. Travel. Skincare. How nice it was to be in a city without being on. There was an ease to Kelly that she had always admired from afar. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much she was giving — and how much she was keeping.

Eventually, she set her cup down and leaned in.“Can I ask you something?”

Kelly nodded, curious.

She hesitated for a second, then grinned. “Okay, it’s not that serious. Where do you get your sunglasses? I swear you always have the perfect pair.”

Kelly laughed. “I’ll send you the link. But I’m warning you, it’s addictive. I bought three pairs last month and told Max they were all for press.”

“He didn’t question it?”

“He doesn’t care.”

She laughed, sinking back into her chair. The morning had settled around them like a blanket — the breeze warm, the café hum steady, the kind of quiet you don’t get in their world often.

Eventually, Kelly reached into her bag and pulled out a tube of lip balm, dabbing it on before tucking it back. “You want to walk a bit?”

“Yeah,” She said, standing.

They wandered through the narrow streets of Monaco together — two very well-dressed “civilians,” sunglasses on, voices low. They stopped at a tiny boutique and tried on hats they had no intention of buying. Kelly made her laugh so hard at one point that she had to pretend to sneeze just to cover it.

And when someone finally did recognize them — a young girl who nervously asked for a photo — they both crouched down, arms around her shoulders, and smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because for a moment, it was.

When they split up near the marina, Kelly hugged her goodbye.

“Next time,” she said, “we’ll do dinner.”

“Yes!, next time,” she agreed, meaning it.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The Grand Palais had been transformed into a surrealist dream — all velvet draping, towering sculptures, and lights that looked like they were dripping from the ceiling. The designer’s new collection had already been teased in whispers for months: avant-garde silhouettes, bold metallics, unapologetic elegance. The A-list was out in full force — models, editors, artists, influencers. The air buzzed with expectation and perfume.

She arrived just before the house lights dimmed.

She was dressed in deep navy — a high-structured two-piece with silver thread woven through the seams. It fit her like armor, but the kind forged in a studio by someone who knew how to weaponize femininity. Her hair was slicked back in a low bun, makeup subtle but sculpted.

As her heels clicked along the marble floor toward the front row, she spotted a familiar silhouette — Kelly Piquet, already seated, legs crossed, head tilted as she scrolled through her phone.

She ushered to the seat beside her.

Without looking up, Kelly murmured, “That outfit has no business being that good.”

She smirked as she sat. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as gospel.”

Kelly finally glanced over, lowering her sunglasses slightly. “Is it navy or black?”

“Navy,” she said. “I almost wore red, but I figured every other girl here would.”

Kelly nodded in approval. “Good call. You look like a James Bond villain.”

She laughed quietly, smoothing the line of her trousers. “Exactly the energy I was going for.”

They both glanced toward the runway, but the fashion show hadn’t started yet. Around them, camera flashes went off like firecrackers, low murmurs threading through the rows.

“Did you fly in this morning?”Kelly asked, adjusting her cuff.

“Last night,” she replied. “Lando has media in China, so I figured I’d sneak in a show or two.”

Kelly nodded knowingly. “Clever. Better champagne here, anyway.”

The lights dimmed. A hush spread like a ripple through the crowd, and then the first model appeared — a long coat trailing like a storm behind her. The music pulsed, atmospheric and strange, and the show began.

They watched in silence at first, both leaning slightly forward.

“I’ve missed this,” she said under her breath.

Kelly glanced sideways. “Real fashion. Not the circus.”

“Exactly.” she said.

Another model came down the runway in sculptural gold, the fabric folding like origami. Kelly let out a quiet breath. “That draping’s insane. It’s architectural.”

She nodded. “And still wearable, somehow.”

A few more looks passed. One with exaggerated sleeves that made her tilt her head. Another in sheer metallic mesh that made Kelly’s brows lift slightly.

“This designer doesn’t care if you’re comfortable,” she murmured.

Kelly grinned. “No. But you’ll look untouchable.”

she laughed. “You know, I always say I hate clothes that wear you. Like that? ” as another model passed in a floor-length silver cape. “That’s pretty?” she asked, her voice low.

“You’re allowed to contradict yourself when the tailoring is that good,” Kelly said, sipping her champagne.

A few seats down, someone tried to discreetly snap a photo of them. Neither of them reacted. The next model floated by in a translucent cape layered over metallic slacks. It shimmered like heat in the air.“She looks like something out of a dream,” she said.

Kelly hummed in agreement. “Or a nightmare, depending on your PR budget.”They both shared a laugh. After a moment, Kelly leaned slightly closer. “Have you noticed how fashion’s come back around to storytelling again?”

She nodded. “Finally. I was getting tired of empty minimalism. This season feels like people actually have something to say.”

“It’s theatrical, but not hollow,” Kelly said. “Like there’s intent behind every hemline.”

“I’d wear half of this on tour if my stylist didn’t have a stick up his ass,” she admitted.

Kelly turned. “You should. Tour looks are getting lazy. It's just clothes covered with sequins and glitter.”

“For real. I might steal that silver coat.”

“Better text that stylist now before someone from Vogue snatches it for the cover.” They shared a glance, both trying not to smile too much.

As the final model appeared — in a gown that looked like molten glass — the lights shifted to scarlet. The crowd buzzed. Phones went up. The music swelled.

“She’s killing it,” Kelly said, nodding slightly toward the model.

“Reminds me of Jennie,” she replied without thinking.

Kelly smirked. “I still don’t understand how you two know everyone.”

“We don’t know everyone,” she said.

“You’re literally front row with me at a Paris show and comparing models to Jennie like she’s your cousin.”

She laughed. “Jennie and I are basically sisters. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“I can tell,” Kelly said. “You speak about her like family.”

“She is family,” she said simply. “Not by blood — but in every way that counts.”

Kelly nodded, then paused. “You know… if you ever want or need a get away, we have a place in Portugal. Very low-key. Ocean, books, silence.”

She blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’m not in the habit of inviting people I don’t like to the middle of nowhere,” Kelly replied, deadpan.

She chuckled. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.”

The show ended in a wave of applause as the designer came out briefly to bow before disappearing again. She and Kelly stood, clapping politely.

“You staying for the afterparty?” Kelly asked as the crowd began to shift.

“Maybe. Depends on how many cameras are lurking by the exit.”

Kelly gave her a look. “Y/n, we just sat front row together.”

“Ugh. Let’s at least pretend we’re above it.”

They walked out together, their heels echoing across marble. The lights of Paris blinked outside the tall windows, the sound of applause still faint behind them.

“I know a place with no photographers and excellent bread,” Kelly said as they stepped toward the car.

“That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week,” She replied.

They slipped into the back seat, both still holding onto the mood of the runway — all shimmer and steel and unexpected softness.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Kika Gomes

The studio was a clean mix of white-washed walls, soft natural light, and controlled chaos. Racks of clothing lined one side — all sleek tailoring, bold accessories, and silk in shades that could only be described as expensive. Stylists darted between garment bags and makeup trays while the photographer adjusted light stands with quiet authority.

She sat cross-legged on a makeup chair, scrolling through her phone while a stylist touched up the corners of her eyes.

“Your skin’s doing half my job,” the makeup artist muttered, patting on some highlighter. “Ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it,” she replied dryly, not looking up.

Across the room, Kika stood barefoot on a small platform, trying not to laugh as someone pinned the hem of her blazer dress. “If this gets any shorter I’m going to need safety shorts,” she said to no one in particular.

She glanced up from her phone. “You’re gonna have to start charging Pierre for thigh access.”

Kika grinned. “Too late. That man owes me a whole new wardrobe.”

The stylist working on her snorted. “Okay, that’s my cue to let you two talk without supervision.”

Kika stepped off the platform and padded over now in her socks, slipping into the seat beside her. “You’ve been here since seven?” she asked, tugging her ponytail loose.

“Yeah,” she nodded, setting her phone down. “They wanted natural light for the first looks. You’d think we were shooting for National Geographic the way they were chasing the sun.”

Kika kicked at her shin lightly. “You love it. Admit it.”

“I love the clothes,” she said. “The 7 a.m. call time? Not so much.”

They both looked over as a model walked past in towering platform silver heels and a trench coat made entirely of what looked like laminated newspaper. Kika raised a brow. “What do you even call that?”

She tilted her head. “Art school trauma?”

Kika cackled. “Let me guess, it’s going to retail for €3,500 and be labeled avant-garde city shell or something.”

“That or morning panic jacket.”

Kika laughed, then snorted, which made her start laughing too, until they were both holding onto each other for support. Their laughter died down when a photographer’s assistant called her over to change into her next look. She stood up, stretching her arms overhead and groaning.

“You sound like a grandma,” Kika said, sipping from her water bottle.

“I feel like a grandma. All I want is a hot bath and a nap after this.”

“Let’s do a sleepover,” Kika said. “You, me, face masks, something trashy on Netflix. I’ll bring the good snacks.”

“Oo, only if we get sushi too,” she said, walking backward toward the wardrobe rack.

“Done.”

The rest of the shoot moved in a blur — metallic dresses, clean-lined pantsuits, bold reds and forest greens. Her and Kika ended up shooting two looks together, side by side, moving with the ease of people who had done this kind of thing before — and didn’t take it too seriously.

At one point, they both burst out laughing when she nearly tripped over a tangled piece of chiffon.

“How elegant,” Kika giggled.

“I’m a model of grace,” she replied, trying to regain her balance.

The photographer laughed, shaking his head. “If you’re done sabotaging the set, let’s try that pose again.”

By the end of the day, they were sitting on the floor in sweatpants, barefoot, faces scrubbed clean, sharing a bowl of salted edamame someone had delivered.

Kika reached into the bowl, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, I forgot how exhausting shoots are. I’ve been doing more brand meetings lately. This felt like a workout.”

She leaned back against the wall. “You looked good, though.”

Kika smiled. “You too. You’ve got that whole thing down.”

“Thanks,” she said, popping another edamame pod.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the last bits of gear being packed up. Crew voices echoed faintly from the next room.

“Kind of a weird job, huh?” Kika said suddenly.

“Wearing very expensive clothes for people who may or may not buy them?” she replied. “Completely.”

“I meant the whole thing,” Kika said, waving a hand around. “The traveling. Social media. The way your name gets attached to someone else’s and suddenly everyone has a thesis about who you are.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s weird. Imagine you’re just standing next to someone, and the next thing you know, you’re dating.””

“At least we can laugh about it,” Kika said with a smile, and they both chuckled.

“True” she agreed

“But I like that we get to do it together,” Kika added.

“That’s half the reason I still show up,” she said with a smile. “If I didn’t have you to make fun of runway descriptions with, I’d have stopped coming months ago.”

Kika raised her bottle in a mock toast. “To mutual survival.”

She clinked hers against it. “And sushi.”

They stayed there until a PA gently reminded them the studio was closing.

Outside, the sky had gone soft and gold. As they waited for their rides, she turned to Kika and said, “Brunch tomorrow?”

“Always,” Kika replied.

Their cars pulled up, and with one last lazy hug, they parted ways — the kind of goodbye that didn’t need words. They’d be laughing again by morning.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The clink of cutlery and low jazz floated through the dim-lit bistro as she swirled her wine glass, watching the amber liquid catch in the candlelight. She looked up just as Kika dropped into the chair across from her, cheeks a little pink from the cold, scarf still looped around her neck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kika said breathlessly. “I got distracted by some heels I saw in a store window down the street.”

She grinned. “Only you would be late because of heels.”

“I was looking for something for you, thank you very much,” Kika replied, shrugging off her coat. “It was either that or a chocolate croissant. And I know how you feel about crumbs.”

They both leaned in over the table, glancing at the small handwritten board propped near the candle. “Do you know what you want?” Kika asked.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” she said. “I want everything.”

“I say we get the steak tartare to share. And the duck confit. And—”

“Oh my god, yes.”

The waiter arrived and they ordered without overthinking, trading in their menus for wine refills and the comfort of finally sitting still. Outside, Paris hummed on. Inside, they had their own cocoon.

Kika glanced across the table after a moment. “You look good, by the way. Like, annoyingly good.”

She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I curled my hair and wore earrings. It’s the bare minimum.”

“Still counts as effort,”Kika countered. They both laughed, leaning back as the bread basket arrived. She tore into the crusty end of a baguette and passed the butter over.

“I needed this,” she said softly.

“I figured,” Kika said. “You’ve been everywhere lately. Your album rollout alone looked exhausting.”

“Don’t get me wrong—I loved it,” she said, tearing another piece of bread. “But by the end, I didn’t know if I was talking to myself or a press release.”

Kika nodded knowingly. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? You chase the thing for so long and then when you’re in it, it’s like… okay, what now?”

“Exactly,” she murmured, then grinned. “You’re getting wise, even in your twenties.”

“Blame Pierre. He’s been in his ‘journal everything’ era. Now I have thoughts and emotions and—” she made a dramatic face “—feelings.”

She burst out laughing. “Disgusting,” she said. “We need to put a stop to that immediately.”

“Agreed,” Kika said. “Hence, red wine and duck fat.”

Their food arrived a few minutes later—beautifully plated, fragrant, indulgent. They dug in without ceremony, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with genuine friendship settling over them. Between bites, they caught up. On everything and nothing.

Kika told her about a disastrous fitting she had for a campaign that ended with her getting stuck in a corset in front of three stylists and a very amused Pierre.

She leaned forward. “I was supposed to film a dance challenge. Had the outfit, the lighting, the setup all perfect.”

“And?”

“Lando came into the kitchen trying to make pancakes from a TikTok recipe. Managed to set off the fire alarm twice, and somehow got batter on the ceiling.”

Kika covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“I spent the rest of the day cleaning instead of filming,” she sighed. “The pancakes were not worth it.”

They traded gossip like candy. Who was on whose bad side in the paddock. Which stylist had the best snacks backstage. Why a certain actor should never be allowed to wear velvet again.

They smiled at each other, the kind of unspoken appreciation that didn’t need to be dressed up.

The bill came and Kika snatched it before she could reach.

“No,” she protested.

“Yes,” Kika insisted. “This was my idea.”

“You’re not going to win this.”

“I already did,” Kika said smugly. “You’re out of reach.”

She groaned, pulling out her phone to Venmo her anyway. “You know I’m faster than you.”

“But I’m more charming.”

“Touché.”

They stepped out into the Paris night, where the city glittered like a spilled jewelry box. The air was crisp and the streets were quieter now, holding their breath before the weekend fully arrived.

“Walk a bit?” Kika asked, tucking her arm through hers.

she nodded. “Yeah.”

And so they walked. Down narrow alleys and across quiet bridges. Past bakeries preparing for the morning and bars still glowing from inside.

They didn’t talk much now. Didn’t need to and when they finally hugged goodbye at a corner where their Ubers would split them in opposite directions, it was with the ease of knowing they’d do it again soon. No pressure. No spotlight. Just another quiet night

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Carmen Montero Mundt

The bell above the door chimed softly as Carmen stepped into the little corner bookstore café. She shook off her umbrella, the last few snowflakes clinging stubbornly to its black canopy, and peered around until she saw a familiar figure curled into the back booth by the window.

She had one leg tucked under herself, her oversized scarf trailing off her lap and onto the cushioned seat. She was wearing big black-framed glasses and a long navy coat that nearly swallowed her whole. Her hair was pulled back in a lazy bun, wisps falling around her cheeks as she concentrated on the book in her lap. Without looking up, she raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in a lazy wave—Carmen had been spotted.

“Hey,” Carmen said, smiling as she dropped her bag beside her and unwrapped her scarf. “You look like you belong in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

She finally looked up, face lighting up. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Want to play the role of my cozier, chicer supporting character?”

Carmen snorted as she sat across from her. “Only if I get my own subplot.”

“You always do.”

They settled into easy silence as Carmen ordered a chai latte from the barista. The café smelled like old paper, cinnamon, and ground coffee. Every so often, someone would wander through the book stacks or flip a page. Outside, snow continued to fall, dusting the pavement and softening the grey London skyline into something nearly magical.

“So,” Carmen said once the drinks arrived, “are you hiding or relaxing?”

She quirked a brow. “A little bit of both?”

Carmen shrugged. “Fair.”

There was a small pause before she added, more softly, “Hiding from noise, mostly. The internet’s been… very loud this week.”

Carmen gave her a knowing look. “Lando again?”

She nodded, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug. “It’s never-ending. Someone always finds an old picture or drags up a comment from years ago. Then suddenly I’m the villain for ‘changing him’ or not changing him enough.”

Carmen leaned forward. “People project. All the time. You know that. Half the time they’re not even mad at you—they’re mad at the version of themselves that wants to be you.”

She let out a short laugh, lips curling into a smirk. “Oh I know, but thanks. That sounded like something a therapist on Instagram would say.”

Carmen smirked, holding up her hands. “I’ll take it. I’ve been reading a lot of self-help lately.”

There was another lull, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside, a child threw a snowball and missed entirely, the soft thump of it landing on a bench echoing faintly through the café windows. She watched it happen and smiled, her expression wistful.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this existed?” she asked suddenly.

Carmen tilted her head. “F1 or fame?”

“Both.”

Carmen thought for a moment. “Honestly? Probably something just as high-strung. I like control too much. Maybe managing a museum. Or—god—owning a tiny, outrageously expensive flower shop.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “That actually suits you.”

“I’d wear cashmere sweaters every day and pretend I don’t know the names of my regulars even though I totally do.”

“And I’d be the girl with a nine-to-five, who brings the same lunch every day and takes the long way home just to drive a little longer.”

“Exactly. I’d never ask why you always look so tired—but I’d definitely wonder about you more than I should.” They both laughed at that, genuinely—something warm that cracked through the heavier thoughts lingering in their heads.

Carmen took a sip of her latte, then said more softly, “I think about it too. What life would be like if George wasn’t in F1. If we didn’t have to measure every public moment.”

She hummed. “Do you ever get tired of… protecting him?”

The question hung in the air.

“Yeah,” Carmen said eventually. “Not because I don’t want to. I love him. I’d do it forever. But it gets exhausting having to think five moves ahead of everyone all the time.”

She nodded. “Same. Back when I was still with Blackpink, I had to hold my tongue all the time. Sometimes I wanted to say something dumb or impulsive from what people would say about me or my members. But I’d stop myself—because I knew it could get twisted, turned into a headline, or worse, reflect badly on the others. And now with Lando... it’s the same fear, but deeper. I’m so scared of messing things up for him. Or being the reason someone else sees him differently.”

Carmen looked at her, her expression softening. “That makes sense. You’re not doing anything wrong—you’re just visible. People love to pick things apart when they can’t look away. But Lando’s not the world. He sees the whole picture. The fact that you’re trying to protect him? That says more than anything a headline ever could.”

She glanced down at her mug, running her fingertip around the rim. “Hmm, it’s weird, isn’t it? Loving someone that the world thinks they know.”

“Yeah,” Carmen said. “It’s like sharing something sacred with a crowd that thinks it’s theirs. But you’re the only one who really gets it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Not in a dramatic way, but in the quiet, bone-deep way that women who get it look at each other. She leaned back in her seat and let herself breathe a little more deeply.

“You know,” Carmen said, breaking the moment, “we should do this more often.”

“Yes, please,” she replied instantly. “We can rotate bookstores. Next time I'll pick one with a fireplace.”

“And I’ll bring wine in a tote bag like a degenerate.”

“We’re gonna get banned from half the cafés in London.” she laughed.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The golden evening light fell softly across the stone patio of the private villa tucked away in the hills outside Monza. The air was heavy with late-summer warmth, a faint citrus tang on the breeze, and the last lazy buzz of bees from the lavender hedges lining the terrace. Inside, someone had set down a bottle of chilled white wine and a bowl of olives.

She padded barefoot across the stone floor, her loose linen shirt fluttering slightly as she opened the doors with her elbow, carrying a plate of fresh figs and prosciutto.

"That looks obnoxiously aesthetic," Carmen said, lounging on the cushioned outdoor bench with her legs stretched out, a glass already in hand. She was wearing one of George’s oversized button-ups.

“It’s an Italian weekend,” she shrugged. “I’m leaning into a new temporary lifestyle.”

Carmen grinned, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You say that like you didn’t just make fun of me for buying a cheese board shaped like Italy.”

“That’s different.”They both burst into laughter.

It was one of those rare Saturdays where both qualifying and media duties were done by mid-afternoon, and instead of dinner in some stiff VIP hospitality tent, her and Carmen had talked aka bribed Lando and George into renting this small, vine-covered villa just for the four of them. After a bit of light bribery and some surprisingly coordinated planning, the girls had carved out the evening for themselves.

She flopped down next to Carmen and propped her feet on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you think they’ll come back with pizza or just get distracted by an argument about tire strategy in the car park?” she asked, popping a fig into her mouth.

Carmen raised her eyebrows. “Bold of you to assume they left the car park.”They both cackled again, and she reached over to top off Carmen’s glass.

A lull settled between them, comfortable and quiet. Cicadas whirred faintly in the background. Somewhere down the hill, the sound of a Vespa faded into the distance. She watched Carmen lean back against the cushions, her face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed.

“You know what I love about you?” she said after a beat.

Carmen cracked one eye open suspiciously. “Oh no. This sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not. It’s wholesome,” she said, kicking her gently in the shin. “You’re so... elegant. Like, in the best way. You just exist, effortlessly cool, minimal drama.”

Carmen let out a soft laugh. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Maybe.”

“You sound like my instagram comments,” Carmen teased, then added more softly, “But I appreciate it. Especially coming from you.” Carmen nudged her shoulder. “But seriously. You make things fun. Like, I wouldn’t have agreed to a weekend in a villa just to chill if it wasn’t with you. You trick me into relaxing.”

“I am very manipulative,” she said proudly. “It’s part of my mysterious charm.”

They clinked glasses. The sun dipped a little lower, casting long golden shadows over the tiled floor. She leaned back and stretched, feeling her shoulders relax for the first time all day.

A faint crunch of tires on gravel made both girls look up. Carmen shielded her eyes. “Place your bets. Are they holding food or arguing?”

The car pulled into view — a rented Fiat, comically small for both drivers. The windows were down. George was behind the wheel, his hands animated, clearly mid-rant. Lando, in the passenger seat, was wearing sunglasses and holding a pizza box like it was a newborn child.

She let out a groan. “Argument and food. Looks like we both lose.”

The girls didn’t move as the guys hopped out and walked toward them — Lando carefully balancing two pizza boxes, a crumpled paper bag, and what looked like a bottle of Fanta sticking out of his back pocket.

“Guess who got extra stracciatella,” Lando said proudly, crouching down to slide the boxes onto the table.

George followed, adjusting his cap. “Guess who had to negotiate for it because someone forgot to place the order in Italian.”

Lando waved a hand dismissively. “I said ‘pizza molto fasto,’ and the guy understood me.”

She leaned into Lando as he sank down beside her and stole a piece of crust. “Good job, delivery boy.”

The four of them sat outside under the soft string lights strung between the olive trees, eating pizza directly from the boxes, sipping cold wine and soda, letting the night hum on without urgency. No one brought up the race. No one talked about sectors or setups or who qualified where. It wasn’t even deliberate — it just didn’t matter right now.

At one point, Carmen got up to grab blankets from inside, and she followed her. The house was warm and quiet, the floor cool beneath their feet. In the hallway, Carmen paused and looked at her with a sleepy smile.

They grinned at each other.

And for a moment — soft and warm and ordinary — everything felt like it was exactly where it should be.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Alexandra Saint Mleux

The sun hung high over the Mediterranean, casting a soft golden light on the streets of Monaco. The luxury of the place was undeniable, with gleaming yachts in the harbor and high-end boutiques lining the streets. It was a rare afternoon off, a break from the constant whirlwind of the F1 world, and she was more than ready to take advantage of it. The opportunity to spend a day with Alexandra, one of her newest and closest friends now, was something she cherished. It was a chance to escape the spotlight and simply enjoy the luxury of Monaco and the pleasure of a good shopping spree.

She stood at the entrance of one of Monaco’s most exclusive shopping streets, wearing a simple, elegant cropped tee that framed her waist and a pair of baggy, light-washed jeans slung low on her hips. Her hair was casually tied back, sunglasses shielding her from the golden afternoon sun. Even though she knew the streets were buzzing with life, today she was determined to enjoy herself without any of the usual distractions.

Alexandra arrived a few moments later, stepping out of a sleek black car. She was effortlessly chic in a fitted black dress and heels, with her own pair of sunglasses perched atop her head. She flashed a bright smile as she approached, and she couldn’t help but return the gesture. Alexandra was always such a calming presence, grounded and genuine—qualities that made their friendship feel both easy and real.

“Hey! You look amazing,” she greeted, pulling Alexandra into a quick hug.

“So do you” Alexandra replied with a soft smile. “I’m so glad we could do this. A proper girls' day out”

She nodded, grinning. “Exactly what I need.”

The two of them walked down the cobblestone streets together, their heels clicking in sync, the gentle breeze blowing through the warm Mediterranean air. Monaco was a city that screamed luxury, but today, it felt different—like they could slip away from the pressures of their respective worlds and simply enjoy each other's company.

Their first stop was a boutique known for its haute couture collections, the kind of place where you didn’t just walk in; you were escorted inside like royalty. The glass doors swung open as they entered, and the soft scent of perfume and fresh flowers greeted them. The shop was quiet, almost serene, with soft music playing in the background. The sales assistants were already eyeing the pair, but there was no rush—today was about enjoying the experience, not about being rushed or expected to buy something extravagant.

She wandered through the racks, her fingers brushing over the luxurious fabrics, while Alexandra followed at a more leisurely pace. The two women chatted casually as they moved from one section to another.

“I love this color,” Alexandra said, holding up a deep emerald green dress. “It would look great on you.”

She looked over at the dress and then back at her friend. “I think it might be too bold for me, but I love it on you. You have the perfect height for it.”

Alexandra smiled at the compliment. “You think? Maybe I should try it on, just to see. But honestly, I think I’ll just stick with some accessories today.”

They moved to the accessories section, where shelves were lined with bags, shoes, and sparkling jewelry. She picked up a delicate gold bracelet, turning it over in her hand as she admired its simplicity. “I love how understated this is,” she remarked.

Alexandra nodded in agreement. “It’s beautiful, and it looks like something you could wear every day. I feel like some of the pieces in these shops are so flashy, they lose their elegance.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she thought about how much she appreciated the simple things. “Exactly. There’s something timeless about it.”

They continued browsing, slipping in and out of rooms filled with couture. The afternoon passed easily, filled with lighthearted conversation and the joy of friendship.

After an hour, they moved to the next store, an upscale jewelry boutique known for its rare diamonds. The soft glow of the diamonds under the dim lighting made them both stop and admire the pieces. Alexandra ran her fingers over a set of diamond earrings, pausing as she saw a stunning necklace at the far end of the counter.

“Oh, Y/n, look at that,” she said, her voice full of wonder. The necklace was an intricate design of diamonds and sapphires, each stone catching the light just right. “It’s perfect.”

She approached, leaning in to get a closer look. “It is. But you’re the one who would rock it, not me. I’m more about simplicity.”

Alexandra laughed softly, her hand resting on her hip. “I know what you mean. I’m just indulging in the fantasy for a minute.”

They spent a few more moments looking at the dazzling jewelry before moving on to a new store across the street. This time, they found themselves in a more relaxed setting, a contemporary boutique with a collection of minimalist yet sophisticated clothing. The atmosphere was cool and airy, a stark contrast to the opulence of the previous shops.

She immediately gravitated toward a section with soft, flowing dresses. Alexandra followed her, and together they looked through the collection, exchanging thoughts on what would suit each other.

“I think this one would look amazing on you,” she said, holding up a soft lavender dress with a simple yet flattering cut. “You have the perfect skin tone for it.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “I don’t know. I think you might be right, but I’m not sure I’d wear it much. I like the idea of it more than the reality.”

She laughed, picking up the dress and draping it across her arm. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying. I think it would look incredible.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they made their way to the fitting rooms, both of them trying on a few outfits. They gave each other feedback, laughing as they each modeled a few dresses.

“I think this is my new favorite,” Alexandra said, stepping out in a chic forest green dress that fit her perfectly.

She grinned. “Thats stunning.”

After trying on a few more pieces and making some purchases, they both decided to take a break at one of the cafés nearby, sitting outside in the soft sun. The relaxed atmosphere was a perfect end to the afternoon. As they sipped on iced lattes, they continued to chat, discussing everything from upcoming concerts to the latest F1 gossip.

“You know, I’m so glad we did this,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

Alexandra agreed, her smile softening. “Yeah, it’s nice. It’s just about us today”

She chuckled. “Exactly. It’s like we’re in our own little world.”

The two of them laughed, enjoying the easy companionship they shared. There was no pressure, no expectations. Just two women, taking in the beauty of Monaco, and cherishing a rare, peaceful day together.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The sun was high in the sky, casting its warmth over the sparkling Mediterranean water as Charles's sleek yacht glided smoothly through the waves.

The yacht was anchored in a secluded cove, far enough from the noise of the marina to offer a rare sense of peace. The gentle sway of the boat against the water added a soothing rhythm to the air, and the sounds of the ocean were the only backdrop to the day.

She and Alexandra were set up on the deck, their easels facing the open water, the bright blue sky stretching endlessly above them.

The scene around them was serene: the sun-kissed waters, the distant hills of the coast, and the gentle breeze that tousled their hair. The yacht was quiet—only the soft sounds of brushes against canvas and the occasional hum of the yacht’s engine disturbed the stillness.

She was focused, her paintbrush in hand as she added strokes to her canvas. She was working on a landscape, trying to capture the vivid blue of the ocean, the deep greens of the hills in the distance, and the way the sunlight danced on the water.

Painting was a way to unwind for her, a quiet escape from the constant motion of her life in the spotlight. Today, it was more than just a hobby—it was a chance to share a peaceful moment with Alexandra, who had always made time to connect despite the chaos around them.

Alexandra, on the other hand, was completely in her element. As an art history enthusiast, she had spent years studying various periods of art, and her passion for painting was rooted in her love for historical works.

She was working on a piece that reflected some of the techniques she admired—soft, flowing brushstrokes, vibrant colors, and an abstract interpretation of the sea in front of them. The calmness of the ocean seemed to inspire her as she layered colors onto the canvas. Her brushstrokes were bold and free, a stark contrast to Alexandra’s careful, controlled movements.

She glanced over at Alex, admiring the way Alexandra applied the paint, effortlessly blending the colors. “I love how you’ve captured that,” she said, genuinely intrigued. “It’s like your painting tells a story without even trying.”

Alexandra paused for a moment, glancing over at her work before responding. “Thanks, that’s kind of what I’m going for. I’ve always loved the way art can speak without words. But honestly, I think it’s because I’ve spent so much time studying art history. It’s become second nature to pull from what I’ve learned.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Art history, huh? I didn’t know you were so into it.”

Alexandra smiled, clearly excited to talk about it. “Yeah, I’ve always been fascinated by the way art evolves, how it reflects the times, the culture, the emotion behind it. I studied it for years, and I even work with a few galleries. It’s what fuels my passion for painting—trying to combine the techniques I’ve studied with my own style.”

She nodded thoughtfully, taking in the new information. “That’s amazing. I love how art can be such a reflection of the world around us. You’re not only capturing the scene, but the feeling behind it, the history that came before.”

Alexandra’s eyes lit up. “Exactly. It’s why I find art so powerful—it’s a language in itself, and the beauty of it is that you can interpret it however you want. I try to bring that feeling into my paintings. Sometimes I pull inspiration from the Renaissance, other times it’s more modern. It all just depends on the mood and what catches my eye.”

She smiled as she looked at the brushstrokes on Alexandra’s canvas, clearly more than just technique—it was art that spoke to a deep passion. “That’s really cool. I feel like I need to dive deeper into art history now. I can see how that would influence your work.”

Alexandra laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s definitely a rabbit hole. But it’s the kind of rabbit hole that’s worth getting lost in.”

She dipped her brush into a pot of blue paint, adding another layer to the ocean on her canvas. “I think I’m happy just sticking with the basics for now. I’ll leave the deep dive to you, the art expert.”

Alexandra grinned, clearly enjoying the casual exchange. “Fair enough. But I’ll be here if you want to talk about Botticelli, Picasso, or any of the greats. I can talk about it all day.”

She chuckled. “Maybe one day, when I’m in the mood for a good history lesson. For now, I’ll just stick with trying to make this ocean look real.”

They both fell into a comfortable silence, the sounds of their brushes against canvas blending with the soft murmur of the yacht’s engine. The two women shared a quiet connection, the painting taking on a deeper meaning as they continued to work. Each stroke of the brush seemed to bring them closer—not just to the artwork, but to a shared understanding of the beauty they both found in creativity.

Alexandra glanced over at her bestfriends painting, Alex’s eyes softening with appreciation. “You’ve really brought that scene to life. It’s like you’re standing on the shore, feeling the breeze.”

The two of them stood side by side for a moment, looking at the work they had created in tandem—two different interpretations of the same scene, but both equally beautiful in their own way.

“Want to grab some lunch?” she asked, glancing at the time. “I think we’ve earned a break after all this painting.”

Alexandra laughed softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I’m starving. And hey, I’ll leave the wine pairing to you—this painting stuff has worked up my appetite.”

She grinned, stepping away from her easel. “Deal. Let’s get something good—after all, this day deserves a perfect lunch.”

As they made their way below deck, the lighthearted banter between them continued. They were two friends sharing not just the act of painting but the shared joy of a peaceful afternoon on the water. The creative flow, the art, and the quiet connection they’d formed over their shared experience would stay with them long after the paint had dried.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Rebecca Donaldson

The warm rays of the sun beamed down on the soft golden sands of the beach, the gentle sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling the air. The beach was quiet, not completely empty, but the kind of peaceful place that felt like a sanctuary. It was one of those rare days where the world seemed to slow down, and the only things that mattered were the sound of the ocean and the feeling of the sand between your toes.

She and Rebecca had spent the last few hours lounging under the sun, far away from the noise of the F1 world, the music industry, and the pressure of always being in the public eye. Both women were in simple, comfortable bikinis and oversized hats, a pair of sunglasses perched on their faces to shield them from the shining star in the sky. They had a small umbrella set up for shade, but the day was still warm and pleasant, a perfect day for a break.

She was lying on her stomach with a towel spread beneath her, turning her head slightly to glance over at Rebecca. She smiled, seeing that her friend had found a comfortable spot next to her, her towel spread out perfectly as she flipped through a book. The calm, easy atmosphere between them felt like the kind of peace they both needed—a break from the chaos, a chance to just be.

Rebecca caught her gaze and smiled, tilting her sunglasses up with a lazy flick. “Tell me again why we don’t do this every weekend?”

She let out a soft laugh, pushing herself up onto her elbows to look at her. “Because real life is rude and gets in the way?”

Rebecca stretched her arms above her head, letting out a content sigh as she looked up at the endless blue sky before replying. “We should just stay here forever. Let the world figure itself out without us.”

She snorted. “Honestly, if the world needs me to function, we’re already doomed. I’ll be here, perfecting my new tan and avoiding my responsibilities.”

The two of them shared a brief moment of quiet contentment before Rebecca sat up and took a sip from her water bottle. “So, how’s everything been going for you? With work, the group, your new ablum…and everything?”

She smiled softly, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “It’s been... a lot. I’m constantly on the move, with rehearsals, shows, and everything else. But I can’t complain. It’s what I love doing. I think the hardest part, honestly, is keeping everything in balance. Sometimes it feels like I’m just going from one thing to the next.”

Rebecca nodded, fully understanding what she meant. “Yeah, I get that. It’s tough, especially with the racing schedule. I’ve been trying to find some balance myself. Honestly, these moments—just hanging out and doing nothing—are so rare. I never realized how much I missed it until today.”

She turned her head toward her friend and smiled. “I’m glad we’re able to do this. I think we both needed a break. The world doesn’t stop for us, you know?”

“I know,” Rebecca agreed, leaning back and looking out over the ocean. The peaceful silence between them lingered for a moment, both women taking in the soothing sounds of nature around them. Eventually, Rebecca broke the silence again.

“Have you thought about what comes next for you? You know, when the group’s next tour comes or when things settle down?” Rebecca asked, her voice light but curious.

She paused, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she looked out at the water. “I don’t know. I’ve been so focused on what’s right in front of me that I haven’t had much time to think about the future. But I guess that’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t just plan everything. Sometimes you just have to let things fall into place.”

Rebecca smiled knowingly. “True. Sometimes, we try to control everything, but life has a funny way of surprising us.”

She laughed softly. “You’re right. I think it’s about finding the right balance. Between work and moments like this—just letting go for a little while and enjoying the simple things.”

“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “Sometimes, it’s the simple things that remind us who we really are, away from everything else.”

She sat up then, stretching her legs out and turning toward her friend. “I couldn’t agree more. I think that’s why I love the beach. There’s something about the vastness of the ocean that makes everything else feel small. Like all the noise just... fades away.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it? The world feels so big, but in a way that’s comforting. You realize there’s a whole universe out there, and everything that happens to us is just a small part of it.”

The two of them sat there for a few minutes, watching the waves roll in and out, their conversation fading as they simply enjoyed the quiet of the moment. The world was still moving, but for just a little while, it felt like time had slowed down for them.

After a while, Rebecca stood up and stretched, glancing down at her. “Wanna go for a walk? I feel like we could use a little stroll along the water.”

She grinned, pulling herself up from the towel. “Absolutely. I need to cool off a bit, and I can never resist a walk by the sea.”

They both grabbed their beach bags, leaving their towels behind as they made their way toward the shoreline. The water was cool against their feet as they walked, the waves lapping gently against the sand. They walked in comfortable silence at first, enjoying the simple act of being together in such a serene setting.

“Do you ever think about the little things?” Rebecca asked, her voice thoughtful as she looked down at the water.

She turned to look at her, puzzled for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Like... the small things in life that you forget to notice because you’re always caught up in the bigger picture. I’ve been trying to appreciate those little moments more. Like this walk, or just being able to sit down and talk without any interruptions.”

She smiled softly. “I know exactly what you mean. I think I’ve started realizing that the little things are actually the big things. The moments when you’re not rushing or stressing. It’s the quiet mornings or the spontaneous trips like this one. It’s all about those unplanned, simple moments.”

Rebecca smiled, her eyes softening as she looked at her friend. “I’m glad we could share this one.”

As they continued walking along the water’s edge, the conversation drifted from one topic to the next. They talked about their favorite places to travel, the kind of books they liked to read, and the small quirks that made them who they were. It was easy, effortless conversation—just two friends talking about life, their hopes, and the things they loved.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The yacht was alive with energy, the kind of energy that only a late afternoon in Monaco could bring. Neon lights flickered across the deck, casting vibrant hues of purple, pink, and blue onto the water as the bass of the music vibrated through the hull. It was a floating nightclub, the kind of party that felt like it belonged in a dream. The sun was setting over the Mediterranean, the sky painted with streaks of orange and pink, but the yacht's lights were already shining brightly, promising a night of unforgettable fun.

She and Rebecca stood near the edge of the deck, their feet tapping to the music as they looked out over the water. The entire atmosphere felt like a whirlwind of excitement, with guests laughing, chatting, and dancing all around them. It was one of those nights where nothing seemed out of place, and everything was just... perfect.

She was in a sparkling silver dress that stopped mid-thigh and caught the light in all the right places, leaned over the railing,with a drink in hand, watching the yachts drift past as the wind played with her hair. She felt the rhythm of the party seep into her veins, and for a moment, she let herself truly embrace the energy of it all.

Rebecca, beside her, looked equally as stunning in a black, form-fitting dress that showed off her silhouette. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she was already holding a glass of champagne, her smile infectious. Rebecca turned to her. "I can’t believe how crazy this is. I didn’t think it would be so crowded. I swear, Monaco knows how to throw a party," Rebecca said, raising her glass to toast the night.

She grinned, holding her own drink up. "They’ve mastered the art of having fun here. Who needs a club when you’ve got a super yacht like this?"

Rebecca laughed, her eyes lighting up. "Exactly. I think this is my new favorite way to party."

A new song came on, a catchy upbeat tune that had the entire deck vibrating with the bass. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin crossing her face. "You up for a little dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Absolutely. I can’t let you have all the fun on your own."

The two women made their way over to the dance floor, the flashing lights above creating a kaleidoscope of colors as they moved in sync with the crowd. The DJ spun a mix of electronic beats, and the crowd responded, a mix of guests dancing freely, laughing, and enjoying the electric atmosphere. She and Rebecca found a spot near the center, where the energy was at its peak.

She was immediately pulled into the rhythm of the music, her body instinctively moving to the beat. Dancing was second nature to her—it was what she did for a living. Years of training had given her a level of control and precision on the dance floor that made it look effortless. As soon as she stepped onto the dance floor, she was in her element.

Rebecca, clearly enjoying the infectious energy around her, raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Alright, I know you can dance, but can you still make this look fun, or is your alter ego gonna come out?”

She grinned mischievously, a playful glint in her eyes. “Watch and learn,” she teased, before letting the music take over.She moved with a fluidity that was mesmerizing, her movements sharp yet graceful, effortlessly syncing with the beat of the song with pure confidence.

Rebecca, who was initially just watching, couldn’t help but laugh and join in, her body following the beat in a more carefree, loose style. As the tempo of the song picked up, her movements grew more intense, and Rebecca followed her lead, their steps flowing together as they danced side by side. Their energy was completely contagious, making the entire group around them feel like they were in sync.

“Okay, you’re definitely showing me up here. How do you make it look this easy?” Rebecca called over the music.

She grinned, her body still moving in time with the music. “It’s all about feeling it,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the beat. “You can’t overthink it. Just let the music take over and have fun.”

Rebecca, with her unrefined but enthusiastic moves, gave her a playful glance. “I think I’ll stick to ‘having fun’ for now,” she said with a laugh

She shot her a grin, never missing a beat. “You’ve got some moves too, Rebecca. Don’t sell yourself short!”

As the music shifted to something slower, they slowly backed away from the dance floor, their laughter mingling with the softer beats. It was one of those perfect moments—no expectations, just dancing and enjoying the night with a friend.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Lily Muni He

The early morning mist hung softly over the lush green of the golf course, the rising sun beginning to burn off the haze. The air was crisp, the grass dewy beneath their feet as the world around them slowly came to life. The sound of birds chirping in the distance blended with the soft hum of nature, creating the perfect backdrop for a day of quiet reflection and friendly competition.

She stood at the first tee, gripping her club with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. She was dressed in a simple but stylish outfit, a light polo shirt, comfortable shorts, and a pair of sleek golf shoes. Beside her, Lily Muni He, stood with a relaxed, confident smile on her face. She was dressed in a similar fashion, her posture poised and effortless, completely at home on the course.

Lily had invited her to join her for a round of golf. She had never really played before, and although she was always up for trying new things, she couldn’t help but feel a bit out of her element. She had seen how graceful and composed Lily was when it came to golf—after all, Lily had made a name for herself on professional circuits. But Lily had reassured her that today was just about having fun, no competition, no expectations.

“Ready?” Lily asked, her voice light and teasing, her eyes twinkling as she saw her adjusting her grip on the club.

She chuckled softly, giving the club one last practice swing. “I think so, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing. You’re going to have to teach me along the way.”

Lily laughed, her expression warm and encouraging. “Don’t worry. We’re just here to enjoy the day. I’ll walk you through it—no stress.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, standing a little straighter. She watched as Lily effortlessly lined up her shot, the swing smooth and fluid. The ball soared across the green, landing perfectly in the fairway. It was the kind of shot that made it look easy, as if Lily had done this a thousand times before—which, of course, she had.

“That was incredible,” she said, watching the ball roll to a stop. “I don’t think I’ll ever look that graceful.”

Lily grinned, giving a playful shrug. “It just takes practice. And probably a lot of patience. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there.”

She picked up her own club, giving the ball a tentative tap. It rolled a short distance, landing just a few feet from the tee. She winced slightly but couldn’t help but laugh at herself. “Well, I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Not at all,” Lily said, walking over to her. “You’ve got the basics down already. It’s all about timing, and that’s the fun part. Once you get the hang of it, it’ll feel natural.”

The two of them walked down the fairway together, the sound of their footsteps blending with the quiet of the early morning. They continued talking as they went, sharing stories about their lives outside of the spotlight. Lily asked about her music, her time with BLACKPINK, and what it was like being part of such a massive group.

“I think it must be so crazy,” Lily said as they reached their balls, “just the way your life is always in motion. Constant tours, rehearsals, events. Do you ever get to just... stop?”

She smiled wistfully, a slight tension in her shoulders easing as she talked with someone who genuinely understood. “It’s a whirlwind, for sure. But I think that’s part of the reason I love days like this—days when it’s just about being present and in the moment. No schedules, no deadlines. It’s like a breath of fresh air.” She paused for a moment, a soft smile forming on her lips. “Lando gets it too. He’s always the first to suggest we take time off, just to enjoy the little things together. It’s nice to have someone who understands the need for a break.”

Lily nodded, adjusting her stance before hitting her next shot. “I get that. Alex is the same way. Even with everything going on in the racing world, we both understand the value of those moments together—whether it’s playing golf or just taking time to breathe.” She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Same with golf. It’s the one place I can be totally in control of the moment. But it’s also a way to unwind. A way to reset. I think that’s what keeps me grounded.”

Her eyes softened as she watched Lily’s form. “I can see that. There’s something so peaceful about golf. It’s not like other sports, where it’s all about speed or power. It’s a game of patience, precision. I think I’m going to enjoy this more than I thought.”

Lily smiled, clearly happy to hear that. “I’m glad. It’s always nice to share something I love with someone who’s open to it.”

They continued playing, the conversation drifting naturally between them. The course, with its sprawling greens and calming environment, was the perfect place for them to connect. They shared more about their lives, their goals, and their interests. It wasn’t about fame or attention; it was just two women enjoying each other’s company, and the simplicity of that made the day feel even more special.

By the time they reached the final hole, the afternoon had stretched out into a comfortable rhythm. Her confidence had grown with each swing, and although her shots weren’t perfect, she was having fun. Lily had been patient, offering tips and encouragement, but never pushing too hard. It wasn’t about winning or losing—it was about enjoying the experience.

As they walked to the 18th green, the sun now beginning to set, casting a warm, golden hue over the course, she looked over at Lily with a relaxed smile.

“You know, I can’t believe how much fun I’ve had today. I was nervous at first, but you made it feel so easy,” she said, swinging her club back and forth absentmindedly.

Lily smiled back, her expression soft. “That’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not about being perfect—it’s about enjoying the game. We’re just here for the moment, to be present, and it doesn’t matter what happens next.”

They stood side by side, looking over the final hole, the vast expanse of green stretching out before them. For a moment, everything felt still and serene, as if the world had paused just for them.

“Ready for the final swing?” Lily asked, her tone light but filled with anticipation.

She nodded, a grin spreading across her face. “Let’s do it.”

Lily stepped back, giving her space, watching as she lined up her shot. Her grip was firm, her stance more confident than when she had first started. She swung the club, the motion fluid, and the ball shot forward with a satisfying thwack.

It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it didn’t matter. It landed neatly on the green, a few feet from the hole. She stood there for a moment, staring at it in mild surprise.

“Well, I’ll call that a win,” she laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she glanced over at Lily.

Lily smiled, her eyes warm. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’ve got it. You just needed the right swing, and the right mindset.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You make it sound so easy. I think I need to play more often if I want to be that good.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, teasing, “Maybe I should make you my official golf student. I’ll train you up for next time.”

She shot her a playful grin. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep it fun and not turn it into a serious sport.”

They both laughed, the sound of their voices blending with the peaceful hum of the world around them. As they made their way to the final hole, ready to wrap up the game, there was a sense of satisfaction in the air. Not focusing on anything other than the simplicity of the game and the enjoyment of each other’s company.

After they finished their round, they took their time walking back to the clubhouse, chatting about everything from their favorite travel destinations to their future plans. The sun was dipping lower on the horizon, the day slipping into evening, but neither of them seemed to mind. There was something about the day that felt timeless.

“Well,” she said, as they sat down at the outdoor seating area, “I think I’m officially hooked. Golf isn’t so bad after all.”

Lily chuckled, taking a sip of her water. “I’m glad. I knew you’d like it once you gave it a shot.”

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes soft with contentment. “Thank you for today.”

Lily smiled, her tone warm and genuine. “Anytime. Today was perfect.”

The two women sat there for a while longer, watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon, feeling at peace in each other’s company. It had been a day of simple pleasures—golf, good conversation, and the kind of friendship that didn’t need anything else.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The afternoon in Monaco was lazy and warm, the kind of day where the sun hung comfortably in the sky, casting a golden hue over the bustling city. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and the sounds of distant chatter and the soft hum of the city blended with the rhythmic lapping of waves against the harbor.

She and Lily had decided to take the day off from their usual routines, lipping away from the ever-present demands of their careers and the spotlight that often followed the pair.

The café was small and charming, tucked away on a quiet street just a few blocks from the marina. The soft hum of conversations blended with the clink of coffee cups and plates, creating an atmosphere that felt comforting and peaceful. The space was intimate, with plants spilling over the edges of the outdoor seating, their vibrant green leaves adding a touch of life to the already welcoming space.

She sat across from Lily at one of the outdoor tables, the light breeze gently tousling her hair. She wore one of Lando’s white button-ups, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, paired with denim shorts and sneakers. Her sunglasses rested on top of her head, giving her that effortlessly chic vibe that came with living in Monaco. Lily, in a relaxed black dress and a pair of sleek sandles, looked just as at ease, her posture casual, her smile wide and easy.

“I think I’ve found my new favorite spot,” she said, taking a sip of her iced coffee. The drink was refreshing and smooth, the perfect companion to the warm afternoon. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes softening as she took in the sights of the café, the life of Monaco surrounding them.

Lily grinned. “I knew you’d love it. It’s one of my favorite spots to grab coffee when I just want to chill.”

She smiled, taking a sip from her cup. “It really is perfect. I mean, it’s not too crowded, but there’s just enough going on to keep it interesting.”

Lily nodded, her gaze drifting to the street outside. “Yeah, I love people-watching here. It’s the best part of this place—seeing all kinds of people just doing their thing.”

She laughed softly, leaning back in her chair. “I swear, I could spend hours doing that. Some people walk by with such confidence, and others look like they’re on a mission. It’s like a live show.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Oh, totally. You can definitely tell who’s in a rush and who’s just enjoying the moment. It's like an unscripted reality show, just without the cameras.” They both laughed together, the sound blending with the quiet hum of the café. After a moment, Lily casually asked, “What’s the most random thing you’ve seen today?”

She thought for a second, then grinned. “There was this guy walking his dog, and the dog was wearing sunglasses. Like, full-on aviators. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.”

Lily burst out laughing. “No way! That’s awesome. I think we should get Leo a pair of sunglasses, see if he can pull it off.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. He’s probably strut around like he’s the star of a runway show.”

Lily leaned back in her chair, shaking her head with a smile. “I can already picture it—the dog will be the new fashion icon in Monaco.”

They both fell into an easy silence for a moment, enjoying the simple joy of good company and a relaxing afternoon. The buzz of the café and the occasional clink of cups blended into the background as they watched the world go by, both feeling content in the shared peace of the moment.

Lily’s eyes twinkled as she leaned forward. “So, when you need to clear your head, what do you do? You’ve got such a busy life. I imagine it must be hard to find peace with everything going on.”

She thought for a moment, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I think it’s simple things that help me clear my head. I love being by the water. Me and Alexandra hung out on the beach last week. There’s something about the ocean that just helps me reset. Lando and I also take walks by the water sometimes when we’re bored. It’s just so calming.”

Lily smiled knowingly. “That’s cute. Books are my little escape. I’ve been trying to read more lately, but I find that sometimes I get so wrapped up in everything that I forget to just... breathe.” She paused for a moment, looking out at the street as if considering her words. “Alex and I read together, more like I read to him” she murmured, “but we don’t always get that kind of time. But when we do, it’s the best.”

The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a while, the gentle breeze of the afternoon brushing through their hair, the sounds of the city around them feeling like background noise. It was one of those rare moments where time seemed to stretch, and the weight of the world seemed lighter. Just two friends, enjoying the simplicity of the moment.

“So,” Lily said, breaking the silence with a playful smile, “I’ve gotta know—what’s been the best part about your Monaco life so far? I mean, I know it’s glamorous, but what’s something you really love about it?”

She thought for a moment, her eyes lighting up. “Honestly, the quiet mornings. When I get up early enough, and it’s calm outside, I can just step out, take a walk, grab a coffee, and walk around peacefully. Lando and I take advantage of it sometimes, just walking around early in the morning, with no one bothering us.”

Lily smiled, clearly enjoying the thought of the simple pleasures she had found in her new home. “That sounds perfect.”

She nodded, her expression softening as she thought about how much those small, serene moments meant to her. “Yeah, it is.”

The conversation drifted to different topics, like their relationships, how they both navigated the challenges of being with partners in the public eye. They laughed, exchanged stories of funny misunderstandings, and supported each other with insights from their own experiences.

As the afternoon turned into evening, the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden light over the café. The atmosphere shifted from the bright, bustling energy of the day to the quieter, more intimate feeling of dusk settling in. The two women continued, now with their cups empty. They shared everything they could in that peaceful moment, fully present and without the weight of expectations.

Lily picked up her purse, standing slowly as the evening air began to cool. “Let’s make a habit of it, shall we? Just... us.”

She stood as well, nodding. “Definitely. Next time, I’ll treat you to something.”

Lily laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Deal. I love you.”

Her eyes softed “i love you too”

They both shared a laugh, the sound of their voices mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. As they walked toward the exit of the café, the day slowly winding down, there was a feeling of contentment that lingered between them, like a promise that no matter what came next, moments like this would always be worth cherishing

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Lily Zneimer

The pottery studio was tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, hidden behind ivy-covered walls and rustic wooden doors. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and warm, with natural light streaming through large windows, illuminating the pottery wheels, worktables, and shelves lined with completed ceramics. Soft instrumental music played in the background, creating a peaceful ambiance.

She and Lily had decided to spend the day together, eager to try something new and creative. Both had expressed an interest in pottery, though neither was particularly experienced. Still, the excitement of trying their hand at something artistic and tactile was enough to get them both smiling brightly as they tied on their aprons.

She adjusted her sleeves, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Have you ever tried pottery before?” she asked Lily, glancing curiously around the studio.

Lily shook her head, laughing softly as she pulled her blonde hair back into a loose ponytail. “Not really. I took an art class once, but pottery wasn’t included. Honestly, I just thought it looked relaxing.”

She nodded in agreement, running her fingers lightly over a lump of clay resting in front of her. “Same. It always seemed like one of those things you watch and think ‘Oh, that looks easy,’ but I have a feeling it’s going to be harder than it looks.”

Lily chuckled, eyes bright with amusement. “Definitely. At least it’ll be fun, even if we make a complete mess.”

They took their places at the pottery wheels, each carefully following the instructor’s brief demonstration. The wheel hummed gently beneath their hands as they began to shape their clay, spinning slowly at first, and then gaining momentum. She watched carefully, her expression a mixture of concentration and curiosity.

“I think the key is to stay relaxed,” she murmured, her voice filled with gentle encouragement.

Lily glanced over, smiling. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

She laughed, shaking her head as her fingers carefully pressed into the clay, shaping it into a rough bowl. “Just pretending to sound confident. Fake it till you make it, right?”

Lily grinned, returning her focus to her own spinning clay. Her hands moved gently, trying to mimic the motions they’d been shown, slowly coaxing the clay upward. “Honestly, as long as it doesn’t collapse, I’ll consider it a success.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional humming of the wheels and their quiet laughter when things didn’t quite go according to plan. Her clay wobbled slightly, causing her to make a soft sound of surprise, while Lily’s bowl began to take on an unintended shape.

“Uh-oh, I think mine is leaning,” Lily said, giggling softly as she tried to steady it. The clay began to sway precariously, threatening to topple.

She glanced over, laughing sympathetically. “It kind of looks artistic, though. Like it’s meant to lean.”

Lily chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of clay across her forehead. “I’ll just pretend it’s a modern design. Maybe it’ll become a trend.”

She smiled warmly. “Exactly. Who needs symmetry, anyway?”

The instructor passed by, offering them gentle tips on their technique and helping them adjust their posture and grip. They both listened carefully, eager to learn but also enjoying the playful atmosphere of trying something new together.

Once their initial pieces were complete, the instructor handed them some additional clay, suggesting they try creating mugs next. Her eyes lit up at the idea, quickly forming a new lump of clay into shape.

“I think a mug is more my speed,” she joked lightly.

Lily laughed softly, beginning to shape her clay as well. “True. If it’s slightly wonky, we can just say it has personality.”

She nodded, grinning broadly as she carefully molded the handle of her mug. “Exactly! Mine definitely has a lot of personality.”

As they worked, their conversation drifted to casual topics—favorite movies, books, funny travel stories, and hobbies. Lily shared humorous anecdotes about Oscar’s cooking attempts, and she recounted hilarious backstage stories from her performances with BLACKPINK. Their laughter echoed softly through the studio, the easy, carefree nature of their conversation blending seamlessly with the quiet hum of the pottery wheels.

“I’m definitely dragging Oscar here sometime,” Lily said with a grin. “I think it would be hilarious seeing him try pottery.”

She laughed, nodding enthusiastically. “Oh, I’ll bring Lando. He’ll either take it way too seriously or turn it into some sort of silly competition. There’s literally no middle ground with him.”

Lily chuckled, picturing it. “Honestly, if we brought them both here they’d probably turn it into a race to see who could make a mug the fastest.”

She shook her head fondly, her hands gently smoothing the edges of her mug. “Absolutely. But at least we’d get a good laugh out of it.”

The afternoon continued in this relaxed rhythm, with both women engrossed in their pottery creations. Occasionally, their mugs or bowls would collapse or warp unexpectedly, prompting fits of laughter and amused shrugs before they began again.

Eventually, with their finished pieces set aside to dry, they cleaned their hands at a nearby basin, rinsing off the clay residue while exchanging playful banter.

She glanced over at their creations, smiling warmly. “Honestly, not bad for our first try.”

Lily nodded, her eyes bright. “Not bad at all. They have character. I kind of love that about them.”

She laughed softly. “Me too. I think we can officially call ourselves amateur potters now.”

Lily grinned widely. “Absolutely. We should definitely do this again. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.”

She agreed, drying her hands as they stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunlight. “Next time, though, I might aim for a vase or something more ambitious.”

Lily chuckled playfully. “Oh, bold move. I’ll stick to mugs and bowls a bit longer, I think.”

She smiled, linking arms with Lily as they walked leisurely down the quiet street. “Either way, this was exactly what I hoped it would be. Just a relaxing afternoon making art with a friend.”

Lily squeezed her arm lightly, smiling warmly. “Couldn’t agree more. And who knows—maybe one day our slightly crooked mugs will become collector’s items.”

They both laughed, the sound floating gently into the warm Monaco air, their spirits high and carefree. The day had been simple, creative, and filled with laughter—a perfect memory they would cherish for a long time.

Bonus Scene w/ Lando:

She walked into the apartment, her energy light and relaxed after spending the afternoon at the pottery studio with Lily. She had a small box in her hands, carefully cradling it as she moved through the door. Lando was on the couch, his usual goofy grin plastered across his face as he looked up from his phone.

“Hey, I’m home!” she called out, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Lando looked up, his eyes brightening when he saw her. “Welcome back! How was it? Did you make a masterpiece?”

She grinned, walking over to the coffee table and setting the box down carefully. “I wouldn’t call it a masterpiece,” she said, her voice playful. “But it’s definitely... unique.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a curious look on his face. “Unique, huh? I’m intrigued. Do I get to see it?”

She chuckled, opening the box to reveal her creation. Inside was a slightly lopsided mug, the handle a little crooked, but with a simple charm that made it endearing. The glaze on the surface was a soft, calming blue, with small streaks of white that almost looked like clouds.

Lando blinked at it for a moment, then burst out laughing, the sound warm and genuine. “That... is definitely something.” He paused, his smile softening.“I actually love it, though. It’s got character.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s not perfect, but I had fun making it. I think it has personality, though. Definitely not something you’d find in a store.”

Lando picked it up gently, turning it over in his hands as he examined it with a mock-serious expression. “Yeah, you can definitely tell it was handmade. But you’re right, it’s got.. soul.”

She smiled warmly, watching him as he held the mug with such care. “Exactly. I might have messed up a few times, but it feels good to make something with my hands, you know? It’s different from anything I usually do.”

Lando set the mug back down, his smile turning playful. “Well, I think it’s perfect. Maybe you can make a whole set for us. You know, we could have custom pottery dinnerware—nothing like it on the market.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Sure, our cupboard is gonna be filled with handcrafted mugs and bowls.”

“I’m in,” Lando said, his voice full of enthusiasm. “You’ve got the talent, maybe we can sell them. We’ll be rolling in pottery money.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes fondly at him. “I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as ‘pottery money,’ but I like the way you think.”

Lando laughed, his arms wrapping around her. “And when you make it big, I’ll always remember the first mug you made. It’ll be worth millions one day.”

She laughed, leaning back against him, feeling the warmth of the moment. “Yeah, maybe. But for now, it’ll just be my mug—and a reminder of a pretty perfect day.”

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The soft afternoon light streamed through the large windows of the apartment, casting a warm glow on the living room. The space was cozy and inviting, with the comforting scent of coffee and the quiet hum of a gentle playlist filling the air. It was the perfect setting for an afternoon of productive focus—and that’s exactly what her and Lily were aiming for.

Lily sat at the coffee table, her laptop open in front of her, a pile of engineering textbooks and notes scattered around her. She had been working on her homework for a few hours now, trying to understand a particularly tricky concept related to mechanical systems. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled a few equations in her notebook, pausing every so often to refer back to the textbook.

She was seated on the couch, a notebook and her laptop in front of her, working on lyrics for her upcoming album. Her pen moved smoothly across the paper as she jotted down phrases, her mind already lost in the creative process. There was a slight rhythm to her writing, the way her hand moved as she thought through each line, the music already playing in her head.

It was a quiet and comfortable scene—two friends, side by side, working on their respective projects. Though their work was different, the sense of focus and dedication in the room was palpable. Neither of them needed to say much; they were simply content in each other's presence, doing what they loved.

Lily stretched her arms above her head, letting out a small sigh. Lily looked over at her, who was completely absorbed in her songwriting. “How’s it going?” Lily asked, her voice soft but curious.

She didn’t look up right away, lost in the melody she was working on. But when she did, she smiled. “It’s coming along,” she said, her tone light but focused. “I’m working on the bridge for one of the songs. I’m trying to get the lyrics just right.”

Lily nodded, tapping a few keys on her laptop before looking up at her. “How do you do it? I mean, I know you’re in a group, but it’s impressive how you just sit down and write a song. I’ve never really understood that creative process.”

She chuckled, glancing over at her. “I think it’s like engineering in a way,” she said, her eyes brightening with the comparison. “You break it down into smaller parts. For me, it starts with a feeling or an idea, and then I build from there. It’s like constructing something, but with words and music instead of metal or wires.”

Lily smiled, leaning back on the couch, appreciating the thought. “That makes sense. I guess I approach my homework in a similar way. I break things down into steps, but it never feels as... fun as what you’re doing.” She glanced at the equations on her screen, her brow furrowing again. “This is the part of engineering that really makes me think I’m not cut out for it.”

She tilted her head, giving Lily a sympathetic smile. “I get it. Sometimes, I feel the same way with music. But the key is to remember that you don’t have to get it all at once. It’s okay to take it slow and give yourself time to figure it out.”

Lily gave her a small smile, feeling the warmth of the encouragement. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s just... I don’t know, sometimes it feels like I should already understand it all.”

She shook her head. “I think that’s the hardest part. We all think we should have it figured out, but nobody really does. It’s about trusting the process. You’ll get there.”

Lily nodded, the words sinking in. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She returned to her lyrics, her pen moving fluidly across the page, while Lily went back to her engineering problem, her eyes scanning the text. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sound was the occasional tapping of keys and the soft hum of her instrumental tracks.

After a few minutes, Lily let out a soft groan, leaning back in her chair, her hand rubbing her eyes. “Okay, I’m going to take a break. This part has me stuck.”

She glanced up from her notebook, noticing the frustration in Lily’s expression. “Need help?” she asked, her voice gentle but encouraging.

Lily hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to explain it well enough for you to help. It’s just... one of those moments where nothing’s clicking.”

She smiled knowingly, setting her pen down. “I understand, sometimes I feel the same way with songwriting. It’s like everything’s on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite find the right words.”

Lily smiled back, grateful for the understanding. “Ha, literally.”

She leaned back on the couch, thinking for a moment. “Well, if you’re taking a break, I’ll take one too. Want to brainstorm ideas for the song? Sometimes, talking it out helps.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Brainstorm ideas? You mean, like... writing a song together?”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Why not? Maybe you’ll have a breakthrough just from changing things up a bit. Plus, I’ve always thought it would be fun to write a song with someone who isn’t in the music industry. Fresh perspective, you know?”

Lily laughed, clearly surprised but entertained by the idea. “Okay, this is definitely a first for me. But sure, I’m up for it. How do we start?”

She moved her laptop closer to them and played the instrumental. “This is the beat I have for the song. We can add some lyrics. Don’t worry about it being perfect. Just say whatever comes to your mind.”

Lily, feeling slightly unsure, smiled and shrugged. “Alright, let’s see what happens.”

As she pushed play, letting the melody play out, Lily tapped her fingers against the table, lost in thought for a moment. Then, slowly, she started humming along with the tune, her voice blending into the music. It wasn’t polished, but it was real. They laughed as they tossed around silly lines, half-formed ideas that made no sense at first but slowly started to take shape.

Her fingers moved to pause the music for a moment as she looked over at Lily. “Okay, what if we went for something catchy? Like... "Look at the floor or ceiling,’ or “I know what you are, trying so hard,’ you know, like something that, like possessive in a way.”

Lily grinned, clearly getting into the flow. “I like that. How about after “Look at the floor or ceiling”...uh..you could do ‘or anyone else you’re feeling’?”

She laughed, enjoying the playful nature of their collaboration. “I love that!” she wrote words down in her notebooks. She murmured the song trying to find rhymes “After ‘or anyone else you’re feeling’ then we can do ‘Take home whoever walks in, just keep your eyes off him” she continued.

Lily thought for a second “yes that fit so well” she agreed. Then began humming the fresh lyrics, filling in the gaps as they worked together. The song came together piece by piece, their ideas melding into something neither of them had expected but both found surprisingly fun and rewarding.

After an hour of singing, laughing, and jotting down lines, the song started to take shape. They didn’t finish it, but the foundation was there—an upbeat, assertive anthem about living in the moment, dancing through life, and creating memories.

Lily looked up at her, her expression light and happy. “I can’t believe we actually wrote something together. This was fun.”

She grinned, setting her guitar down. “See? Told you it would help. And who knows—maybe we’ll finish it later. I’ll credit you for the help.”

Lily laughed. “Really!? Who knew I’d be a songwriter?”

She chuckled, her eyes warm. “You helped a lot lilypad, we have 3/4 of the song finished and glad you were able to have fun. We've came up with some fun lyrics and a good time out of it.”

Lily nodded, the weight of her homework temporarily forgotten as Lily smiled at her. “Exactly. Maybe I’ll take this energy and try tackling that engineering problem again.”

She winked. “Good luck with that. I’ll be here if you need another songwriting session.”

Lily gave a playful roll of her eyes. “Deal. Next time, we’ll tackle both the song and the homework.”

As the afternoon wore on, the room remained filled with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laughter. The stress of schoolwork and the pressures of life seemed so far away. In that moment, it was about friendship, creativity, and simply enjoying the flow of a spontaneous, fun-filled afternoon.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

----------

Helloo again. Quick question for my lovely readers children, for a later story in this AU

What songs would/should be on your/her album? And what should the album be named?

Here’s the songs i got (most are based off the lyrics of the song):

Miss Possessive - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance and a definitely)

Whiplash - Aespa

Sports Car - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance)

ABCD - Nayeon

2 Hands - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance)

Love Hangover - Jennie (with special MV appearance)

Fill the Void - Lily Rose Depp w/ The Weekend

Mantra - Jennie (with special MV appearance)

ExtraL - Jennie w/ Doechii

Number one girl - Rosé

And maybe armageddon - Aespa, Igloo - Kiss of Life, 1-800-hot-n-fun - lesserafim

It’s not official yet so i wanted to hear y’all thoughts and recommendations on what songs should be on this fake album lol.

AGAIN THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT, THE FOLLOWS (WE AT 270!!) , THE LIKES, AND COMMENTS. THEY ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED. I READ THEM ALL AND THEY KEEP ME MOTIVATED. MUCHHH LOVEEE 💕💕

(UPDATED) Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress @yawn-zi @mochimommy2002 @bearyfast @h-rtsnana @chaoswithus

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f1-mcmuffin · 2 months ago

Note

Can i request where y/n and lando was watching jennie’s ruby experience concert in paris together and fans spotted them and maybe them meeting with jennie backstage too🙂🙂🙂

RUBY

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

a/n: y'all I apologize, on my knees, for the wait. Not really proud of this because of how short it is but not much I can do. I've started so many stories from this series and my other. Which I might post throughout the week or all at once on a random day. Anyway enjoy!!

The air outside Le Zenith in Paris shimmered with anticipation,the kind that lived in the bones more than the skin. Paris was cool, the springdusk hanging heavy in the air like a held breath.

Even hours before doors opened, a sea of fans wrapped around the venue, a mass of glitter and red lace, velvet ribbons and smudged eyeliner, lightsticks held tight like devotion.The Ruby Experience wasn’t just a concert — it was a statement. And tonight was one of the most anticipated stops.

She could hear the hum before she saw the crowd — the murmur of voices like bees in a hive, punctuated by the occasional scream when a van rolled by or a staffer passed too close to the tinted entrance.

She hadn’t planned on going.

She’d watched Jennie’s solo journey unfold from afar — proud, in quiet ways. Texts exchanged across time zones, likes and reposts on instagram, the occasional voice note that said more than words ever could. A thumbs-up on a clip of her dancing to ‘Like Jennie’.

They had known each other long enough to not need presence to prove care. They moved through different spheres now — both orbiting spotlight, both shaped by stage and scrutiny, but never needing to outshine each other.

But still.

When Jennie texted her that week — short and sure — it landed in her chest like a stone dropped in a lake.

Come to my show in Paris. Bring him. I want you to see this one. A single heart emoji. The only punctuation it needed.

Lando was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked through the staff entrance. Not stiff — just observant. He had on a black button-up, the first 2 buttons undone, and dark jeans that somehow made him look both underdressed and overdressed but still perfect. There was a subtle curve to his shoulders, that posture he got when he wasn’t in control of the space — alert, but not uncomfortable.

She walked beside him in tailored leather pants and a clean, off-the-shoulder jacket that cut sharp against her collarbones. Her hair was twisted up, two strands framing her face just enough to soften her jawline. She looked like she belonged here — not because she was dressed for it, but because she didn’t seem to care if she did.

They were led down a long, echoing hallway — past dancers stretching in half-splits, stylists carrying garment bags with handwritten name tags, lighting crew members running final checks on timing sheets.

She offered quiet nods and bows, a few murmured greetings in Korean and English. Lando mostly kept his head down and stayed close. It wasn’t nerves. It was respect. The same way he stood on the edge of a pit lane before a red flag cleared, letting the moment unfold before inserting himself.

They were led to a small lounge space off the side of the backstage corridor — not luxurious, but dimly lit and quiet. A wall of mirrors glowed with round bulbs, and the low sound of the stage monitor leaked in from the floor above.

A staffer handed them each a pair of in-ear protection sleeves.

“Gets loud,” the woman said with a grin, “but you’ll want to hear all of it.”

She had just adjusted hers, one tucked neatly in and the other still in her hand, when a voice cut clean through the sound and static of pre-show bustle.

“Finally.”

She quickly thanked the staff member then looked up, already smiling.

Jennie stood in the doorway in an oversized robe that trailed just slightly on the carpet, her makeup only half-finished — one eye smoky and the other still bare, her lips stained red at the center and fading out. Her hair was half up half down.

Jennie looked like a painting.

Jennie crossed the room in two steps, arms already open. She met her halfway, burying her face in Jennie’s shoulder. The hug wasn’t performative — it wasn’t for anyone else. Just full. Real. The kind of hug that told years of stories in a second.

Lando watched from a polite distance, leaning slightly against the wall. He hadn’t met Jennie properly before — maybe a polite nod backstage at an event, a wave in a VIP box. But he knew enough to know this was a different version of her than the internet ever saw. Warmer. Looser. Human version.

“You look like you own the building,” She murmured.

Jennie pulled back with a smirk. “I do tonight.”

Jennie turned to Lando, wiping the corner of her eye with her sleeve and sticking out a hand. “Thanks for keeping her out of the studio.”

Lando took it, nodding. “It’s a pretty easy job.”

Jennie raised an eyebrow. “I believe it,” Jennie then gave her a once-over. “Leather? At my show?”

“Came to be respectful,” she deadpanned. “Didn’t want to outshine the headliner.”

Jennie rolled her eyes but smiled. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

She reached out and plucked an unused beauty blender off the vanity, tossing it lightly at her. “Don’t drag me when I’ve barely sat down.”

The show assistant called Jennie’s name from the hallway. Jennie glanced back at her and Lando once more. “Enjoy the show.” Then she disappeared — like a storm receding just long enough to gather strength again.

A low rumble moved through the arena — the kind that made the floors vibrate before the sound even reached the chest. The lightsticks snapped on in waves of red and pink, a constellation blooming from the ground up. Every person in the venue seemed to lean forward at once, breath held. By the time the house lights dimmed, the crowd was already on edge.

A single spotlight. A silhouette in the haze. And the first notes of “Intro: JANE with FKJ” cut through the air like a knife dipped in honey.

From the VIP platform just off stage left, her and Lando stood in the open, fully visible. Not hidden but not trying to take away from the show.

She gripped the front rail with one hand, her other brushing her jacket sleeve up her arm. She was standing still, but the energy coming off her was electric — like something in her recognized the beat, the voice, the weight of the moment in her bones.

Lando stood just beside her, his hand resting casually on the barrier, shoulders relaxed but gaze sharp. He wasn’t just there to support Jennie — he was watching her watch the show.

When Jennie took the stage, the scream that tore through the arena felt physical. She didn’t flinch. Her fingers curled tighter around the rail. She clapped a couple times and pulled out her phone to take a quick video.

Lando leaned toward her slightly, voice low so only she could hear. “Does she always open like this?”

She nodded, eyes locked on the stage. “She doesn’t want to ease them in. She wants to own them from the start.”

“Jesus,” he murmured, almost in awe.

She smiled, just a little.

They didn’t move much through the first few songs. The stage did enough for all of them.

Every setpiece felt sculpted. Every beat is precise. It wasn’t flashy for the sake of it — it was designed. Red lasers split the air during "Zen," while strobes stuttered behind Jennie’s silhouette, making her look like she was made of electricity.

“Nobody gon’ move my soul, gon’ move my aura, my matter”

“Nobody gon’ move my light, gon’ touch my glow, my matter”

“Nobody gon’, all this power make them scatter”

“No, nobody gon’ touch my soul, gon’ match my glow, like, i dare you (HEY)”

Lando didn’t know every song, but he could tell which ones meant something by the way her shoulders would shift. The way her grip on the rail would soften. She was mouthing every lyric, but when Like Jennie started, he caught her singing the chorus under her breath.

“No, I’m not thinking ‘bout no exes, know they miss me,” She lipsung to Lando, which he laughed and shook his head.

“i got the whole room spinning like its tipy” Lando laughing made her start laughing before locking in for the chorus.

(Don’t bore us, take you to the chorus)

“Who wanna rock with JENNIE”

“Keep your hair done, nails done like JENNIE. Who else got ‘em obsessed like JENNIE”

“Like, like, like. I think I really like (JENNIE) Haters, they don’t really like (JENNIE) Cause they could never, ever be (JENNIE) but have you ever met”

She marked the whole dance, not going full out but just enough. All while Lando watched, smiled and laughed softly. Not mockingly. Just admiring

He leaned closer again. “Is that one your favorite?”

“Not mine,” she said. “Hers.”

And when Jennie pointed toward their section mid-song — quick, subtle, but unmistakable — She used two hands to blow Jennie a kiss and laughed, ducking behind Lando’s shoulder for a moment like she’d been caught off guard. Jennie’s smile grew wider, but she didn’t linger for a moment. She kept dancing.

But the fans saw, quickly moving their phone cameras from the stage to them. Snapping quick videos of them and posting it everywhere.

@/rubygirldreams Y/N AND LANDO ARE AT THE PARIS SHOW I’M ACTUALLY UNWELL @/Mcmuffin Jr. Not her mouthing every word like a real one and Lando looking at her instead of the stage 😭 boy is down so bad @/sweetbutlap3 They were literally just… there. No security. Just vibes. We love a non-attention-seeking couple @/jenniedotmp4 The way Jennie POINTED at them during Like Jennie and she actually panicked like a fan 😭 she’s so real @/lapthreelegend Lando looked genuinely overwhelmed when the lights hit the smoke during “Filter” lol like sir you drive cars for a living, get it together @/Lando.edits4 Also can we talk about how she had her hand either resting near his or holding his hand the whole show?? Softest thing I’ve ever seen.

Halfway through the show, she finally shifted.

She stepped back from the rail and turned to face Lando fully, lifting her hair to adjust the back of her top. He instinctively reached out to help, pulling the collar straight and smoothing the fabric down her back with one palm.

“You good?” Lando asked, leaning in just a little.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m just taking it in.”

Onstage, Jennie was in full control — sharp, focused, every move deliberate. The lighting had shifted red again, shadows cut across the stage in hard angles. The bass kicked low and heavy.

“This one feels different,” Lando said.

“It is,” she replied. “She’s proving a point.”

Lando glanced at her. “To who?”

“Whoever doubts her abilties.”

Her voice was even, matter-of-fact. No edge, just certainty. She watched the stage with a quiet understanding — like she’d seen this version of Jennie before, just never under lights.

“You’ve done that,” Lando said, more observation than question.

She shrugged. “Not really. But I know the feeling.”

Lando didn’t push. Just let her words sit there, watching as the crowd roared and Jennie moved through the verse like she owned the room.

“You really respect her, huh?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” Sophia said. “She’s doing exactly what she wants. That’s the goal.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lando nodded, eyes still on her. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

The lights dimmed again —slow. Like an exhale. The last song of the night.

The intro to “Twin” began, the guitar playing softly. Jennie’s voice, raw and unlayered, echoed through the arena like a memory.

“It’s like im writing a letter, and i put in a 12 ounce bottle of Heineken”

She went still. Lando felt it before he saw it — the way her hand eased off the rail, her body slightly untensing.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes stayed fixed on the stage, but something in her posture changed. Like she’d suddenly remembered every version of herself that had watched Jennie perform over the years — from trainee, to duo, to friend, to sister. Always tethered together.

Onstage, Jennie was alone now.

No dancers. No production tricks. Just her, sitting under a single spotlight, microphone held in both hands like a secret.

“Can you just bear with me? We were ten years in and young and dumb and innocent, my friend, but I knew all along that we were both wrong”

Lando glanced over at her. Her expression was unreadable — a perfectly built wall, honed over years in front of cameras and crowds. But her eyes were wet.

He reached for her hand. He didn’t speak and he moved half a step closer.

And still, Jennie sang.

“I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya. When I'm bumping Ashanti, yeah, on a beach, yeah. I didn’t hold ya, but I still know ya,”

“We will make up, make things right when we get older, Friend”

“Twin, Twin Twin, You and I we drifted apart”

It wasn’t a song for the stage. It felt too raw for that. It was the kind of song written at 2 a.m., in a studio with the lights off, with only truth left in the room.

A song about being mirrored. Compared. Made into halves of someone else's story.

She finally spoke — barely a whisper. “This one’s my favorite.”

Lando nodded. “Yeah?”

“She hasn’t done it live before. It’s… it’s too personal.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew. This wasn’t just a song Jennie had written. It was a song she’d bled everything into.

The crowd didn’t scream through this one. They swayed, quiet. Some cried. One lightstick flickered out and was relit by a friend. It was the rare kind of arena silence that felt sacred.

And when the last note dissolved into reverb, Jennie didn’t bow. She just sat there, chin slightly tilted down, letting the weight of it settle, as the light dimmed to black. She exhaled.

She looked over at Lando, the edge of her smile a little wobbly now.

“That one got me,” she said simply. Lando didn’t try to make it a moment. He didn’t press it open or try to soften it.

Instead, he leaned in and said, “She meant for it to.”

She looked back at the stage, blinked a few times, then wiped the corner of her eye with her knuckle. “I hope she knows it landed.”

“She knows,” he said, without looking away. “She saw you.”

By the time they made it backstage, the energy had shifted — not gone, just loosened. The kind of high that settled into grins and sweats and someone kicking off their heels in the hallway with a dramatic groan.

She and Lando were led down the familiar corridor, their passes swinging on their lanyards. Crew members passed them, still buzzing, high-fiving, laughing in short, breathless bursts. Someone sprinted by holding a single broken heel like it was a trophy.

Jennie’s dressing room door was propped open with a speaker, faint music still playing from inside — not the concert playlist anymore, but something soft and lazy, like the after-hours version of everything they’d just seen.

She was stretched across a velvet couch in post-show sweats and a tank top, hair piled in a messy top knot, face still glowing with residual stage makeup and exactly zero energy left to pretend. There was a half-eaten energy bar next to her phone and one sock barely hanging on.

When she spotted them, she grinned. “There you are,” Jennie said, pointing at her like she was mildly offended. “You didn’t cry. Rude.”

She kicked off her heels and dropped down beside her, all too familiar. “I teared up during Twin. You just couldn’t see it because your spotlight kept flash banging me.”

“That’s not my problem,” Jennie said, stealing her water bottle from her hand. “Next time, bring tissues.”

“You did amazing though,” she said, swiping the bottle back. “Singing live and keeping up, has your stamina gotten better?.”

Jennie beamed and nodded, then looked at Lando. “You. Be honest. Was I too much?”

Lando grinned. “Hm, yeah .”

Jennie clutched her chest. “Thank you.” she said breathlessly.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re the only person I know who treats being called ‘too much’ as a compliment.”

Jennie sat up, grabbing the champagne bottle off the table and popping it with a loud pop. “It is. I am. And I earned it after all the shit ive been through.”

Lando laughed as she poured into paper cups, handing one to each of them like she was hosting a very low-budget award ceremony.

“To the greatest audience in Paris,” Jennie declared.

She raised her cup. “You mean the 8,000 people who screamed your name or us two in the VIP platform?”

“You,” Jennie said without hesitation. “Everyone else screamed. You guys watched. That’s rarer.”

They clinked cups. It fizzed. It wasn’t the best champagne — Jennie admitted she picked it based on the bottle — but it tasted like something worth remembering.

“You know what the highlight was?” Jennie said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Seeing Lando’s face during with the IE”

Lando blinked. “What about it?”

“You blinked,” she said, pointing. “I saw you. You flinched.”

“I didn’t flinch—”

Jennie nodded solemnly. “He flinched. Meanwhile I was breathing in fog and dancing in heels the height of my standards”

“The same standards that are…nonexistent?” she offered.

Jennie raised her cup. “Correct.”

They all laughed — the good kind, the kind that echoes in your ribs. The adrenaline was still there, but now it felt lighter. Celebratory. Like the part of the night

----------

Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress @yawn-zi

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

YES PLEASE A WAG CHAPTERRRR

Meeting the WAGs

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Kelly Piquet

The harbor at Yas Marina glowed like a jewelry box. Neon reflections danced across the water from the yachts docked along the promenade, voices and music bleeding into the warm night air like perfume.

Inside one of the larger yachts — privately rented by a sponsor with more money than taste — the mood was something between effortless luxury and soft chaos. The music pulsed low, cocktails in crystal glasses were passed around, and everyone looked like they belonged in a Vogue spread.

She stood near the back of the upper deck, leaning slightly against the railing, sipping from a glass of still water. Her dress was deep green, silk, and subtle — cut just right, the kind that didn’t scream for attention but always got it anyway. Her hair was twisted up in a way that suggested zero effort, but wasn’t. A soft breeze lifted a few loose strands as she looked out toward the dark sea.

She was waiting for Lando to come back — he’d disappeared five minutes ago to talk to someone from McLaren. She didn’t mind the pause. She liked watching people when they didn’t know they were being watched.

That’s when Kelly approached.

Not directly — not rudely either. Just a quiet, graceful arrival, a flute of champagne in hand, her walk slow and measured across the deck. She wore a backless navy dress, hair slicked into a bun, and looked — as always — like she belonged in three places at once: a Monaco villa, a fashion week front row, and a post-race celebration.

“Y/n, right?” Kelly’s voice was low, clipped, but polite.

She turned, a blink of surprise crossing her features before she composed herself with a soft smile. “Yes. and Kelly?”

They shook hands — briefly, cleanly. No fake kiss on the cheek. Just mutual acknowledgement.

“I’ve been meaning to say hello,” Kelly continued. “Max talks about Lando a lot. And you... sort of became the paddock’s best-kept secret overnight.”

She smiled at that, amused. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything secret. I just prefer… quiet entrances.”

Kelly’s eyes flickered — amused or assessing, it was hard to tell. “That’s rare around here.”

They stood for a moment, side by side, the soft clink of glasses and murmured laughter behind them.

“I liked your lap video,” Kelly said suddenly. “The one with Lando.”

She let out a quiet, half-horrified laugh. “Oh God. That’s going to follow me forever, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Kelly said, tilting her glass. “And you using his middle name was amusing.”

She playfully rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “He deserved it. He hit that corner like he was trying to access another dimension.”

Kelly took a sip of champagne, studying her out of the corner of her eye. She was graceful, but unpolished — not in a bad way. No forced giggles to blend in, no PR-trained phrases. She wasn’t performing. That made Kelly pause.

“So… you dance, right? Professionally?”

“I did,” She said. “Not so much anymore, but I try to take classes when I can and touring when my company wants a quick buck.”

“And this?” Kelly gestured faintly toward the harbor, the paddock just beyond it. “This has to be completely different from what you're used to?”

“It is. But I love him,” she said simply. “So I’m willing to figure out how to exist in his world without losing mine.”

Kelly actually blinked at that. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t self-aggrandizing. Just... honest.

Most women, especially in this environment, didn't say things like that. They played the game or pushed against it. She didn’t seem interested in either and Kelly respected that.

“Well,” Kelly said after a pause, offering her hand again, “it’s good to finally meet you.”

She shook it. “Likewise.”

Lando appeared a few minutes later, slipping an arm around her waist and murmuring something low in her ear. She smiled at whatever it was and leaned slightly into him, effortlessly.

Kelly watched them for a second, then turned to rejoin Max on the other side of the deck.

She didn’t envy her — no. Kelly understood something about her now that she hadn’t expected to. She wasn’t here to prove anything. She was just here to be and support.

Kelly knew she would fit right in.

Francisca “kika” Gomes

The terrace buzzed quietly — VIPs mingling under wide umbrellas, drinks sweating against crystal glasses, the low rumble of race cars still echoing from the track below. The chaos of qualifying had died down, replaced by that brief lull before the media blitz and sponsor dinners.

Kika stood near the railing, half-listening to one of Pierre’s engineers explaining something she didn’t care to listen to. She politely and mindlessly nodded, sipped her spritz, and let her eyes wander.

The rhythm of a race weekend. The polite nods, the glittering people who smiled too hard. She’d learned how to keep her guard up — how to spot when people are being too fake with her or the other wags, also when people who are here for a quick photo for instagram and couldn’t care less about any of the drivers except for Lewis.

Kikas eyes stopped on her, she was standing near the back corner of the terrace, facing away from the crowd.

She wasn’t anything Kika expected, especially from her status. She wasn’t loud or camera-hungry. She was just there and yet she got all the attention.

She dressed like she didn’t care about being noticed — oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair, black baggy jorts and a cropped Mclaren top, dog tag necklaces layered over her collarbones. She leaned against the glass, sipping something iced from a paper cup, head tilted toward Lando, who stood next to her in full team gear, smiling like he wasn’t even aware he was smiling.

They looked like people who didn’t need to explain anything to each other.

And that — that — intrigued Kika.

Kika watched them for a few seconds. Lando looked relaxed. More than that — at ease. He leaned in when he spoke, eyes crinkling at something she said, and Kika caught the faint sound of her laugh — quiet, low, real.

There was something about her that made Kika want to say hello. Not out of politeness. Just... curiosity. Kika convinced Pierre to walk with her.

“Hey,” Lando said when they approached, spotting Kika first. “Hey Kika, this is Y/n.” he said as Pierre pulled Lando into a bro-like hug.

She turned to Kika, warm but unreadable. She didn’t offer an air-kiss or a perfectly timed smile. Just a simple, “Hi,” and her hand outstretched to shake.

Kika took it. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Her voice was calm. Even. She didn’t fill the space with chatter or apologies. She didn’t seem interested in faking her personality. Kika respected that.

Pierre stepped away a moment later to greet someone else, and Lando followed him — leaving the two women alone by the railing.

They stood in silence for a few moments. Not awkward. Just letting the noise settle.

“You’ve been to many races?” Kika asked eventually.

She shook her head. “A few. I’m still figuring it all out.”

“You seem comfortable.”

Her mouth tilted up. “Comfortable and understanding are two different things.”

Kika laughed lightly. “Fair.”

They both looked out at the track, the sun stretching the shadows across the asphalt.

“You like it?” Kika asked.

She paused, considering. “I like the parts in between. Before the race. After it’s over.”

Kika nodded. She understood that.

She glanced sideways at her. “You’ve been around longer than I have.”

“A bit.”

“Does it ever stop feeling so… big?”

Kika smiled faintly. “Not really. But it gets easier to tune it all out.”

She nodded slowly, like she appreciated the honesty.

There was something steady about her. Quietly grounded, not trying to take up space — but not shrinking from it either.

“I’m glad we finally met,” Kika said, sincerely.

She looked at her for a second, then smiled. “Me too.”

Later that night, when Pierre asked what she thought of her, Kika didn’t hesitate.

“She’s cool,” she said simply, tying her hair up. “I think we’ll get along.”

And she meant it.

Carmen Montero Mundt

Carmen had gotten good at being unbothered.

You have to be when you’re dating a Formula 1 driver. Especially one like George — polite, polished, endlessly well-spoken, but still... on display. Cameras, fans, whispers, the occasional awkwardly framed headline.

She’d learned how to blend in just enough — offer the right smile, say the right thing, wear sunglasses that made you unreadable but still “present.”

But today, Carmen was a little on edge. Not because of George or the upcoming qualifying.

Because she was here.

Not just “here” in the paddock but here, in the same lounge, a few feet away, sitting with her Mac and a notebook open, on a black leather sofa like she'd dropped out of a Pinterest board and couldn’t care less.

Carmen had seen her before, obviously. She wasn’t blind nor immune to the internet.

Carmen had also seen the fan threads. The shipping. The slow-burn speculation about her and Lando. The way people spoke about her like she was both an enigma and their emotional support k-drama lead.

Now, here she was in real life.

Wearing wide-leg jeans, with vintage dior heels and a strapless sweetheart top, and a vintage leather Lotus F1 jacket. Landos Mclaren necklace mixing with her own. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, light makeup. She looked beautiful even when it seemed like she wasn’t trying at all.

George had gone off to film something with Sky Sports awhile ago, leaving Carmen with her second coffee and too much silence.

She caught her eye first and to her surprise smiled. A genuine, not-too-big, not-too-performative smile. Not the “I know you’re watching me” smile Carmen had expected from someone with millions of fans and a chokehold on Lando Norris.

Just a normal girl's girl smile. Friendly and inviting.

Carmen stood and started approaching her. ‘I’m being normal, I’m being calm, I’m being curious.’ she said to herself in her head.

“Hi,” She said before Carmen could. “You’re George’s girlfriend, Carmen, right?” Her voice was so soft. Softer than Carmen imagined. Not meek, just measured.

“I am,” Carmen said. “And you’re...very brave for doing that lap with Lando.”

She laughed. “Oh, thank you.”

They shook hands. Brief but solid. Carmen sat across from her.

There was a moment — just a blink — where Carmen thought she might shift, go guarded, maybe even cold. But instead, she did the opposite.

“You look great, by the way,” she said, eyes flicking to Carmen’s outfit — cream trousers, navy blouse, Cartier watch. “Effortlessly chic. I’m making mental notes as I speak.”

Carmen blinked. That wasn’t what she expected. She smiled despite herself. “That’s funny. I was thinking the same about you. That jacket is dangerously good.”

SHe grinned, leaning back into the sofa. “It was my mom’s. Shee was a Lotus fan.” No flexing. Just... a distant memory.

They talked. About nothing big at first — espresso quality in different paddocks, the weirdest media request their partners had received, how she had accidentally insulted a McLaren engineer by calling brake dust “glitter.”

And somewhere between the second joke and the third shrug, Carmen realized something:

She wasn’t trying to be impressive. She wasn’t trying to command the room.

She was just watching. Not from a place of coldness — but observation. She moved like a dancer even in stillness — aware of space, of posture, of people. Controlled, but never stiff.

Carmen had met plenty of “it girls.” but she didn’t feel like that. She felt like someone who’d seen too much to waste time pretending.

“Everyone told me you were intimidating,” Carmen said at one point, half-laughing.

She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?”

“George,” Carmen clarified. “And a few of the other girls in the paddock. They said you were impossible to read.”

“And what do you think?” she asked, sipping her macha latte, eyes steady.

Carmen paused. Then said honestly, “I think you just don’t waste energy explaining yourself.”

She tilted her head. “That’s generous.”

“No, it’s just accurate.”

She smiled — slower this time, but real. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and looked down for a moment, like she hadn’t expected that.

Before Carmen could say more, Lando appeared— hair damp, team shirt half-buttoned, eyes bright.

“There she is,” he said, dropping beside her like he always belonged there. “Did you behave while I was gone?”

“She didn’t even threaten to drive today,” Carmen said dryly.

She looked at Lando. “I like her.”

Lando grinned. “Told you.”

Carmen realized their relationship wasn’t just a trend or one of Lando’s phases or even a public moment waiting to end. Whatever this was between them... it was rooted and growing.

Later that night, Carmen would tell George over dinner: “She’s not what I expected. But she’s exactly what he needs.”

Alexandra Saint Mleux

The boutique was small — hidden halfway up a hill in Monaco, behind a rusted iron gate covered in jasmine vines. There was no sign outside. Just a brass buzzer and a single name etched into the wall in barely-there serif font: R.MARET.

Inside, it was quiet and cool, all pale stone and soft piano, the kind of place where fabrics were displayed like art and conversations never rose above a murmur. The scent of cedar and orange blossom lingered faintly in the air.

She stepped inside in a Balmain tweed pearl mini dress with black lace tights, Mach & Mach bow satin pumps, baby pony 01 jentle salon sunglasses perched on her head and a Prada purse.

Even since she moved to Monaco she somehow avoided the chaos of cameras and fan accounts — mostly thanks to Lando’s early morning training and her strategic tendency to disappear during peak hours.

She was flipping through a rack of raw silk skirts when the bell from the entrance rang, followed by the soft tap of heels echoed from the entrance.

She looked up — and there she was.

Alexandra Saint Mleux. Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend, art history student, and walking embodiment of a French Vogue editorial.

Tall, poised, with that quiet ease she had only seen in women who truly didn’t care who was watching. She wore a linen dress the color of antique paper and simple leather sandals. Her dark hair was twisted up loosely, a strand falling near her cheek like it had been placed there by design.

At her feet, a small golden retriever trotted in eagerly, leash trailing behind. He made a beeline straight for her.

She crouched down instinctively. “Well, hello,” she murmured as the dog licked her fingers, tail wagging hard enough to thump against the leg of the display table.

Alexandra’s laugh — light, accented — floated across the space. “Leo,” she said fondly. “He’s... selective with people. But he’s chosen you, clearly.”

She looked up. “Leo, huh? Like the sign or the king?”

Alexandra smiled. “Both. Charles says he thinks he’s royalty.”

“Typical man,” she said with a grin, still scratching behind the dog’s ear. “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

“I know,” Alexandra said, and then added quickly, “Not in a weird way — just, the paddock is small. And I’ve seen you on the McLaren feed.”

She stood, brushing off her hands. “And you’re... extremely good at being casually elegant in 80-degree heat.”

Alexandra let out a soft laugh. “My secret is to never sit down and never eat bread.”

She gave her a mock gasp. “Unacceptable. Fashion and bread are both sacred.”

“I make an exception for focaccia,” Alexandra said, eyes gleaming.

They wandered the boutique together with Leo — not forced, not performative. Just women who understood the language of fabric and form, of silhouettes and texture. They didn’t talk about F1. Not at first. They talked about old Mugler corsetry, the tragic genius of Galliano’s Dior, and how both of them had considered stealing vintage coats from stylists’ closets.

Alexandra gently held a backless navy dress up to her frame. “You could wear this on the pit wall and no one would notice the cars.”

She scoffed. “If I wear that on the pit wall, Lando will drive into a barrier.”

“Then maybe you should,” Alexandra said thoughtfully. “Ferrari needs the points.”

They burst into laughter — not performative, not overly loud. Just a shared frequency, clean and easy.

At one point, Leo came between them again, flopping dramatically on her feet with a huff. She leaned down to pet him, and Alexandra watched — her head tilted, something soft flickering behind her eyes.

She liked her.

She was... grounded. Naturally funny. Fierce in her silence. There was no competition in her, no guardedness.

By the time they stepped outside with large white bags in hand, the sun had dipped low behind the stone buildings, and she had Leo’s leash wrapped casually around her wrist.

“You’re sure Charles won’t mind if I steal his dog?”

Alexandra shrugged. “He’ll survive. Besides, Leo clearly prefers you.”

She grinned. “Smart boy.”

Alexandra looked over at her, sunlight catching the corners of her eyes. “We should do this again.”

She nodded. “Text me.”

And that was it.

Just two women in Monaco — and one dog who knew exactly who to trust.

Rebecca Donaldson

he padel club in Mallorca was almost too perfect — white stone walls, vines spilling over the sun-bleached terrace, the low hum of cicadas just audible beneath the thwack of racquets on court.

Rebecca wasn’t new to this setting — she’d spent enough off-seasons trailing behind Carlos through southern Spain to recognize the cadence of his world. She could find the nearest espresso machine in any paddock. She knew how long he’d stay after a loss, when to push, when to let him unravel quietly. She was good at reading rooms, especially when the room was full of men like Carlos.

Her, though — she was new.

Rebecca clocked her instantly. Sitting with one leg tucked under the other, oversized sunglasses perched on her face, neatly styled curls piled on her shoulders . She wasn’t on her phone. Just sipping iced tea, watching the game through the chain-link fence.

There was a dancer’s posture in the way she sat — shoulders down, neck long, like she was used to being on camera without trying to be.

Carlos had mentioned her in passing. “Lando’s girl,” he’d said once. “Pretty quiet and to herself. Funny as hell when she's open.”

But Rebecca didn’t rely on secondhand opinions.

So when she stepped up to the table under the shade of the terracotta awning, she smiled just enough. “Y/n?”

She looked up, immediately pulling her sunglasses to rest in her hair.

“Hi — sorry, I didn’t mean to take over the whole table. There was shade here.”

“No, please,” Rebecca said, setting her bottle of water down and slipping into the seat beside her. “Carlos drags me here all the time. This spot’s prime real estate.”

She grinned. “It’s my first time. I’m not sure I even understand it yet.”

“Don’t worry, the rules are fake,” Rebecca said. “They just like pretending it’s intense.”

They both turned toward the court at the same time, just in time to see Lando trip slightly trying to recover a shot, stumble, and catch himself with a laugh. Carlos didn’t even look back — just fired the ball back across the net with ruthless precision.

She winced. “He’s gonna talk about that for days.”

“Carlos already has a victory speech in mind. He’s dramatic like that.”

“Lando’s worse. He’s going to say it was sabotage. Something about the sun angle. Or maybe Carlos rigged the ball.”

Rebecca laughed — really laughed. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite.

There was something disarming about her. She didn’t offer much small talk. She didn’t seem to care about impressing anyone — just sat there, comfortably quiet, sipping her drink and reacting with dry commentary when necessary.

Rebecca appreciated that.

They settled into a rhythm over the next hour. A waiter brought them snacks — olives, thin slices of manchego, bread with tomato rubbed into it. They didn’t talk the whole time. Sometimes they just watched. And when they did talk, it was slow.

She asked about Rebecca’s work — her campaigns, her transition from editorial to more commercial work. And she actually listened and asked questions with genuine curiosity .

Rebecca asked about touring. About dancing. Not in the glossy, fan-interview kind of way, but curious. When she talked about the routine — the repetition, the strain, the weird loneliness of being in motion all the time — Rebecca nodded like she understood.

Because she did.

They didn’t overshare. No trauma-dumping. No fake sisterhood.

But there was ease.

When Carlos and Lando finally called it — sweaty, red-faced, Lando pointing dramatically at the scoreboard claiming a moral victory — the boys walked over, still trash-talking each other.

“You survived,” Carlos said, dropping his racquet bag with a thud beside Rebecca and kissing her on the cheek.

“Barely,” she said dryly.

“Lando almost lost a lung trying to prove a point.”

“I won the point, though,” Lando insisted, flopping into the seat beside his girlfriend. She handed him her half-melted iced tea.

“No you didn’t.”

“I emotionally won it.”

“Congratulations,” Rebecca said, taking a sip of her water. “You emotionally tied your shoes this morning too?”

Carlos cracked up.

She smirked at Rebecca over the top of her glass.

Lando blinked between them. “Wait. Are you guys friends now?”

She shrugged. “She didn’t run away.”

Rebecca leaned back, stretching out her legs under the table. “She didn’t make me talk about skincare routines and I didn’t ask her to do a TikTok. It’s the healthiest female encounter we’ve had all season.”

Carlos nodded, mock impressed. “You’re evolving.”

Rebecca liked her.

She wasn’t sizing her up, comparing outfits, pretending to bond over things they didn’t share. She sat there, watched the game, laughed when it was funny, and listened when it mattered.

There was confidence in that kind of simplicity and in this world— where everyone was always performing — that kind of woman was rare.

Lily Muni He

It happened at the Singapore Grand Prix weekend.

Not in the paddock — that would’ve been too loud, too watched. Not at some afterparty either. It was earlier in the week, on a breezy Thursday night, before the chaos really began. Alex and Lando had just wrapped media rounds, and they were both somehow starving and exhausted, the way only Formula 1 drivers can be. Lily suggested dinner at a quiet rooftop spot she'd heard about from a friend — low light, no fans, no cameras. Just views, soft music, and good food.

Lily didn’t know she would be there.

“Lando’s girlfriend,” Alex had said casually while they were climbing the stairs to the rooftop. “You know. Y/n?”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “From Blackpink?”

“Yeah.”

“The one who's been turning the paddock in a fan meet?”

Alex laughed. “That’s the one.”

Lily expected someone… intense. Dramatic. Someone who wore her fame like armor. But when they stepped out onto the rooftop terrace, She was already sitting there, legs crossed, wearing an Alex Perry satin mini dress with black tights and So Kates, sipping sparkling water from a wine glass like it was some elaborate inside joke.

She looked up when they arrived and smiled at them and that was it.

No performative “nice to meet you,” no stiff awkward hug. Just a warm, friendly expression that made Lily immediately understand why Lando kept getting caught staring at her like an idiot.

They were seated across from each other — Lando and Alex, already deep into a debate about track temperatures. Within five minutes, she leaned slightly toward Lily and whispered, “What’s the over-under on one of them saying the words ‘tire degradation’ before dessert?”

Lily snorted. “I’ll give it ten minutes.”

She tapped her glass. “I’m going five.”

They clicked instantly. There was no jockeying for attention. Familiarity, even though they’d never met.

Over dinner, they didn’t talk about the boys.

They talked about different foods. About airports. About sleeping in cars between events. About what it felt like to be seen all the time, and still feel like people only knew the edited version of you.

Lily talked about growing up between cultures — Chinese, American, golf tour families, and endless travel. She nodded, her own stories flowing in: training in Seoul, debuting on world stages at nineteen, the pressure of being both known and unknowable.

By the time dessert arrived, they were sharing it without asking. Picking off each other’s plates like they’d done it forever.

Later, while the boys argued over which karting track in Asia was best, Lily and her stood by the railing overlooking the city — skyline glittering, wind in their hair.

“You’re not what I expected,” Lily said, quiet but honest.

She tilted her head. “In a good or bad way?”

Lily smiled. “Oh, definitely a good way. You’re... calm and very funny.”

She chuckled. “People think I’m meaner than I actually am.”

“I get that.”

There was a pause — a real one, not awkward, just weighty with mutual recognition.

“I’m glad we met,” She said.

“Me too.”

Back at the hotel, curled up next to Alex, Lily scrolled through Instagram stories of the night. Someone had tagged them — a blurry shot of the four of them mid-laugh around the table.

She just looked present.

Lily smiled.

She wasn’t just another girlfriend in the paddock. She was someone real and interesting. Someone who could scream during a hot lap and then have a whole conversation about tiramisu like she wasn’t the most recognizable woman in the room.

Lily liked her. A lot, and even more than that

She respected her.

Lily Zneimer

It happened on a Friday.Free Practice had just wrapped, and the paddock was in its usual state of post-session scramble, engineers debriefing, drivers jogging back and forth with half-zipped suits, and media staff already trying to wrangle everyone into content mode.

Lily Zneimer had ducked into the McLaren motorhome for coffee. Not her usual stop, but Oscar was still in the garage and she’d been waved in by one of the media team who knew her from the GP hospitality rounds.

She slipped inside, tucked behind her sunglasses, hair up in a claw clip, and immediately found herself face-to-face with her.

Not in a fan meet kind of way. Just — there she was.

Standing by the espresso machine, fiddling with the milk frother like it had personally offended her.

She glanced up. Their eyes met.

“Oh,” she said. “Is this yours?”

Lily blinked. “No — I was just…” She trailed off. “I watched your Coachella set from like… four angles. You’re amazing.” she said, quietly.

She smiled, relaxed instantly. “Thank you. That was a blur. I almost passed out mid-bridge of ‘Forever Young’ — dehydration and rhinestones are a bad combo.”

Lily laughed. Not politely — genuinely.

“I’m Lily,” she said, stepping forward. “Oscar’s—”

“Girlfriend,” she finished with a small nod. “I know. He talks about you a lot.”

Lily’s brows rose slightly. “Really?”

she shrugged, grabbing a paper cup. “Only when I’m pretending to listen.”

They both laughed. The tension broke.

They ended up sitting down — two near-strangers in the calmest corner of a chaotic motorhome, sipping espresso out of paper cups.

“I honestly didn’t think you’d be like this,” Lily admitted.

She looked up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Not… intimidating.”

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Were you expecting diva energy?”

“Yeah,” Lily smirked, “but I thought you’d be… more guarded.”

She took another sip of coffee. “I get that a lot.”

“But you’re easy to talk to,” Lily added, quieter now. “That’s all I meant.”

She nodded, and for a second, they just sat in silence. Just two people with overlapping lives, finding a rare bit of quiet in the middle of chaos.

She lifted her cup slightly toward Lily’s. “I’ll take that.”

From the second level of the McLaren motorhome, Lando leaned against the glass railing, arms folded, eyes scanning the paddock without much focus — until he saw them.

Her and Lily.

Sitting side by side near the back corner of the motorhome, just slightly tucked out of view, espresso cups in hand. Not stiff, not forced — actually talking. She had one foot pulled up onto her chair, shoulders relaxed. Lily was laughing at something, head tilted, all guard down.

Lando blinked like he wasn’t sure it was real.

Oscar came up behind him, nudging his shoulder. “You watching quali replays or staring at your girlfriend again?”

Lando didn’t move. “They’re talking.”

Oscar frowned. “Who?”

Lando tilted his head toward the corner. “Her. Lily.”

Oscar leaned in, following his line of sight. His eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”

“Huh?” Lando repeated.

“I thought they’d need like... a five-minute buffer and some scripted icebreakers.”

Lando exhaled through his nose. “I thought Lily might combust.”

“Same.”

“Right?”

They watched for another beat. She nudged Lily’s cup with her own, both of them smiling now — not a polite smile. A real one.

Oscar glanced at Lando. “Should we be worried?”

“Oh yeah,” Lando said. “We just lost narrative control.”

“Did we ever really have it?”

“Absolutely not.”

They both watched as Lily said something that made her shake her head, grinning — a rare, unguarded kind of grin. It was the kind of moment neither of them could stage, even if they tried.

Oscar bumped Lando lightly with his elbow. “I think they like each other.”

Lando nodded. “Which is great. Also terrifying.”

“Same time next weekend?”

“Only if there’s wine involved.”

There was something about her that stuck with lily. Not in a flashy way, not the pop star polish or the style, though both were impossible to ignore.

It was the way she moved in a space.

Comfortable but quiet. Observant. Unbothered by the fact that several mechanics had side-eyed her in disbelief earlier, like they couldn’t believe that girl was with Lando of all people.

Lily got it now.

She was warm, funny in a dry, unfussy way, and carried herself like someone who didn’t need the whole room to look at her, but it did anyway. And when it didn’t, she didn’t care.

And when she laughed?

It was like watching someone shake the fame off their shoulders for a second. Just a girl, in sneakers, sipping espresso, laughing about almost passing out on the Coachella stage.

Lily liked her.

A lot more than she expected to.

And when Oscar asked her later how it went — if meeting the mysterious Y/n L/n was weird or awkward or intimidating — Lily just smiled, took a sip of her drink, and said:

“She’s cool. No — better than cool.”

Oscar blinked. “You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

She hovered over the “Follow” button longer than she cared to admit. One by one, she tapped through them — both Lily's, Carmen, Alexandra, Rebecca, Kelly, Kika and finally, Lando.

Her screen stayed still for a beat after. Her PR team wouldn’t love it. Her company guidelines were clear: keep the posts clean, the accounts neutral, the mystique intact. But tonight, she didn’t care. She cared about what felt real. And this — this small, simple rebellion felt like her

And how could she not follow back all her new friends

----------

This is just first impressions the wags had of her/you. Of course i will build on the friendships a little more later, anyway enjoy.

Don't be a silent reader if you don’t have too leave a comment or drop a message I read them all and don't be afraid to ask anything i'm a very open.🤗

If you want to join the taglist, just ask 😁

Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress @yawn-zi

321 notes · View notes

f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

Hiii can i request a fifth member au where lando takes her on a hotlap and its just so chaotic and funny since i can imagine reader being very scared yet full of adrenaline while landonis laughing at her screaming

Hot Seat

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

The McLaren media office was buzzing in that familiar off-season way — half chaos, half espresso. No race weekend panic, but enough pressure in the air to remind everyone that Formula 1 never really stopped.

Lando leaned back on the couch in a branded zip-up, sipping an oat milk latte that had gone cold an hour ago. He wasn’t really listening to the interview running in the background — some B-roll from the previous race — just tapping absentmindedly at his phone, scrolling and half-watching a pigeon outside the glass walls.

That was when Emma, head of McLaren’s digital content team, the only person who could get Lando to agree to TikTok ideas without bribery, slid into the seat next to him with the kind of mischievous smile that immediately put him on alert.

“No,” he said preemptively, eyes still on his phone.

Emma laughed. “You didn’t even hear the question.”

“I’ve known you for three years. I don’t need to.”

“Okay, but you’re going to like this one.”

He finally looked up. “Doubt it.”

Emma held up her tablet, flipping to a slide with a mock-up thumbnail for a YouTube video. Bright colors, big text, classic clickbait.

“Y/N L/N DOES A HOT LAP WITH LANDO NORRIS” 🔥 Kpop star Meets F1 Speed – Will She Survive? 🔥

Lando stared at it then looked at her. “You’re joking.”

Emma grinned. “She’s been in the paddock. The fans are obsessed with her. This would break the internet.”

“She hates attention.”

“She’s literally in BLACKPINK.”

“That’s different,” he muttered, setting his cup down. “Performing is one thing. Sitting next to me while I pretend I’m not trying to scare her to death in a fast car is another.”

Emma tapped the tablet. “It doesn’t have to be dramatic. We can shoot it clean, slow build, lots of soft moments. Let the fandom ship itself into oblivion. And honestly? You two just being you on camera would outperform any scripted segment we’ve done this year.”

Lando rubbed a hand down his face. “She’s gonna kill me if she sees that thumbnail.”

“So, she’ll say no?”

He paused. “I didn’t say that.”

Emma tilted her head. “Think she’d do it?”

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Then shrugged.

“She might,” he said finally. Lando leaned back in his chair, chewing the inside of his cheek. “You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack. Or a missed braking point.”

He laughed quietly to himself, then ran a hand through his curls.

Lando didn’t answer immediately. He gave a little laugh under his breath instead. Not at her — at the idea. At how quickly his brain had already started filling in how she’d react. The shriek when he accelerated. The quiet I swear to God, if you crash this I’m haunting you she’d probably whisper through clenched teeth. The smug look he’d wear the whole time.

“I’ll ask her,”

LATER THAT NIGHT – THEIR SHARED APARTMENT

That night, Monaco was quiet — that rare window where the city almost sighed into stillness. The windows were cracked open to let in the breeze, and the living room was bathed in the dim orange glow of the streetlamp outside.

She was home before him for once, sitting cross-legged on the couch with sheet music, her precious Macbook, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal at her side, and “Pride and Prejudice” playing quietly on the TV.

Lando kicked off his shoes at the door, dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and padded into the living room, already grinning. She was on the couch, one leg tucked under her, in an oversized black crewneck that definitely wasn’t hers — probably another one that had mysteriously migrated from his side of the closet to hers.

“You’re late,” she called without looking, her voice lazy with contentment.

“Yeah,” he said, “Blame Emma.”

She looked up from her laptop as he flopped onto the couch dramatically, resting his arm over the back like he was posing for a promo photo.

“Good day at the office?” she asked

“Productive,” he said. “Didn’t crash. Only got slightly roasted by Oscar during filming.”

“A successful Tuesday,” she teased.

She shifted slightly, making room for him to tuck himself against her side. He stole a spoonful of cereal, grimaced.

“Why is it warm?”

“Because you took forty-seven years to get home.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes flicking to the TV. “Did I miss Darcy being insufferable?”

“You are Darcy.”

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She laughed, and he let it linger for a moment before clearing his throat — casual, too casual.

He grinned. “I have a question.”

“Mhm?”

“If McLaren asked you to do a hot lap with me, like for content or whatever... what would you say?”

She stopped whatever she was doing on her laptop then turned her head just enough to give him a suspicious look. “Are they actually asking or is this you doing the thing where you pretend it’s hypothetical when it’s not?”

Lando winced. “...Yes.”

“To which part?”

“Yes.”

She groaned, dropping her head back against the couch. “Lando.”

“They’re not pressuring or anything!” he added quickly. “It was just an idea. Emma thinks it would break the internet. She made a thumbnail. You looked terrified in it.”

“Oh, great,” she deadpanned. “A pre-visualized panic attack. Love that for myself.”

He turned more toward her, arm draping across her stomach, fingers brushing lightly at the hem of her sweatshirt. “I’d drive safe. Promise.”

“Your version of safe is ‘let me brake as late as physically possible and laugh while you scream.’”

He bit back a grin. “Only with people I like.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I thought... I dunno. Could be fun. You and me. In the car. Just vibes.”

She exhaled, studying him for a second — that soft little furrow in his brow he always got when he was trying to play it cool but really cared.

“Just one lap,” she said finally.

Lando blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He kissed her cheek immediately, grinning against her skin. “You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m going to vomit,” she corrected.

“Still content.”

“Lando.”

He kissed her again — this time on the temple — before leaning back and stealing another bite of warm cereal.

“Just think,” he said between chews. “You, me, high speeds, and Emma screaming in the media trailer because we went off-script.”

She smirked. “And if I survive, you’re doing a dance class with me.”

“yeah , yeah sure” he said mindlessly then it hit him. “Wait—what?”

“Too late,” she said sweetly. “Deal’s locked.”

THE NEXT DAY

The track was quiet when they arrived — not silent, but peaceful. The kind of early morning calm that came before engines roared and cameras clicked. A low breeze swept across the tarmac, the scent of burnt rubber still lingering from yesterday’s laps.

She stepped out of the passenger side of Lando’s lamborghini urus, her sneakers crunching against the gravel. She wore a cropped tee, baggy jeans, and sunglasses that covered most of her face. Her hair was settled on her shoulders, and she had that look, the “agreed to this but I might regret it” look.

Lando emerged from the driver’s side in black cargo pants and a hoodie with the McLaren logo on the sleeve. He was already grinning.

“Still time to back out,” he offered, tossing her a bottle of water.

She caught it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long sip. “And let you hold it over my head for the next three years? No chance.”

From the nearby pit wall, Emma and two other digital team staff watched from behind their cameras and phones, pretending to be casual but clearly vibrating with secondhand excitement.

“She doesn’t look scared,” one of them whispered.

“Because she hasn’t heard the engine yet,” the other muttered.

Lando turned to her and held out a helmet. “Ready?”

She looked at it like it was judging her. “Does it come with insurance?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

She took the helmet, slipping it on over her hair, letting it rest loosely on top while he fastened the chin strap for her. Lando pulled on his own and headed toward the McLaren GT car waiting near the edge of the track — low, sleek, orange. Sunlight skimmed across its surface like it knew it was going to be the main character today.

The inside of the McLaren smelled like burnt rubber, heat, and trouble.

She gripped the sides of the seat with both hands, helmet suddenly too tight, her heart already somewhere near her throat — and they hadn’t even moved yet.

Lando sat beside her in full smug mode, adjusting the wheel like this was just another Tuesday. He looked over at her, visor up, expression too calm.

“You good?”

“No,” she said instantly. “I am so far from good.”

He grinned like a menace. “Want me to play music?”

“I want you to not kill us.”

Lando pressed a button. The engine roared to life with a growl that rattled her spine.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-praying. “Is it too late to do content on gardening? Or knitting?” she quickly tried to reason

He revved it once — once — and she flinched so hard her helmet knocked the seat.

“I hate you,” she whispered. “I genuinely hate you.”

“Strap in, baby,” Lando said, already shifting them into gear. “It’s Monza time.”

They took off so fast her scream wasn’t even a sound at first — just one long exhale of panic.

The first straight was smooth. Almost suspiciously so.

Lando wasn’t pushing it — just letting her settle in, the speed creeping up, tires singing slightly as they glided over the track.

She relaxed a fraction. “Okay. Okay, this is fine. I can do this. I—”

He downshifted and dove into the first tight corner.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

Her whole body lurched. She reached for the dashboard. Lando burst out laughing.

“Why would you do that?!”

“You said it was fine!”

“I LIED. I’M A LIAR. I—OH MY GOD. Lando, honey please”

It wasn’t even that Lando was reckless. He was terrifyingly good. Every turn was precise, every brake late enough to make her question every life decision she’d ever made. He was calm. In control.

Which somehow made it worse.

“YOU’RE SMILING,” she shouted.

“I always smile when I’m having fun.”

“You’re smiling like a serial killer.” she squealed

Lando chuckled. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m not doing anything! I’M JUST SURVIVING!” she groaned, her voice getting higher with each word

He hit another corner — a tight one — and she screamed again, louder, with more emotion this time.

“LANDO CHARLES NORRIS,”

He lost it. His laughter echoed over the engine.

“You used my middle name!”

“That’s how you know I’m serious!”

Somewhere after the halfway mark, She stopped trying to process what was happening and just gave in to it — the velocity, the weightlessness through a sweeping curve, the stupid grin on Lando’s face.

“I think I’ve transcended,” she said loudly. “I’m outside my body. I’ve seen my ancestors.”

Lando shifted down again. The tires squealed.

“OH MY GOD I CAN FEEL MY EYEBALLS MOVING.”

“You wanted adrenaline, right?”

“Baby, I never said that!”

Every corner came faster than the last, and her reactions were a mix of swearing, shouting, and trying to stay upright in her seat as G-force pulled her sideways.

But what the cameras didn’t catch — or maybe they did — was the way her laughter never faded. How even while clinging to the seatbelt, she looked over at him like he was absolutely ridiculous and she loved him for it.

The final straight approached. Lando eased off — not much, but enough to let her breathe.

She was hysterical. Full laughing, full crying, nothing in between.

“I can’t believe I’m still alive,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re still licensed. I can’t believe I screamed your full name like your mom.”

“I’m never letting you forget that.”

“I will deny it”

The car rolled back into the paddock and slowed to a stop. She sat completely still for a moment, eyes squinted and mouth slightly agape, Lando popped his helmet off, his hair completely flattened and wild at the same time. “So? Final thoughts?” he asked. She slowly turned her head to look at him dead in the eye.

“I want a fully paid trip somewhere i’ve never been, how bout that.”

He grinned, keeping that in mind.

“So… next lap?”

“I think I need therapy,” she said.

He grinned. “That bad?”

“I mean,” she started, and then burst out laughing. “That was insane. You’re insane. I can’t believe people pay you to do that.”

Emma walked over, still recording on her phone, trying not to laugh herself. “So, Y/n, would you do it again?”

She looked directly at the camera, deadpan.

“Only if I’m driving.”

Lando froze. “Wait—what?”

She shoved her helmet into his chest. “Better start praying.”

YOUTUBE VIDEO COMMENTS:

@/jisoofthegrid Lando Norris unlocking new levels of fear in her while laughing like a feral child… iconic couple behavior.

@/blinkbonfire “I want a fully paid trip somewhere i’ve never been, how bout that.” is such a Y/n line. This girl has main character energy even when she’s screaming at 200kph 😭💅

@/roses_are_revvingnot the fact that she was genuinely terrified and still looked stunning doing it??? She is a threat to us all

@/kpopf1brainrot Imagine going from choreographing world tours to clinging for dear life in a McLaren because your boyfriend has no chill 😭 she’s living a movie.

@/jenniesferraribabe Blink culture is watching her literally suffer in a sports car and still commenting “slay queen 💅”

@/chaengslap Okay but when she said “Okay. Okay, this is fine. I can do this.,” it gave 2019 comeback energy. We’ve been knowing she’s a survivor 💀💗

@/koreanracequeen No because Lando was LAUGHING while she’s seeing God and her ancestors at once??? This man is a menace to society and her cardiovascular system.

@/blinktoktoktok Also can we talk about how soft he looked at her after they stopped? Like yeah he just traumatized her but also he was in love. Ugh. Men like this don’t exist.

@/icecreamrevengekpop Somebody PLEASE put “LANDO CHARLES NORRIS” on a BLACKPINK tour tee or I’ll do it myself. Solo merch now. LandoY/n world domination.

@/bpworldarchive You can tell she trusts him so much, even while screaming. That’s not just adrenaline. That’s ride-or-die girlfriend energy. We stan a woman with nerves of titanium and a clown of a boyfriend 🫡💗

@/f1obsessedgirl Not her screaming “LANDO CHARLES NORRIS” like she’s his disappointed mother 😭😭😭 I’m crying.

@/tracksidewitch She didn’t just go for the middle name. She went for the soul. That’s a woman fighting for her life.

@/drsdramaqueen The way Lando was LAUGHING while she was having a spiritual experience in the passenger seat 😭💀

@/kimchiandcarbonfiber Her: screaming in fear Lando: “Haha she’s thriving.” Psychopath energy.

@/prettypitcrew Can we talk about how they were both fully in casual clothes, no race suits, no overproduction — just ✨vibes and terror✨

@/no_context_mclaren I love them so much, I can't put into words, WE NEED MORE LANDO AND Y/N CONTENT. Oh and oscar and lily too

@/hotlapsandhighheels I’ve never shipped something so violently. She’s unhinged in the passenger seat, and he’s laughing like a 12-year-old on a roller coaster. True love.

@/mclarensmutbrain (unwell) Not to be dramatic but if my future husband doesn’t drive like that while I scream his full government name, I don’t want it.

@/dancefloordrs She screamed like she saw the light, and then five seconds later she was laughing like she’d do it again. That’s ✨peak adrenaline junkie girlfriend✨ behavior.

@/charlesleclouts Can we get a Lando hot lap with Charles next so we can compare who screams more? Because she might have him beat 😭😭😭

@/softfory/nlando The way she said “LANDO CHARLES NORRIS” with her whole chest??? Give this woman her own Mclaren merch line.

@/helmetcamfan69 This video is on replay. WHY ARE THEY SO CUTE TOGETHER

@/tracksidegfenergy Honestly the most realistic relationship content I’ve ever seen. Full panic. Full love. She hated every second and trusted him anyway 🧡

TEXTS TO LANDO AFTER THE HOT LAP VIDEO DROPS

Carlos Sainz

Chilli con queso: bro BRO she said your full name like she was filing a police report 😭😭 Chilli con queso: I’ve never heard someone sound so betrayed in a hot lap video besides me of couse Soy Lago: She lived Chilli con queso: Barely 😭

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

George Russell

Regina George: Is that the first time a woman’s screamed your name in fear or Lando no rizz: Blocked. Regina George: Just saying, the G-forces weren’t the only thing slapping her Lando no rizz: GEORGE. Regina George: ok ok I’m done 😭

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Daniel Ricciardo

KI KI KI RAH RAH: Mate I just watched that hot lap video KI KI KI RAH RAH: You are a MENACE KI KI KI RAH RAH: “I want a fully paid trip somewhere I've never been, how ‘bout that.” has entered my daily vocabulary Little shit: You should’ve seen her before the lap. Dead silent. Like a woman preparing for battle. KI KI KI RAH RAH: I would’ve cried. You’re braver than me.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Charles Leclerc

Lord Percerval: Mon dieu Lord Percerval: She used your middle name?? Lord Percerval: I’m sending that audio to your future children Landino: Delete this number. Lord Percerval: Too late. It’s my new text tone.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Alex Albon

Mr. round the outside: Why does she scream better than half the horror movies I’ve seen Last Lap Lando: Natural talent Mr. round the outside: Lily said she’s the new team radio queen Mr. round the outside: She’s got more iconic one-liners than me and Lily combined

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Lewis Hamilton

Sir Lewis 🐐: Just saw the vid. She handled that better than most rookies 😄 Sir Lewis 🐐: Tell her she’s got guts. Real ones. Lando Norris: I will. She’s still recovering 💀 Sir Lewis 🐐: She’s a real one. Keep hold of that.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Oscar Piastri

Oscar pastry: This video just came up on my feed Oscar pastry: You laughed the entire time while she was legit fighting for her life Just Lando: That’s how we bond Oscar pastry: Tell her I said respect. I’d never get in a car with you after that Just Lando: She’s still threatening me. All’s normal.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Max Verstappen

franz hermann: Screaming “LANDO CHARLES NORRIS” franz hermann: 💀 franz hermann: She unlocked a new fear level bob: Bet you five laps you wouldn’t survive one with her driving franz hermann: Deal. franz hermann: Wait is she actually planning that bob: Wouldn’t you like to know 🤨

----------

DOUBLE POST. I had too much fun coming up with account names for the comments and text messages . Also I don’t know Landos middle name so I just made one up 😭

WAG chapter next....anyone??

Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress

283 notes · View notes

f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

From the fifth member!au

Reader reacting to the whole magui and lando situation especially since lando was seen with magui before he got together with her and everythingg

The Other Woman

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

ABSOLUTELY NO HATE TO MAGUI OR PIETRA THIS IS STRICTLY FICTIONAL

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Lando and Magui shared an unspoken understanding—two people who enjoyed each other's company, their chemistry undeniable, but never fully acknowledged. Their conversations were easy, with laughter that filled the spaces between their words. It felt natural, uncomplicated. There were no expectations. At least, that was Magui’s view.

Lando, however, had always been cautious. He could sense the undercurrent between them, the subtle hints of something more, but he kept things friendly. Racing was his focus. He knew that Magui was smart, confident, and beautiful, but there was something missing—a deeper connection that went beyond playful banter.

But still, Magui made him laugh, and he appreciated the comfort of her presence, especially during those long stretches between races, when the world outside the circuit seemed so far away. Yet, even then, Lando’s mind wandered to other things. It was always racing and something pulling him toward the future that seemed more important.

Lando and Magui are standing by the bar, drinks in hand. The conversation is light at first, nothing more than the usual chatter about races, the weather, and a few laughs. But Magui, as always, is a little more flirtatious than Lando realizes.

Magui leans in slightly, her voice smooth, “You know, I always enjoy talking to you. You’re different from the others.”

Lando laughs, leaning against the bar, half-attentive. “Yeah, well, I try to be. It’s easy when people aren’t all about racing all the time. Nice to talk about... other stuff.”

Magui gives a soft smile, her eyes lingering a little longer than Lando realizes. “I’ve always liked that about you. You’re not so caught up in the spotlight. You actually get it. You know what it’s like to just... be.”

Lando’s smile softens as he takes a sip of his drink, but there’s an uncomfortable edge to the conversation that he can’t quite place. “Yeah, I guess. It’s nice to have moments where I can just enjoy something without all the cameras.”

Magui steps a little closer, brushing her arm against his in a way that feels more intentional than casual. “You deserve someone who gets you... who appreciates who you really are.”

Lando chuckles awkwardly, stepping back just enough to break the physical contact. “Yeah, I’m just... not really looking for anything right now. I mean, racing’s kind of been the focus, you know?”

Magui, ever the persistent one, doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, I get that. But sometimes, you’ve gotta make room for more. You’ve got so much going for you, Lando. People like you don’t stay single for long.”

Lando shifts, feeling the weight of her words in a way he doesn’t entirely understand. There’s a part of him that enjoys the attention, but another part that feels uncomfortable with the pressure she’s subtly applying.

Magui notices the shift, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more pointed. “You know, I could... I could make things more interesting for you, Lando. If you wanted to... have some fun.”

Lando looks at her, his expression softening but not in the way she expects. “Magui, I’m not in the right headspace for any of that. Not right now.”

Her smile falters for a moment, but she quickly recovers, flashing him a practiced grin. “If you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

After that, Magui thought she understood. She tried to convince herself they were just friends—close friends, and nothing more. And if there was anything deeper? It could wait. She was patient.

But when he met her, everything changed. Her presence became constant, her name slipping into Lando’s conversations with casual ease. He started to smile more, laugh more. His eyes would light up when he spoke about her, and Magui could see it—the way he lit up around her was different from how he was with anyone else.

It was subtle at first—just the tiniest shift in Lando’s demeanor. His interactions with Magui become less and less frequent. He started talking less about his races with Magui, leaving their conversations feeling a little emptier. When he did text back, his replies were shorter, almost like a polite obligation.

Magui had always been skeptical, watching from the sidelines, quietly observing as their connection grew stronger. Magui thought it was just a phase, something that would fade as quickly as it had started. After all, Lando was never the type to settle down—not in the way she seemed to expect. He was always so focused, so determined, so used to living in the fast lane, and she seemed like a world he wouldn’t be able to fit into.

Magui had known how to keep things casual with Lando. She’d always been the one who didn’t ask for more, who didn’t make things complicated. She understood the unspoken rules between them. It was simple, easy. She thought it was enough for him, and for a while, it had been. But somewhere along the way, things had shifted. She had seen the way Lando looked at her, the way he had started pulling away, the way his focus had slowly, imperceptibly shifted.

At first, she told herself it was just a fleeting thing. It wasn’t going to last. Lando would snap out of it. It would pass, just like everything else. But now, as she watched from the distance, as she saw them together—really together—she realized just how wrong she had been.

It wasn’t just a phase. It wasn’t some fleeting connection that would fade in the rush of racing and fame. What they had, the way they looked at each other, the way Lando was there for her, supporting her—Magui could see it now. She’d been wrong and that’s when Magui’s walls began to crack. She had always told herself that one day, when the time was right, Lando would come back to her, that their connection was something real. But watching him with her, watching how effortless it was for him to drop everything for her.

Magui realized the truth: he moved on.

Lando’s heart has found someone else, and that someone wasn’t her.

Magui wasn’t used to feeling like this—left behind, forgotten. And as much as she tried to bury her feelings, they kept surfacing, each interaction with Lando stinging a little more. He didn’t intentionally pull away from her, but he had. And Magui didn’t know how to deal with it.

One night, after weeks of silence, she sent him a text, hoping for something—a sign that they still shared something.

"We should hang out soon. Catch up. It’s been a while."

The response came almost a day later, but it was brief, almost curt.

"Busy. Talk soon."

Magui stared at the message for longer than she should have, a tight knot forming in her chest. This wasn’t the Lando she knew—the one who wouldv’e dropped everything for a quick chat, the one who would have laughed at her silly jokes. This Lando was distant, cold. She had taken his attention, and that space in his life that Magui once filled had disappeared.

Magui’s mind raced, the jealousy she had suppressed rising to the surface. She tried to push it down, but it was impossible. Magui had always believed, deep down, that Lando would eventually choose her. But She was different. She made Lando’s smile wider, his laugh easier. Magui had never seen him like that before.

While Magui was trying to come to terms with her feelings, while Pietra's hostility toward her grew. It wasn’t overt, not at first, but it was clear. Pietra couldn’t hide her dislike of her, who was quick to pick up on the coldness in her interactions.

It started with the smallest gestures—Pietra not responding to her attempts at small talk, her clipped answers when they were all together. At first, she tried to ignore it, chalking it up to Pietra being distant or just in a bad mood. It didn’t take long for the silence to speak louder than words.

She was no stranger to rivalry or people not liking her, especially while being in the Kpop world. But this? This was more personal. She wasn’t sure if Pietra had it out for her because of her own friendly protectiveness taward Lando or because Magui had made it clear, that she wasn’t interested in being “just friends” anymore. Either way, the atmosphere around Pietra felt thick, tense, like a storm waiting to break.

One evening in Monaco is picturesque, the marina glimmering under the soft light of the street lamps. The restaurant is a chic yet understated place, tucked away from the bustling crowds. The air is warm, with a gentle breeze coming off the water, but despite the beautiful surroundings, there’s an undeniable tension in the air. Max F. and Lando had arranged for a casual double date, hoping that their girlfriends would hit it off. They both with their arms resting casually on the backs of their chairs, share a laugh as they look over the menu.

Max is in a good mood, eager to see the two women bond, while Lando is more focused on making sure everything goes smoothly. He’s noticed the subtle current between Pietra and her, but he’s hoping it will dissipate as the evening goes on. Pietra, however, doesn’t seem interested in playing nice.

She, ever so professional, despite the growing tension, tries her best to stay light and friendly. offering Pietra a warm smile as she speaks, her voice warm but cautious. “So, Pietra, I’ve heard so much about you. Max says you two have been together for a while now. That’s amazing. How did you two meet? I’ve always been curious”

Pietra doesn’t look up or respond immediately, taking a sip of her wine with an almost deliberate slowness. Pietra eyes her for a moment before setting the glass down with a soft clink. “We met a while ago,” she says, her tone cool, as if the conversation is something she’s only tolerating. Her eyes briefly flicker toward her, a hint of irritation behind her gaze. “Max was... a little too eager, but I eventually gave him a chance.”

Lando tries to lighten the mood, shooting Max a brief look, but he doesn’t catch the way Pietra’s words linger in the air, heavy with an underlying edge. Max, sensing the tension, chuckles nervously. “Yeah, I had to prove myself. It took some time.”

She was still trying to keep the conversation light as possible. She forces a short laugh, trying to ease things along. “That’s kind of sweet, though. It must have been nice to see that persistence paid off. I think relationships take time to build, especially with our busy schedules.”

Pietra glances at her briefly, her lips pressed into a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, we are. Max knows how to keep things interesting.” she responds, the word drawn out with a slight emphasis. She shifts in her chair, her posture stiff, clearly uncomfortable. “But I suppose some people don’t need as much time to figure things out.”

Pietra’s comment clearly makes a jab at how fast her and Lando go together, and she feels the weight of it. She’s trying so hard to keep things civil, to extend kindness, but Pietra’s thinly veiled jabs aren’t making it easy. Still, she maintains her composure, her smile never wavering.

“Of course,” she says, her voice smooth, though there’s a tightness in her chest. “Some people just click right away, you know? Like when you meet someone and it just feels... right.” She glances at Lando, her eyes softening for a moment, as if the connection they’re building could offer a small sense of relief from the awkwardness. But Pietra’s eyes are sharp, catching the glance and narrowing slightly.

Lando glances at her, his eyes softening, he’s aware of the tension in the air. He doesn’t want to put pressure on either woman, but he can’t help feeling a little uncomfortable. He reaches for the breadbasket, trying to fill the awkward silence with something normal. “Yeah, we’ve been spending more time outside of racing events, which has been nice. It’s been... different, but in a good way.”

Pietra finally looks at her, her gaze sharp. “Must be nice to have time for that,” she says pointedly, leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “Some of us don’t get to choose when to step away from the spotlight.”

Her smile falters for a moment, but she quickly recovers, her voice still warm. “I get that. It’s definitely a balancing act.”

Lando shoots Pietra a look. “Pietra, come on, let’s just enjoy the evening, yeah? It’s been a long week, and we’re all here to relax.”

Max, trying to diffuse the situation, grins at her and says, “Lando and I both agreed—tonight is about getting to know the girls better. We want you two to be friends, so... let’s make it happen.”

She looks at Lando, grateful for his efforts, and smiles at him. “Exactly. It’s a chance for us to all just hang out and have fun.”

Pietra’s expression doesn’t soften, clearly unimpressed with the idea. “I guess”

“So, have either of you two been to the south of France? I think it’d be nice to get away for a bit.” Max asked

She was grateful for the change of subject, leans in slightly, eager to engage with Max. “I’d love to. I’ve heard there are some beautiful spots by the coast. Maybe next time, we could all go together—just to relax, no racing, no distractions.”

Pietra’s laugh is almost too quick, too forced, and it cuts through the conversation like a knife. “Relax, huh?” she says with a mocking smile. “I’m sure some of us would be too busy to ‘relax’ properly.” She sets her wine glass down a little too hard, the clink of glass echoing in the sudden quiet that follows. Pietra doesn’t look at her, but the comment is pointed, deliberate.

Her stomach tightens, but she doesn’t let the discomfort show. She’s used to this by now—navigating through difficult conversations, keeping things calm. “I’m sure everyone needs a break now and then,” she says, her voice steady, though the words feel like they hang heavy in the air. “But it’s nice to know there’s a chance for some peace, right?”

Pietra just stares at her, her lips curling into a thin, tight smile. “Sure,” she says, but the word is almost laced with sarcasm. She turns to Max, her attention momentarily shifting. “I think I’ll take a rain check on that. I’m not in the mood for a group getaway.”

The tightness in the air is palpable, suffocating almost. Lando looks back and forth between the two women, feeling the weight of the silence pressing down. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Max catches his eye and shakes his head slightly, as if to say let it go.

Her smile was forced but polite, tries again. “That’s okay, Pietra. Maybe another time.” She doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to add fuel to the fire. She’s just trying to make it through the night, to show she can be the bigger person. “But I do think a little break every now and then would be nice for everyone. Just to unwind, you know?”

Pietra pulls a tight smile on her face before dropping it almost immediately, before she turns to the menu as if she’s suddenly uninterested in the conversation. The tension in the air settled into a quiet, simmering discomfort that she felt deep in her chest. She forces a deep breath, trying to keep her composure.

Lando leans closer to her, his hand lightly brushing hers under the table. “Don’t mind her,” he says quietly, his voice soft, but there’s a sadness to it. “She’s just... protective. Max and I thought this might be a good idea, but... maybe we’re rushing it.”

Her meets his eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice steady. “I get it. I just want to make sure we’re all okay. I can handle it.”

But Lando knows better. He can feel the strain between them, the way Pietra’s barbs have landed, and he wishes he could fix it for her. He wishes he could make it all easier.

Max chuckles lightly, “So, guys, have you both been to Tokyo? Y/n, I think you mentioned it last time—it must be nice to have some time off in a place like that, huh?”

She was grateful for the shift, smiles, her voice a little more relaxed. “Yeah, Tokyo’s amazing. I’ve had the chance to go a few times for work, but there’s so much to see outside of the busy parts. It’s really inspiring.”

Pietra's eyes narrow slightly at the mention of her career, her lips curling into a tight, almost cruel smile. “Right. Your work,” she says, her tone laced with sarcasm. “It must be nice to be in a career where you don’t have to actually do anything other than... dance around in front of a camera. Must be a breeze.”

She freezes for a moment, her mind reeling from the sting of the words. Her fingers tighten around her glass, but she doesn’t let the frustration show on her face. She’s used to the criticisms of her career, the shallow judgments of what it’s like to be in the K-pop world. But hearing it from Pietra, directed at her so deliberately, feels different.

Lando glances at his girlfriend, sensing the shift in her expression, but before he can say anything, Pietra continues, her voice cold. “Must be a real change of pace, huh? From running around in high heels to shaking your hips for a bunch of cameras. No pressure, right?”

Her jaw tightens. She’s just about had enough of the comments, but she knows that snapping back would only make things worse. She feels the old defensive instincts rise in her chest, but she swallows them down, pushing them aside for the sake of keeping the peace. It’s hard, though. Her throat feels tight, and she fights the urge to respond.

Lando, clearly uncomfortable, leans forward, his eyes flickering from Pietra to her. “Pietra, that’s enough,” he says, his voice low but firm. He doesn’t like where this is going, and he’s tired of seeing his girlfriend get put in a corner.

But Pietra doesn’t back down. She looks directly at her, her eyes hardening. “I’m just saying,” she presses, her voice filled with venom. “I don’t get how someone can be taken seriously when they’ve built a career on gimmicks. I mean, let’s be honest, it’s all just a product, isn’t it? And you’re just a face, a brand.”

The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, her vision blurs. It takes everything in her to keep her face neutral, to stay composed. She wants to snap, to tell Pietra just how much work goes into every performance, every song. But she doesn’t. She holds herself back, refusing to give Pietra the satisfaction of seeing her react. Instead, she simply smiles, though the smile feels like it might crack under the weight of the words.

“Yeah…,” she says sarcastically, her voice tight but calm. “It’s a different world, I guess. But I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve accomplished. Everyone has their own path, right?”

Max, still trying to steer things back to safer ground, chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah, we all work hard. No need to get into all that.”

Pietra, however, isn’t finished. She leans back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest. “I just think it’s funny, you know?” she says, her voice dropping to a near-whisper but loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. “How people in your industry act like it’s so much more important than what it is. Like the world revolves around pop stars and image. It’s cute, really.”

Her blood boils, but she’s silent. She takes a quick tight deep breath and can feel Lando’s gaze on her, trying to gauge how she’s taking it. He wants to intervene, but he knows that anything he says will only make things worse. So instead, he remains silent, his fist clenched under the table.

Her hands tremble slightly, but she doesn’t show it. Instead, she takes a deep breath, forcing a smile that feels tight against her lips. “It’s alright, Pietra,” she says softly. “I know where I stand. I’m fine with my career.”

For a moment, Pietra’s eyes flicker with something—maybe it’s satisfaction, maybe something darker—but she doesn’t comment further. She picks up her glass again, taking a long sip, and the conversation stumbles into a tense silence.

Her eyes narrowing as she glances between Lando and her, suddenly shifts gears again. She looks at Max, who’s nervously poking at his plate, as if trying to avoid the growing irritation at the table. “You know,” she says casually, her tone light but dripping with sarcasm, “it must be nice to have a personal life that’s... free of any complications. No messy... entanglements, no drama. Just the usual ‘perfect’ image to keep up.”

Her stomach twists, but she forces herself to look calm, keeping her smile firmly in place. Entanglements? She can’t help but wonder if Pietra’s talking about her own situation, or if she’s trying to throw subtle jabs in the direction of something Lando has made a conscious choice to distance himself from.

Lando notices the shift in his girlfriend's expression, and his jaw tightens. He’s been trying to keep the evening civil, but Pietra’s words hit their mark and he knows exactly what Pietra’s implying. The knot in his chest grows heavier, and he can feel his patience wearing thinner by the second. He tries to keep his voice even, offering a forced laugh to break the ice. “Yeah, it’s all just so perfect, huh?” he says, his voice a little too sharp, though he’s clearly frustrated.

Pietra doesn’t pick up on his irritation. Instead, she goes on, her words turning more biting, more deliberate. “Some people are just lucky, I guess. They don’t have to deal with the mess that comes with relationships. With... people who don’t really understand how to, you know, keep things quiet. Keep things professional. They’re too busy with other things.” She pauses, and the weight of her unspoken words lingers in the air, a subtle but unmistakable reference to Lando’s past relationships.

Max coughs awkwardly, trying to redirect the conversation. “Alright, alright—let’s not go there, Pietra.”

But Pietra, ever defiant, shrugs. “What? I’m just saying, some people are better at keeping their personal lives in order than others. No need to complicate things, right?”

her eyes narrow slightly, her hands tightening around her utensil. She wants to say something, to shoot back at Pietra, but she holds herself back, aware of how it could escalate. The last thing she wants is to feed into the drama. But the implication—about keeping things “quiet” and “professional”—hits too close to home.

Lando, who’s been holding his anger in check for far too long, finally shoots a sharp look at Max, his expression dark. The anger is evident on his face, his eyes narrowing in frustration. Max, who’s always been the peacekeeper in their group, immediately goes quiet, sensing the shift in the air. He looks at Pietra for a moment, then looks down at his plate, awkwardly avoiding Lando’s gaze.

“You need to stop, Pietra,” Lando says, his voice low but controlled, the words cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough.”

The room falls into a tense silence as everyone feels the weight of his words. Max, still trying to salvage the evening, opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear now that Lando has had enough, and no one is willing to push him further.

Pietra doesn’t back down entirely, but her expression falters for a moment, her lips tightening as she glances between Lando and her. “Fine,” she says, her tone dripping with feigned indifference. “I guess I’m just too blunt for some people.” She leans back in her chair, her arms crossing over her chest, her eyes darting between the two of them with an almost smug satisfaction.

She was already feeling like the barbs are starting to pierce through her carefully constructed calm, and feels the last shred of her restraint snap. She feels a heat rise in her chest as Pietra’s words hit her once again, and she can’t hold it back anymore.

“You know, Pietra,” she says, her voice steady and resolute, surprising everyone at the table.“I’ve been trying to be nice to you. I’ve been trying to keep things civil and not get into petty little conversations like this. But for once, I’m not going to sit here and pretend that your comments don’t bother me.” She leans forward, her gaze now fully fixed on Pietra.

Pietra’s eyes flicker with something dark, but she doesn’t speak, waiting for her to continue.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me or my relationships or my career or what I’ve worked for,” she snaps, her voice firm and unwavering. “And you certainly don’t know what it’s like to be constantly scrutinized, judged, and belittled for something you love, something you’ve worked your ass off for. I’ve put in more hours, more blood, sweat, and tears than you could ever understand. So don’t sit there and act like I’m some pretty face who got lucky. My success didn’t come from just being a face or a ‘brand.’ It came from hard work. Real work.”

Pietra blinks, clearly taken aback, but she doesn’t stop. “And don’t you dare pretend like your little backhanded comments about ‘entanglements’ or ‘keeping things professional’ are anything but passive-aggressive digs at me. I’ve never been the one to air out personal drama, but don’t test me. I’m tired of playing nice with people who think they can talk down to me. At this point you don’t have to like me, no problem I dont care. But don’t belittle me or my relationships. You are you and I am me. ”

The silence in the room is deafening. Lando, his eyes wide, watches her with a mixture of awe and something like pride. Max shifts uncomfortably, glancing between the two women, but it’s clear he knows better than to interfere.

Pietra, for the first time all evening, seems speechless. Her lips part as if she’s about to respond, but the words don’t come. Her eyes flicker with a mixture of shock and something darker—resentment, perhaps—but she quickly masks it with a tight smile.

“Well,” Pietra says, her voice strained and colder than before, “looks like I touched a nerve. I’ll leave you to your little perfect life, then.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, though her demeanor has shifted, her earlier smugness replaced with a faint trace of irritation.

She doesn’t back down, her gaze steady, but her heart is pounding in her chest. She’s been holding all of that in for so long, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she feels a sense of relief. She finally spoke up.

Lando, clearly pleased with the way she handled the situation, glances at Max with a pointed look, his expression fierce. Max, sensing Lando’s anger, raises his hands defensively. “Alright, alright,” Max says quickly, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Let’s just—let’s move on. No need to keep this going.”

She looks at Lando, her expression softening slightly as she feels the weight of the moment start to lift. Lando reaches across the table and gently places his hand on hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His thumb strokes over her knuckles in a silent gesture of support.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice filled with concern.

She smiles at him, the tension finally easing out of her body. “Yeah. I’m good now. Just needed to say it.”

Max gives a small, awkward laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I think we can all agree, this dinner’s been... interesting.”

Lando lets out a breath, glancing at the two women with a mix of frustration and a small amount of hope that they can both move past the hostility. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening. No more drama, alright?”

The air feels tense but also lighter now, the moment of confrontation settling into the background as the night moves on.

The room was quiet, except for the low hum of the TV playing something forgettable in the background — a rerun, maybe. she didn’t really register it. She was curled into the corner of their couch, Lando’s hoodie swallowing her frame, her thumb idly scrolling through her phone.

She wasn’t even looking for anything and it found her anyway.

A photo. Grainy, likely taken on someone’s phone without them noticing. Lando — leaning against the bar at a restaurant, grinning. And next to him, too close to be just casual, was a girl she recognized now, Magui.

She paused, her eyes scanned the image slowly. Magui’s smile was directed at him. Lando wasn’t touching her, but his body was tilted toward her like it was second nature.

The timestamp was from about a year ago, way before her, but it still hit her like a thud in the chest.

She tapped on the gossip account, and more appeared. Photos of them at the same parties. Arriving separately but leaving together. The kinds of photos fan accounts lived for — blurry, inconclusive, but loud in implication.

She locked her phone and stared at the black screen, her own reflection staring back.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was more the sting of realizing she hadn’t been the first page in this chapter — just the one people were reading now and people were loud about it. Too loud. Whispering comparisons between Magui and her like it was a competition.

She didn’t want to feel second. But tonight, she did mentally.

The FaceTime ring echoed once. Twice. She considered not picking up.Then she did.

Lando’s face appeared — fresh from a shower, curls damp, the kind of smile that was easy and unguarded.

“Hey,” he said. “Missed you today.”

She offered a smile, small and automatic. “Hey… yeah. Just tired.”

He tilted his head. “That dance rehearsal kick your ass?”

“Not really.” She paused, then exhaled. “Just… tired of the internet.”

That got his attention. His posture shifted, a flicker of concern tightening his features. “What happened?”

She hesitated. Her finger picked at a loose thread on the hoodie sleeve.

“People have a lot of opinions lately,” she said finally. “About us. About who you were with before me.” Lando didn’t say anything for a moment. His gaze dropped, thoughtful.

“You mean Magui?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “That was before you. Way before anything serious between us.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I do. It’s just weird, seeing it. Seeing you like that with someone else. I wasn’t looking for it, but now it’s everywhere. Like I’m supposed to feel… less.” Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not second.”

“Then why does it feel like everyone thinks I am?” she asked, quieter now. “Like I’m the girl you moved on to, not the one you chose.”

“I didn’t stop talking to her because of pressure,” Lando said. “I stopped because I met you. And suddenly I didn’t want... almost. I wanted something real.”

Shd blinked, throat tight. “She wanted more?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah but I couldn’t give her what she wanted, because I didn’t feel it. Then you walked into that Ralph Lauren event in that gorgeous black dress and dumped me and I...”

“You looked at me like I glitched your simulation,” she murmured, a reluctant smile breaking through.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” he said, grinning. “You were so... you. I couldn’t stop looking.”

She shook her head, a breath of laughter escaping her. Then, more seriously: “Just… don’t let me be blindsided, okay? If anyone from your past is going to show up, I’d rather it be from you than some gossip account.”

“Always.”Lando said, voice low and steady. “Same goes for you too,” he joked. She let out a laugh and shook her head.

Then there was a pause. Something silent and warm passed between them.

“I want this — whatever this is — to be honest.”

She nodded, finally letting her body relax. “Me too.”

The silence now wasn’t uncomfortable. Just real. Still a little fragile, but real. She wasn’t sure what this thing between them was becoming — but for tonight, she chose to believe him. And that felt like enough.

Somewhere, Magui scrolled through Lando's Instagram, her thumb moving mechanically as she looked for the posts where she wasn’t front and center. Magui told herself it wasn’t jealousy, that it wasn’t about the way Lando’s relationship with her had blossomed into something real—something that had grown roots and was growing every damn day.

Magui had always been there, lurking in the background, stalking through gossip accounts to keep up with him and still liking Lando’s posts. The ones where he was smiling with a group of friends, the ones where he was celebrating his victories or showing off his new helmet or sharing a moment with his fans. The ones where she wasn’t beside him, her radiant smile stealing the spotlight and mogging everyone in the photo.

Magui told herself it was easier this way, keeping things casual. She had never been someone to get too involved, never wanted more than what they had shared in those late-night conversations or the stolen moments that were never meant to last. But deep down, there was a bitterness she hadn’t quite managed to shake off.

She hated seeing them together.

Hated seeing the way Lando looked at her—like she was the one he’d been waiting for, the one who finally tied him down. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to drift apart, like everything else in Lando’s life eventually did. But this... this wasn’t drifting. It was something real.

She continued to scroll, her finger pausing just slightly on a picture of Lando with some of his friends, she wasn’t anywhere in sight. That was safe. That was something she would like, something that didn’t feel like a reminder of her own failures.

Every time Lando posted a picture with her, she quickly scrolled past, not allowing herself to linger on it, not allowing herself to feel the pang in her chest. She told herself it wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t hers anymore, and he never truly had been. But it still hurts. It hurt because she had watched the whole thing unfold, watched him pull away, watched her own place in his life shrink until there was nothing left but empty conversations and shallow exchanges.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Liking his posts, even the ones where he was with everyone but her, was the closest she could get to holding on to the connection they’d once shared. Even if it was just through a simple tap of a button, it made her feel like she still had a piece of him. Even if it was just a faint shadow of what it had been.

It wasn’t healthy, and she knew it. But some part of her couldn’t let go. Not yet.

But the world of social media was like a double-edged sword, and Magui had never quite realized just how sharp it could be until now.

Since he and her had become more open about their relationship, BLINKS—devoted fans of BLACKPINK and her —had been keeping a watchful eye on every move. They’d seen the way Lando looked at her, the way he supported her with everything in him. They were invested in her happiness. Even if it meant scrutinizing everything about the people she surrounded herself with.

One evening, after she had posted an instagram dump of them together—one of those soft, intimate moments they shared—it didn’t take long for the fanbase to go into full detective mode. They were quick to dig into every corner of Lando’s life, from his whole family to when he first went on tevision in his karting days.

Their passion was undeniable, and when they noticed a pattern—comments from an old, familiar name—Magui’s, they couldn’t help but connect the dots.

BLINKS weren’t just fans; they were an army. And when they found something, they didn’t let it go.

A few hours after the post went up, the first tweet surfaced. It was simple enough, an old screenshot from an F1 gossip account, showing him and Magui together at an event, their arms casually draped over one another. The caption was innocent, playful, hinting at yet another fling Lando got caught with in public but to the BLINKS, it didn’t look so innocent.

@/BLINKS_Obsessed:

Wait, how old is this...Lando with some blonde girl? Does anyone know who she is? This doesn’t look like just friends to me…

The comments on the tweet started pouring in almost immediately, each one more eager than the last, trying to unearth every detail they could find about Lando’s past relationships. As they pieced together more and more, the cracks in the story began to show.

@/BLINKSUNITED:

Did Lando have something with her before Y/n? Should we be worried about her still lurking around? 🤔

As the online digging intensified, BLINKS started linking older posts and photos. They connected the dots between Magui’s old interactions with Lando—late-night social media exchanges, photos from before she entered the picture. They noticed how Magui has still been liking Landos instagram posts, especially the ones where she wasn’t in them, and the BLINKS didn’t miss it.

@/BL5CKPINKFOREVER: Magui is still liking his posts?! She’s been all over his social media, and Magui’s still lurking around even after her and Lando started getting serious… Something’s off here. 🤨

@/BLINKBLINKBLINK: She’s been hanging onto him for way too long. How can Y/n trust him if this bitch won’t back off? 😡

Before long, the situation escalated. BLINKS had a new target now, shifting their views from still attacking Jennie for her lazy dancing and Lisas new album that they keep saying flopped.

They didn’t just want to expose the past—they wanted to make sure Magui knew she wasn’t welcome in their world. They began flooding her social media with comments, bombarding her with messages that ranged from mocking to outright cruel. It wasn’t long before they started sharing her old relationships from past years, twisting them, insinuating things that weren’t there.

@/BLINKS.always.protect.our.favs:Why is Magui still so obsessed with Lando? Get over it already! Y/n deserves better than some girl who keeps hanging around like this. #LandoY/n #StayAway

The online attacks grew fiercer, and Magui found herself caught in the middle of a storm she wasn’t prepared for. Her social media, once a somewhat quiet space for her to share moments, was now filled with hate. Tweets, comments, even messages from BLINKS flooded in. They accused her of trying to wreck their relationship, of holding on to a past that no longer mattered.

Magui wasn’t naïve. She’d expected something—maybe some resistance, some gossip—but not this. She’d kept her distance, and had respected the boundaries between her and Lando. But BLINKS were relentless, and the more they dug, the more the reality of her situation hit her.

@/BLINKSgobeyond: Does Magui think she’s going to come between them? Nah, sis, Lando’s her’s now. You’ve had your turn.

The attacks intensified. Lando’s name was constantly dragged into the conversation, his past with Magui under a microscope. Fans accused him of not being clear with Y/n about his past, about allowing Magui to stick around for so long without making it clear to her that chapter was over. They wanted her gone, out of their world, and they weren’t shy about it.

Magui had never been one to shy away from attention, but this was different. It wasn’t admiration—it was a full-on witch hunt. And the worst part was, it was all because she couldn’t bring herself to stop liking Lando’s posts, even though she knew she should’ve.

While the sun was setting outside, casting a warm, golden glow through the apartment’s large windows. Her and Lando sat on the couch, the quiet hum of the city below filling the space around them. They had spent the afternoon together, enjoying a rare moment of peace, but there was an unspoken strain in the air now. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, and she knew it had to be addressed.

Lando had been unusually quiet for the past few days. He wasn’t his usual, carefree self, and she knew it had something to do with the drama surrounding Magui. It was hard not to notice the way his fans had latched onto his past, the way they’d scrutinized every detail of his life in relation to her. The BLINKS had done their part to dissect the past, and now it was affecting everything—her relationship with Lando, his mental space, and the space they shared.

She took a deep breath, setting her phone down on the coffee table, her fingers tapping lightly against it. She turned to face him, her voice soft, but there was a quiet determination in it.

“Lando, we need to talk about this.”

Lando glanced up at her, a mix of exhaustion and frustration in his eyes. He didn’t need to ask what she meant; they both knew. “I know,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been a lot.”

She nodded, leaning back against the couch, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been seeing all the comments, all the hate that’s been directed toward Magui. And I know it’s not just her they’re going after. It’s... it’s us. It’s our relationship. It’s like we’re not allowed to just be together without people digging into everything.”

Lando’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching. “It’s not just about her. It’s about me, too. I never wanted any of this—especially not for you. I know you don’t deserve this.”

She shook her head, her voice quieter now, but the emotion was there. “I don’t care about what they say about me, Lando. But seeing Magui dragged through the mud like this… it’s hard. I can’t ignore it. I don’t want to see anyone going through that, even if I don’t understand why she’s still holding on.”

Lando sighed, shifting his gaze to the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It’s not that simple. I don’t know why she’s still doing it, but I can’t control that. All I can control is where I put my energy now. And it’s with you.” His eyes met hers, the sincerity in his expression undeniable. “I’ve been pulling away from her, from everything that came before. I’m with you now. And I’m sorry if that’s been hard for you to see.”

Her heart softened at his words, but the weight of the situation was still there, hanging between them. She reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his. “I know. I know you’re with me. But I can’t help but feel like we’re stuck in this... this cycle, Lando. It’s like no matter how much we try to move forward, there’s always something pulling us back to this past that I don’t even fully understand.”

Lando looked at her, a flicker of guilt flashing in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done more to keep this from affecting you. I never wanted you to feel like you had to be part of any of this drama. You didn’t sign up for it.”

She smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. “I know and I didn’t, but I also know what it’s like to be in the spotlight. It’s not just us anymore. It’s everything we do. Every time you post, every time you’re seen with me, every time I post something... people start picking apart our lives. And I know that you didn’t want it either. But I can’t pretend like it doesn’t hurt sometimes.”

There was a long silence as Lando processed her words. He wanted to be the one to protect her from it all, to shield her from the negativity that was poisoning their relationship. But he had underestimated the toll it would take on both of them.

“I’m not going to let them tear us apart,” he said finally, his voice low, but resolute. “I don’t care what they think. I care about you. And I know this is hard, but I want us to be stronger because of it. Not weaker.”

Her eyes softened, the vulnerability she had been holding back finally spilling over. “I just... I just want us to be able to move forward, you know? Without constantly looking over our shoulder, wondering who’s going to judge us next. I don’t want to have to feel like I have to keep defending myself, or you, or us. I want to focus on what’s real.”

Lando nodded, understanding her frustration. He squeezed her hand tighter. “We can do that. I know it’s not going to be easy. But I promise you, I’m here. I’m with you. And whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

she leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, feeling the warmth of his words settle around her like a blanket. “I just need to know that we’re in this together. That it’s you and me, and nothing else.”

“It’s always been you and me,” Lando whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And it always will be. I’m not going anywhere.”

They sat there in the quiet, their hands still clasped, the weight of everything that had been said hanging between them. The world outside would always find a way to tear at them, to try and pull them apart. But in that moment, they knew that whatever came next, they were stronger together. They just had to remember that, every step of the way.

She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she stared at the screen. The notifications were relentless—tweets, Instagram comments, and posts flooding in from BLINKS. The constant bombardment of messages about Lando and Magui had reached its peak, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer. The last few days had been full of passive-aggressive comments, veiled threats, and personal attacks, all aimed at tearing Lando down and dragging Magui into the mud.

She had tried to stay out of it. She had hoped it would die down, that people would realize how harmful it was. But now, seeing the hurtful comments not just about Lando but about Magui as well, she couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

She took a deep breath, her thumb sliding across the screen as she began typing the post that had been on her mind for hours.

She hit “post,” her fingers shaking slightly as she set the phone down beside her. She knew this wouldn’t be an easy call. BLINKS were fiercely protective of her, and taking a stand like this might upset some of them, but she couldn’t sit back any longer. The fans needed to understand the impact their actions were having—not just on Lando and Magui, but on her, too.

Yourusername

❤️ 6.1M 💬 69.7k ➤ 825k

Yourusername To all my amazing BLINKS, I want to take a moment to address something that’s been weighing heavily on my heart. I understand that you all care deeply about me, and I appreciate your support more than I can put into words. But lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of negativity directed at Lando and especially at Magui. And I need to make one thing clear: this behavior is not okay.

Lando and I have our own journey, and I don’t want to see him torn down by hateful comments. He is a good person, and he’s doing his best to navigate everything that comes with being in the public eye. No one deserves to be harassed, and it breaks my heart to see the way this has been affecting him.

As for Magui—yes, she’s part of Lando’s past, and I know some of you might feel some type of way about that. But the harassment she’s receiving is not only unnecessary, it’s cruel. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this. The negativity is doing more harm than good, and I’m asking all of you, from the bottom of my heart, to stop. I understand emotions are running high, but we can do better. We are better.

So I’m asking you all to reflect on your actions and think about how we can create a supportive, kind community instead of one that thrives on tearing others down. Let’s lift each other up and stop perpetuating hate. We owe that to ourselves, to Lando, and to Magui.

Please, let’s put an end to this. I know we’re capable of more.

With love, Y/n

It didn’t take long for the post to go viral. Comments started flooding in—some agreeing with her, others questioning why she would defend Magui, and a few still holding on to their anger. But the majority of the BLINKS took to heart what she had said, beginning to realize how their support had turned into something toxic.

@OT5BPFOREVER: I get it now. We were wrong. We let our anger take over, and it was never about protecting you, it was about hurting others. We’re sorry, Lando. We’re sorry, Magui.

@Loyal.to.y/n: We love you, y/n. We didn’t mean to make things worse. We’ll do better. Sorry for everything, Lando. We had no right.

@BLINKK_2018: We just wanted to protect you, but I realize now we were just hurting people. I apologize to Lando, and to Magui, too. We see now how it’s been too much. I hope you’re okay, Lando.

Her eyes softened as she scrolled through the posts. The BLINKS were listening. They were starting to understand. A few minutes later, she received a direct message from one of the BLINKS, apologizing profusely for the comments they had left on her past photos with Lando, asking if she and Lando were okay.

She quickly typed a reply, offering her thanks and encouragement for their change of heart.

But it wasn’t just the fans who needed to apologize.

Later that evening, her and Lando sat together, the weight of everything that had happened still lingering in the air. Lando, his gaze soft yet serious, turned to her.

“You really did that,” he said, a quiet smile forming on his lips. “You stood up for me. For Magui. I—” He paused, words almost failing him. “Thank you. That can’t have been easy.”

She smiled at him, brushing her hand against his. “It wasn’t easy. But it was necessary. I had to make sure we weren’t part of the problem anymore.”

Lando nodded, his fingers tracing the back of her hand. “I’m proud of you. Not just for standing up for me, but for doing what’s right. I know it’s been hard, especially with all the pressure and the noise. But we’ll get through it. Together.”

She leaned in, her forehead resting against his. “We’ll be okay. We’re already stronger than before.”

Magui was going through her own version of shock. She had been scrolling through her notifications when she saw her post. At first, she didn’t quite understand what was happening. Why was she, someone she barely knew, speaking out for her?

Her phone buzzed with message after message from fans, apologizing for their harsh comments, telling her how they now realized how wrong they’d been. Magui couldn’t quite process it. She stared at the screen, watching BLINKS apologize to her—to her—something she had never expected. Magui had always thought she would never get involved, that she would stay out of it and let the BLINKS keep attacking her.

But here she was, not only standing up for Lando but calling out the very same fans who had caused so much harm. She didn’t have to do this, Magui thought. She didn’t owe me anything.

Her chest tightened, and for the first time in days, Magui felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She wasn’t the target anymore. She wasn’t the villain in the story. And as much as the situation had been painful, it was the first step toward moving forward—away from the past, away from Lando’s history, and toward something new.

Magui sat back in her chair, reading the messages one by one, the realization dawning on her, despite the bitterness and the past, her actions had been a quiet act of grace.

magui_corceiro

❤️ 127.5K 💬 9.9k ➤ 78k

magui_corceiro I know things have been tough, and I’m sorry for the part I played in all the noise. I’ve always tried to stay out of the spotlight, but sometimes the past catches up. I appreciate the support, and I wish nothing but the best for Y/n and Lando. No hard feelings, just moving forward.

comments:

@/BP_goes_hard Magui, we were wrong. We should have never targeted you. Please forgive us. We’ll do better.

@/BLINKTINY We didn’t realize how hurtful our words were until now. I hope you know we didn’t mean to cause any harm. Apologies, Magui. We see it now.

Back in Monaco

She smiled as she read through the post and the comment, feeling a small sense of relief. Things weren’t perfect yet, but the atmosphere had shifted, the first steps of healing beginning. And as she looked over at Lando, sitting beside her on the couch, she knew they were stronger for it. Together, they had weathered the storm—and now, it was time to move forward.

----------

ABSOLUTELY NO HATE TO MAGUI OR PIETRA THIS IS STRICTLY FICTIONAL

Thank you for being patient, Im going through finals rn so Im trying to balance everything. Stay tuned for new chapter of The Villain of F1 and another oneshot for spotlight & slipstream

Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

Hii do u have a posting schedule?

Sadly no 😔

Once I’m done with any story/one-shot I edit and proofread then immediately post it. I want to have one but school, work, and writers block make that hard.

#mcmuffinf1 #mcmuffinanswersquestions

0 notes

f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

Hiii! Can i ask you to make a one shot where Alexandra and Rebecca (no hate for them obvi) are jealous of Lando's girlfriend because she is loved by all drivers or because their boyfriends do not pda like Lando.

You can make 2 one shots if you don't want to make this two together.

(Ps Lando is very in love with his girlfriend and she is the bestfriend of the 2 Lilys)

Please please please make one of this, i requested this at other 2 blog and they don't make it...🥲🥲🥲

If you write that. THANK YOU SOOOOO MUUUCHHHH🥰😍

Jealousy, Jealousy

Lando Norris Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A/n: hopefully it's the way you like, if not send me a request and I'll post again, and 123 followers omg thank you all so much

The paddock was alive with the usual buzz before the race, drivers and teams preparing for the day ahead but there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, one that only a few could feel, and Alexandra and Rebecca were the ones most attuned to it. They exchanged a glance as they observed the scene in front of them.

She stood in the center of a group of drivers, a smile on her face as she laughed at something Daniel Ricciardo had just said. Lando stood next to her, his arm slung casually around her waist, his fingers tracing circles on her skin as they exchanged whispered words.

The energy between them was palpable, and it wasn’t just the fact that Lando Norris was openly in love with his girlfriend. He was always touchy with her, always affectionate in a way that had begun to make waves in the paddock. It was how he wasn’t shy about showing it. He kissed her forehead in front of the cameras, pulled her close in the middle of interviews, and made sure the world knew she was his, every single moment of the day.

The other drivers—Max, Charles, George, and even Lewis—often looked on with a mix of admiration and amusement. It was no secret that she was well-loved among them. She was funny, smart, and always had a way of making everyone feel comfortable. But for Alexandra and Rebecca, it was something more.

It was the way she was loved.

Alexandra crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. "I just don’t get it," she muttered, half to herself, half to Rebecca, who was standing a few paces away.

Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Alexandra nodded toward her, who was now wrapped in Lando’s arms, their heads close together as they whispered something to each other. "Her," Alexandra said, bitterness creeping into her tone. "She’s just… everywhere. She’s got them all wrapped around her finger. Look at Lando—he’s obsessed with her and then there’s the Lilys, always around her too. It’s like… the entire paddock just revolves around her."

Rebecca snorted, a sound that was more dismissive than anything else. "Right? And don’t even get me started on how they act around her. It’s like… she’s their golden girl or something. When’s the last time you saw a driver act like that with us? I can’t even remember the last time Carlos did anything remotely close to that in public."

Alexandra's eyes flickered to the side, where Lando stood with his arms crossed, talking to Pierre. He wasn’t touching her, wasn’t even looking her way. For the briefest moment, she felt the sting of that distance. It wasn’t anything new, but seeing Lando and her so effortlessly affectionate only highlighted it more.

"We should try that," Rebecca muttered, though there was no real enthusiasm in her voice. "You know, public displays of affection. Maybe they'd wake up and realize we’re here, too."

Alexandra shook her head. "It’s not just that. It’s the way everyone loves her. It’s like they can’t help themselves and not just the drivers—fans too. Have you seen how they go on about her on social media? She’s everywhere."

Rebecca’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced over at her again, catching her laughing with Lando. Her jealousy was palpable, but she wasn’t about to admit it out loud. "She’s not even that special. I mean, come on. What makes her so great?"

Alexandra shrugged, her eyes still locked on her and Lando. "I don’t know. It’s like she’s this perfect little package—smart, pretty, always so bubbly, and then Lando just makes it worse by acting like she’s his world. No one else has it like that."

Rebecca let out a sharp breath and rolled her eyes. "It’s so over the top. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to prove something."

They both watched as Lando whispered something in her ear, causing her to giggle and swat at his arm. The way she responded—it wasn’t just affection; it was an ease, a comfort that was so natural, it made everything else around them seem almost forced.

Alexandra's fingers curled into her arms, and she bit her lip. "I don’t think I’ll ever understand it."

Rebecca’s gaze turned to her once again, and she couldn’t deny the envy that bubbled up inside her. It wasn’t just about the PDA—it was about everything. She had somehow become the center of it all, and it made her want to scream.

"I hate how they just... have it. They’re the couple everyone roots for, and we’re just… us."

Alexandra tilted her head toward her friend, noting the tone in her voice. "You think we could be that? Like, with our boyfriends?"

Rebecca considered it for a moment, her jaw tightening. "I don’t know. Maybe we’re just not as... perfect as she is."

A silence fell over them, thick and unspoken, both women lost in their own thoughts. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was frustration. The attention she seemed to effortlessly attract, the love she garnered without even trying, was a sharp reminder of their own struggles in relationships, of the distance they felt from the men they loved.

Meanwhile, she was completely unaware of the undercurrents brewing around her. Her attention was fixed solely on Lando, the way his fingers lightly traced over her hand, how his eyes sparkled when they met hers. It was like they were in their own little world, and for a brief moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

The Lilys were nearby, laughing and sharing some inside joke they all had together, their connection obvious. Everyone was captivated by her, and it was as if nothing could break the siren spell she had cast over the entire grid.

Lando leaned down, whispering something else in her ear. She blushed, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. The intimacy between them was so apparent, so natural, that it almost felt like everyone else had faded into the background. Their connection wasn’t just public—it was inescapable, unavoidable.

She smiled, blissfully content in her little bubble, unaware that for some, her happiness was the very thing they longed for.

Rebecca glanced sideways at Alexandra again, her voice low but laced with frustration. "Do you think she knows? How much do they all... love her?"

Alexandra’s voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. "I don’t know. She probably doesn’t even realize how much it affects us. How it feels like we’re invisible sometimes."

"Right," Rebecca agreed. "Like we’re just... not enough."

Lando and her casual affection didn’t go unnoticed by others. Even in the rare moments when they weren’t physically touching, there was an undeniable pull between them. A few drivers who were in earshot exchanged knowing glances, but the attention they received didn’t seem to faze Lando. He was completely immersed in her, and she, in turn, was absorbed in him.

As the race preparations continued, Alexandra and Rebecca found themselves watching, more entranced by the affection between Lando and her than they’d like to admit. The jealousy wasn’t just about public displays—it was the constant reminder that their own relationships never quite measured up. The way Lando made her feel seen, adored, cherished—none of them had ever felt that way in the same way.

Alexandra sighed and straightened, breaking the silence. "I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to be jealous of her but I can’t help it."

Rebecca didn’t say anything at first, her gaze still fixed on the couple in front of them. It was a deep, quiet pain that neither of them had been able to shake off since they’d first noticed how much attention she attracted. They weren’t just jealous of her relationship—they were jealous of the ease with which she made it all look.

"Do you think we could ever be like them?" Alexandra asked, her voice low, tinged with both hope and uncertainty.

Rebecca shifted on the bench, crossing her arms. "What do you mean? You mean... them? PDA-ing everywhere and making everyone uncomfortable?"

Alexandra bit her lip, glancing over at the couple. "Not exactly but... you know. The way they are with each other. They make everyone around them feel like they’re the only two people in the world. It just... it feels real, right?"

Rebecca looked skeptical, her brow furrowing as she glanced at her boyfriend, Carlos Sainz, who was deep in conversation with a few other drivers. "Maybe, but I don’t think we could do that. It’s not... us. Besides, our boyfriends don’t act like Lando. You know how Carlos is—he’s always so reserved. I mean he’s goofy but still reserved."

Alexandra sighed, her eyes drifting toward Charles Leclerc, who was at the other end of the paddock, talking to a few mechanics. She tried to imagine them in the same scenario—Lando and her, so open and carefree and then Charles, who kept his emotions locked tight behind a mask of calm.

"Yeah, I know but that doesn’t mean we can’t try, right? I mean, we’re always playing the cool, collected girlfriend act. Maybe it’s time for a change."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "You want us to try and do what they’re doing? Be all touchy-feely and PDA-y, like we’ve got something to prove?"

Alexandra’s voice softened as she thought about it, her gaze lingering on Charles, who was now smiling at something one of the engineers had said. "I just... I want to feel seen. Like they do. Lando makes it so obvious how much he loves her. And I know that’s not everything, but sometimes I wish Charles would do more. He’s... distant, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s because I’m not enough."

Rebecca’s lips pressed together. She had the same insecurities but wasn’t quite ready to admit them aloud. "I know what you mean. All Carlos does is hold my hand to walk me through the paddock, sometimes not at all. I feel like I’m just a trophy girlfriend to him when we’re at the track but when he’s with the other drivers, it’s like he’s a completely different person."

There was a pause, both women lost in their thoughts. They both knew their boyfriends loved them in their own way but there was something about the attention and affection Lando and her shared that felt so undeniable, so effortless, and it made them feel as though their relationships were somehow lacking.

Alexandra stood up abruptly. "You know what? Let’s just do it. Let’s go over there, act like we mean it, and see how they respond. We need to show them we can be just as affectionate. We’ll be the ones everyone talks about."

Rebecca hesitated for a moment, but the feeling of frustration and longing was enough to push her forward. "Alright. Let’s try it."

They approached Carlos and Charles, who were now standing together near a quiet corner of the paddock. The sight of them standing side by side made Alexandra and Rebecca feel a little more confident. If they could just find the courage to replicate what they had seen in her and Lando’s relationship, they might finally feel seen.

"Hey," Alexandra said, her voice just a little too high-pitched as she approached Charles. She leaned in, placing a hand on his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Charles gave her a small smile but didn’t move, his posture still stiff. "Hey, everything okay?"

"Yeah," Alexandra replied, forcing a smile. "I just thought... maybe we could have a little more fun today. You know, like, just let go a little. It’s not all about the race, right?"

Before Charles could respond, she reached up and put her arm around his neck, pulling him closer. The move was clumsy, too forced, and Charles immediately stiffened under her touch. He glanced around, clearly uncomfortable.

"Alex, baby," he began, his voice hesitant. "What are you doing?"

"Just... you know, being affectionate," she said quickly, trying to make it sound casual. "Lando and Y/n do it all the time."

Charles’s eyes flickered to Lando and her, who were now in the midst of another affectionate exchange. He looked back at Alexandra, a little unsure of what to do next.

"I don’t think that’s really... necessary," he said, his tone soft but firm. "I’m not... I’m not really into all that PDA. You know that."

Alexandra’s smile faltered as she tried to read his expression. "But don’t you want to show people we’re together? Like... like them?"

Charles ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the side as if searching for an escape. "We don’t need to prove anything to anyone, Alex. I’m with you. That’s enough."

Alexandra felt a sharp pang in her chest. She had thought that maybe, just maybe, trying to show more affection would change something, but it only seemed to make Charles pull further away.

Meanwhile, Rebecca had attempted the same with Carlos, trying to get him to wrap an arm around her waist. But Carlos, too, had stiffened under her touch. "Rebecca, I don’t think this is a good idea," he said, his voice quieter than usual, a little hesitant. "You know I’m not a big fan of doing this in public."

"But why not?" Rebecca asked, almost desperate. "Why can’t we just act like we’re in love the way Lando and Y/n do? Why does it have to be so complicated?"

Carlos looked around, clearly uncomfortable with the attention they were starting to gather. "We’re in a race paddock, Rebecca. We don’t need to put on a show."

The words hit harder than she expected. It wasn’t that Carlos didn’t love her; she knew he did. But the kind of affection she craved—the public displays, the hand-holding, the constant reassurance—was something he couldn’t give her. Not in the way she needed.

Both Alexandra and Rebecca pulled away, feeling the weight of their failed attempts to recreate something they had seen in her relationship. It wasn’t that they wanted to be them; it was just that they wanted to feel loved—seen and acknowledged in the same way.

They stood in silence for a few moments, the awkwardness between them thickening, as they realized that maybe their relationships just weren’t built the same way as theirs was.

"I guess... I guess some things just aren’t meant to be forced," Alexandra muttered, her voice soft.

Rebecca nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yeah. I guess."

The words were left hanging in the air as they turned to walk away, each woman reflecting on the differences in their relationships. Despite their insecurities, they knew deep down that love didn’t always look the same. But for just a moment, the girls couldn’t help but wish for love that was as obvious as the one her and Lando shared.

Once the race was over, the usual post-race celebrations had begun to wind down. The paddock was buzzing with the energy of success and disappointment, but for Alexandra and Rebecca, there was a quiet weight that hung between them. They had both tried to force something that wasn’t there, and now they found themselves standing in the shadows of the team garages, the crowd around them a world away.

Alexandra leaned against the cold metal wall, arms crossed, her eyes cast downward. She had hoped that showing more affection would somehow change things, but it had only made her feel worse. The uncomfortable silence that followed her attempt at PDA with Charles lingered in her mind, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she was the one in the wrong. Maybe she had expected too much.

Rebecca stood beside her, arms folded tightly across her chest as if she were protecting herself. The tension in her posture mirrored Alexandra’s, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

"You know," Alexandra finally said, breaking the silence, her voice low and hesitant, "I thought I could change things. I thought... if I just showed Charles that I wanted more of what her and Lando have, things would feel different. But now it just feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard."

Rebecca didn’t look at her, but she could hear the vulnerability in her friend’s voice. It made her realize that she had been holding onto her own feelings for far too long.

"I get it," Rebecca said softly. "I tried to do the same with Carlos. I thought maybe if I was more like them, more open, more... affectionate, he’d finally see me the way I want him to. But all I got was awkwardness." She exhaled sharply, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I feel like I’m invisible when I’m around him sometimes. Like I’m just... there. But not really there, you know?"

Alexandra nodded slowly, her chest tightening with the weight of the unspoken emotions she had kept hidden. "Yeah. I feel the same way with Charles. He’s so distant. I know he loves me, but I just want him to show it more. To... want to show it. I want to feel special. But when I try to get close, it’s like I’m pushing him away."

Rebecca shifted uncomfortably, finally turning to face her friend. "It’s not like I’m asking Carlos to be Lando, but... sometimes I just want to know he cares. I want him to make me feel... wanted. But it always feels like he’s holding back. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong."

Alexandra looked at her, her heart aching with empathy. "You’re not doing anything wrong, Rebecca. I think... maybe we’ve been measuring our relationships against something else—against her and Lando, against what everyone else seems to have. But... maybe what we have isn’t supposed to look like theirs."

The words hung in the air, and for the first time, Alexandra felt the tension begin to loosen in her chest. "I just wanted to be seen, you know? Like... really seen. Not just as the girlfriend, but as someone who matters to them, the way they matter to us."

Rebecca let out a quiet breath, a mixture of relief and sadness. "I think we all want that. But maybe we’re looking for it in the wrong places. Maybe Charles and Carlos... they show us they care in ways we don’t always notice because we’re too busy looking for something else. Something we think we need."

Alexandra sighed, her eyes drifting to the empty space around them. "It’s hard. Especially when you see what Lando and her have. They just... make it look so easy. So perfect. And it makes you wonder if you’re just not enough. If maybe they’re right to be so out there, but maybe we just need something more... personal. More quiet."

Rebecca thought for a moment, her gaze now fixed on the ground. "Yeah. I don’t need Carlos to be Lando, and I don’t need Charles to be that way either. I think I just need them to show me... in their own way... that I’m not invisible. That I matter. Even if it’s not perfect like them."

"Exactly," Alexandra said quietly. "We just need to stop comparing our relationships to theirs. It’s not fair to anyone. Not to them, and not to us."

They started walking through the paddock in silence.

"You think they know how much they’ve made us feel this way?" Rebecca asked, breaking the silence with a soft chuckle.

Alexandra shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I don’t think they have a clue."

Rebecca laughed, a sound that was light and free, a welcome release from the tension that had built up over the past few days. "Well, I’m glad I'm not the only one who feels like this," she said with a wink. "Maybe it’s time to stop trying to be something we’re not. And maybe we can just... be with them the way we are. No forced PDA. No comparisons."

Alexandra smiled fully now, the weight lifting from her chest as she nodded in agreement. "Yeah. No more pretending. Let’s just... be us. And if they love us, it’s going to be enough."

Rebecca placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "You know, I think we’re going to be okay."

"Yeah," Alexandra replied, her voice firm with newfound conviction. "We will be."

------

NO HATE TO ALEXANDRA OR REBECCA. This is strictly fictional

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Text

SILVERLIGHT | IV |

Part of "The Villain of F1" story, a Lando Norris Fanfic

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒱𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝐹𝟣 Masterlist| Lando Norris Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Previously

Warnings: Slight sexism, if you have daddy issues...sorry. Written in 3rd person

----------

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝑒” “𝒮𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒”

Acerbi Villa – The Night Before Camp 2008

The Acerbi house buzzed with a kind of warm, electric chaos. It was a symphony of zippers, rustling plastic, clinking tools, and overlapping voices. A half-packed duffle bag layed open on every surface.

She was darting between rooms, her hair half-dried and wild from a quick shower, wearing one of Matteo’s old T-shirts and a pair of mismatched socks. Matteo was upstairs, digging through his drawers like a tornado in search of his lucky balaclava. Meanwhile, Iseul stood in the hallway like a commander surveying a battlefield, holding a checklist in one hand and a set of elbow pads in the other.

“Honey, your gloves—where are your gloves?” Iseul’s voice rang out from somewhere near the hallway, firm but with that quiet steadiness only a mother could manage on a night like this.

“In the laundry room. I washed them. They smelled like feet,” she answered, popping her head out from behind the coat rack where she’d been trying to find her spare neck brace and trying to wrestle her hair into a braid..

“Everything you wear smells like feet,” Matteo shouted from upstairs.

“Yours smell worse!” she fired back instantly.

Giovanni, seated at the dining table surrounded by open bags and snack wrappers, reading glasses on, chuckled as he carefully sewed tiny Italian flag patches into the lining of their travel bags. “Your mother, Luca, and I used to pack like this too, though we weren’t nearly as dramatic.”

“Or loud,” Iseul muttered, shaking her head as she discovered a full spare set of tires behind the hallway plant. “Why is this even in the house?”

she dashed over and scooped them up like precious cargo. “Backup.”

“For what?” Iseul asked with a brow raised and one hand on her.

she beamed. “For when I drive Matteo off the track and destroy my own set.” Giovanni burst into laughter, nearly knocking the thread from his hand.

“Rude!” Matteo called from above, and a moment later, came bounding down the stairs with his arms overflowing—chargers tangled like spaghetti, a notebook, two books, his neck pillow, and a half-eaten bag of chips clamped between his teeth.

“Are you taking snacks to training camp?” Iseul asked, already trying to untangle the mess.

“Yes,” Matteo said proudly, “brain fuel.”

Giovanni reached over and gave his son’s curls a gentle tug. “Just don’t eat them all on the train ride, sì?”

she walked past and deftly plucked one of the chips from the bag. “I give it twenty minutes.”

Matteo narrowed his eyes and immediately began searching for a hiding spot in his backpack. “I’m not telling you where they’re going.”

“Because you’ll forget yourself,” she muttered.

Iseul sighed, but with a smile tugging at her lips. “You two are exhausting.”

“But cute,” Giovanni added, looping an arm around her waist as he watched their kids bicker and laugh. “They get that from you.” Giovanni leaned into kiss his wifes cheek.

As the night wore on, the chaos settled into a rhythm. Matteo was sprawled on the floor re-checking tire pressure numbers scribbled in a little green notebook. She sat cross-legged near him, organizing all her gloves by grip quality. Iseul ironed tiny name tags onto their spare race suits in the kitchen while humming a song only she knew. Giovanni ducked out to the garage to double-check that their spare sprockets were packed.

At one point, Luca wandered in, half-awake from a nap, groggy and shirtless. “Why does it sound like a pit lane in here?”

She tossed a balled-up sock at him. “Go back to bed, old man.”

Luca raised a hand in surrender, mumbling something about ‘ungrateful twins’ as he shuffled away again.

The final hour of packing turned softer—less rushed. She sat cross-legged on the floor next to Matteo, carefully checking that the pressure gauges were in the right pocket of his bag, while Matteo double-checked that she had packed her lucky wristband. It had been Luca’s, once.

“Do you think he’d be proud of us?” she asked quietly, not looking up.

Matteo didn’t hesitate. “I think he already is.”

Their mom heard it from the hallway, pausing just long enough to press a hand to her heart before returning to folding their warm-up jackets. She never interrupted when they brought Luca up like that. It was their way of keeping him with them.

Eventually, night settled over the villa. The bags were finally zipped and stacked by the front door. Race suits hung neatly. The helmets gleamed under the soft hallway light.

Iseul knelt in front of them at the foot of the stairs, cupping each of their cheeks in her hands. she leaned into her touch. Matteo blinked sleepily.

“Be good. Be brave. And don’t forget—you’re each other’s best teammate.”

“We know,” she whispered, her voice small in the quiet of the house. “We’ll stick together.”

“Love you,” Matteo murmured, curling into her hug.

Giovanni ruffled Matteo’s curls and kissed her forehead. “And win,” he said, gently. “Or at least look like you’re winning.”They laughed, and Iseul rolled her eyes at her husband with affectionate exasperation.

Later that night, long after the lights were out and the house had gone still, she and Matteo lay awake in their twin beds across the room from each other. They refused to sleep in different rooms, even if their house was big enough to fit the whole grid.

“You excited?” she whispered, neatly tucked in by her mother.

“A little,” he said. “Nervous too.”

“Me too.”There was a long pause.“But, I think we’ll push through whatever is in our way” he whispered, reaching for his teddy bear, sinking further into his bed.

“We alway do…”

“Goodnight, Nini.”

“Goodnight, Teo.”

The house fell silent again, but the warmth lingered—packed tight between helmets and suits, tucked into bags beside flag patches and snacks, stitched into every bit of love this family carried.

Tomorrow, the training will begin.

The train ride south was jittery. Her forehead pressed to the window while Matteo cracked jokes with Lando across from her. Her stomach was fluttering—not nerves, exactly. More like the weight of something new.

Matteo leaned forward at one point and whispered, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just… feels weird, I don’t know how to explain.”

He bumped her knee with his. “Yeah, I get it. I feel it too.”

When they arrived at the camp gates, the world felt sharper. Everything was crisp and efficient—sleek buildings, neatly trimmed hedges, rows of pristine karts gleaming under the sun like polished sharks. A line of tall pine trees extended beyond the track like a quiet wall.

And the kids—so many boys. Buzzing around like bees in brightly colored hoodies. Laughter, shoving, tire talk, someone revving an engine just for the hell of it.

she immediately noticed: no other girls. Not in the check-in line. Not in the crowd of families. Not in the instructor welcome group. Her heart sank a little. She stood a little closer to Matteo as they rolled their duffel bags behind them. The camp director, a tall man with sunglasses and a clipboard, greeted them with a bright smile and began assigning dorms in clipped, clear Italian.

“Matteo Acerbi,” he called. “Building B, Room 3.”

Matteo turned to her, grinning. “Let’s go, Twin.”

“Y/n Acerbi,” the director said. “Building D, Room 2.”

She blinked. “Wait… separate?”

“Of course,” he said. “Boys in B and C. Girls in D.”

“But—there’s no other girls here.”

The director nodded sympathetically. “You’ll have your room. You’re our only female camper.” The words hit like a slap. She glanced at Matteo. His smile dropped immediately.

“I can stay with her,” he said quickly.

The director shook his head. “Rules. She’ll be just down the path.” She swallowed hard. She wanted to be brave but she’d never been alone before.

Matteo stepped in front of her, his voice low. “Hey. Hey, sorella. Look at me.” She lifted her eyes to him. “You’ve already won harder races than this. It’s just a room. I’m right there. You’ll be fine.”

She blinked and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Lando came up beside them, hesitant. “I can sneak over with snacks if you get lonely,” he offered.

She managed a little smile. “Thanks. Don’t eat them all first.”

As Matteo was led away, he turned back and shouted, “If your room has better pillows, I’m stealing them!”

she lifted her chin and called, “Only if you beat me in the morning drills!”

Lando followed Matteo, laughing. She turned toward her dorm building alone. The bag was heavy but her heart was heavier. She stepped into a small, quiet room—single bed, plain desk, her name taped neatly to the wall above a shelf. It was clean. Lonely.

But hers.

Day One

The air smelled like fuel and pine needles. It clung to everything—clothes, hair, skin. It smelled like beginnings.

After orientation—an overly enthusiastic slideshow, two safety briefings, and an awkward round of icebreakers where she told the group her favorite kart color was “matte black, because it looks fast even when standing still”—the campers were finally led out to the paddock.

That’s when she and Matteo spotted them.

Charles Leclerc, all sharp hands and sharper opinions, was already deep in debate with one of the instructors about optimal apex lines for the northern hairpin. He was using his hands like a conductor, eyebrows arched, voices rising slightly in frustration.

“He’s been here five minutes and already wants to redesign the course,” she muttered. She takes a look around, obseveing the boys around her.

Max Verstappen was parked—no, planted—in the center of a group of older kids he didn’t want to be around. His arms were crossed, his expression bored. Every once in a while, he would say something quiet that made the group laugh. She couldn’t tell if he was confident or just cocky. Probably both.

Pierre Gasly was halfway through a chocolate bar and grinned the moment he saw them. He jogged over with sticky fingers and chocolate on the corner of his mouth.

“You made it!” he said in French-accented Italian, throwing an arm around Matteo first, then her. “I thought they’d separated us on purpose to stop the chaos.”

Matteo grinned. “They did. She’s in the girls’ dorm. Solo.”

Pierre turned to her. “Solo? You’re the only one who could keep these maniacs in line. What are they thinking? ”

she gave a tight smile. “They’re thinking ‘rules.’”

Across the paddock, Alex Albon waved enthusiastically, his face already a shade too pink. “Hi!” he called, jogging over. “I forgot sunscreen. Twice. I think I’m dying.”

George Russell followed a few steps behind, already in a color-coded camp t-shirt with a clipboard tucked under one arm and labeled folders in the other. Each had a name on it. Neat handwriting. Crisp edges.

Matteo leaned toward his sister, lowering his voice. “Why is George acting like this is military school?”

she smirked. “He's trying to make us all look bad.”

“Good luck with that,” Pierre added, sticking the last piece of his chocolate bar in his mouth.

That night, Camp had officially begun. The instructors enforced an 8:30 “lights out,” but at 9:15, the boys’ dorm rec room was fully operational.

Matteo peeked around the corner of Building B and waved. She darted across the path, hoodie pulled over her head like a little criminal. She slipped in through the side door Lando had jammed open with a shoe.

The rec room wasn’t fancy—just old couches, a ping pong table with a warped net, and a crooked wall-mounted TV stuck on a local sports channel. But it was alive. Kids lounging on bean bags. Someone is arguing about tire compounds. Another is trying to open a soda can with one hand.

She was greeted with loud whispers and half-hushed cheers. Lando grinned at her from the floor, a deck of cards in his hand. “We saved you a spot.”

Charles, Pierre, and Matteo were already mid-game, their hands full of cards and expressions full of drama. she slid onto the floor beside her brother and nudged his shoulder.

“Who’s losing?” she asked innocently.

Matteo groaned. “Pierre. But only because he doesn’t understand the rules.”

“I understand them,” Pierre shot back. “I just reject them.”

“That’s not how Uno works,” George said from the corner, buried in a workbook titled Strategic Racecraft and You.

“Let him live,” Lando said. “He barely knows english.”

They played round after round, the pile of cards growing, jokes sharper. She won twice, George insisted she was cheating, and Charles demanded a rematch every time he lost. Matteo kept trying to stack draw-fours illegally and arguing his way out of penalties.

Someone—Alex, probably—tried to do a handstand in the middle of it all. He managed two wobbly seconds before crashing sideways into the beanbags and pulling George down with him.

“Disaster,” George muttered, limbs tangled in a foam chair. By 10:00, they were all sprawled on the floor, eyelids heavy but spirits high. she leaned against Matteo’s knee, head tilted back to look at the ceiling fan slowly spinning above.

“Not bad for Day One,” she whispered.

Matteo looked down at her. “We’re just getting started.”

Day Two

The day started early—too early. The camp bell rang at 6:00 a.m., and by 6:45, the campers were already suited up and standing trackside, helmets under arms, the karts gleaming like rows of waiting beasts. She tugged her suit sleeves tighter and adjusted her gloves. Her helmet, matte black with a thin gold stripe down the center, rested against her hip.

Max Verstappen stood at the front of the group, arms folded, talking quietly with a couple of older kids. His kart was already lined up at the front. Confident. Like he expected, the top spot was his before anyone even touched the asphalt.

He wasn’t wrong. The instructors briefed them on the time trial format—five laps per driver, fastest time logged. A private leaderboard would be revealed after the final run.

“You’ve got the speed,” Matteo whispered beside her, his breath fogging in the cool morning air. “Don’t overthink it.” she nodded, jaw set. Her stomach buzzed—not from nerves. From hunger. Not for food. For this.

Max went first. Smooth, surgical. She watched his lines closely. His braking points. She noticed he clipped one of the corners a bit early on lap three. A note for later.

Matteo went two drivers ahead of her. He was fast—wild and aggressive. Typical Matteo. His driving was all instinct and flair. The instructors muttered notes into their clipboards as he pulled in, grinning.

Then it was her turn. she slid into her kart, fingers steady on the wheel. As she pulled out onto the track, the world narrowed. Nothing but engine growl and rubber on tarmac.

Lap one—tight. Clean. Lap two—she caught a wobble at the chicane and corrected instantly. Lap three—faster. Lap four—she hit Max’s earlier corner smoother, cleaner. Lap five—she pushed. Hard.

She finished, sweat trickling down her back despite the breeze, and pulled into the pit. No reaction from the instructors. No clapping from the crowd of boys behind the pit wall. Just silence, then a murmur. A boy she didn’t recognize—blond hair, face smudged with engine grease—leaned toward another and muttered, “Beginner’s luck.”

she rolled her neck, pulled her gloves tighter, and said nothing. She didn’t need to. Matteo had already overheard. He walked over casually, grabbed one of the tenth-place stickers from the instructor’s table, and smacked it on the boy’s helmet with a loud, “Thwack!”

“Beginner, huh?” he grinned. The boy flushed, and the others laughed. she didn’t smile.

Later, the leaderboard went up in the rec hall. Max: First. Alex: second. Y/n: third.

Pierre whistled low when he saw. “That’s not beginner speed.”

George blinked at the board, then at her. “How long have you been racing?”

she just shrugged. “Long enough.”

That night, after dinner and cooldown stretches, she returned to her quiet dorm room. Outside, the trees whispered in the dark, and she could hear the distant echo of boys shouting over card games in the boys’ dorm rec room.

Alone at her desk, she opened her leather-bound journal, flipped past her scribbles from the train ride, and pressed her pen to the page. She didn’t need to write much.

Just one line:

Be so fast they forget you're a girl.

Day Three

The storm rolled in overnight, turning the morning sky a washed-out gray. By the time the campers stumbled sleepily into the track briefing, the clouds had opened up in earnest. Rain sheeted down in cold waves, soaking through hoodies and darkening the asphalt into a mirror-slick surface.

Most of the boys groaned when they saw the conditions. A few, like Max and Charles, looked intrigued. She just pulled her hair into a tight braid, zipped her jacket, and watched the instructors gesture toward the track layout.

“Today’s drills are in wet conditions,” one coach announced. “This will test throttle control, braking finesse, and line precision. You want to win in this sport?” He jabbed a finger toward the track. “Learn to dance in the rain.”

Her pulse kicked up. Not from nerves—from excitement. She loved the rain. Always had. It levels the playing field. They suited up in the locker rooms, waterproof layers and balaclavas muffling the chatter. Matteo nudged her as they tugged on gloves.

“You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“That I-hope-it-pours-for-hours look.”

She grinned. “It’s my element.”

“Psychopath,” he muttered affectionately, pulling on his helmet.

The rain hadn’t let up by the time the first round of laps began. One by one, they were sent out in five-kart intervals.

The track was unforgiving—slick curves, treacherous braking zones. By the second heat, kids were spinning out in nearly every sector. Instructors barked corrections through radios. George oversteered in Turn 5 and skidded into the grass. Pierre lost the rear on the back straight. Charles barely saved a slide but clipped the curb and spun.

“Merde!” he cursed, ripping off his gloves after the cooldown lap.

Max went out next and somehow made it look easy—lean, calm, fast. Even he had a moment of overcorrection in Sector 3. She rolled her shoulders as the marshal waved her forward. Lando stood just outside the pit lane, arms crossed, visor up, watching her.

“Go easy, yeah?” he called. She smirked inside her helmet. She launched off the line.

From the first corner, it was clear: she wasn’t fighting the rain—she was flowing with it.

Her movements were smooth, her braking precise, her lines tight. She feathered the throttle with featherlight touches and let the kart glide into the apexes. Spray trailed behind her like a ribbon. No jerks. No corrections. Just total control.

Max tilted his head, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Is she—?” Alex started, then stopped.

“Yeah,” Lando muttered, gaze fixed. “That’s… kind of scary.”

She crossed the finish line clean. No spinouts. No mistakes. Just clinical perfection in the worst conditions yet.

When she pulled back into the pit lane, her helmet fogged, soaked from the spray, she popped her visor and exhaled slowly. The adrenaline buzzed under her skin like a second heartbeat.

Lando jogged over, his kart gloves shoved into his back pocket.“That was—” he gestured helplessly. “Are you human?”

She peeled off her helmet and grinned, rain matting the hair around her face. “Depends.”

“You’re crazy.” she blinked then he blinked. “Sorry, that wasn’t—”

“I know what you meant,” she said, grinning, and bumped his shoulder as she walked past.

Matteo was waiting by the garage wall with a towel.

“You absolute show-off.”

She took the towel and started drying her hair. “You’re just mad you didn’t do it first.”

Later, during dinner, a rumor started that one of the instructors had timed her laps unofficially—and that she'd gone faster than Max.

Day Four

By midday, the sun hung high and sharp over the pit lanes. The asphalt shimmered in the heat, and sweat beaded under racing suits that smelled like fuel, effort, and pride.

Scattered across the paddock were the karts—lined up like soldiers awaiting orders—and their equally competitive drivers crouched around them like engineers at war.

She wiped grease off her knuckles and reached for the rear axle with a small wrench. Beside her, Max was working in complete silence, eyes narrowed, precision in every movement. He barely glanced up. Neither did she.

A few meters away, chaos.

“No, I’m telling you it’s 1.2 bar in the front!” Charles snapped, clutching a pressure gauge like it was a holy artifact.

Matteo rolled his eyes. “And I’m telling you, 1.1 bar gives better rotation into Turns 2 and 5. You just oversteer and think the kart is talking to God.”

“You’re gonna cook the tires!” Charles insisted, pacing back and forth like a stressed crew chief. “It’s physics. You’re—you’re reckless!”

“I’m Italian,” Matteo said with a dramatic shrug. “We don’t fear heat.”

She didn’t look up, but smirked to herself. Lando strolled by with a bottle of water and a half-eaten banana. “Are they still arguing?”

“Twenty-three minutes,” Max muttered, adjusting his brake bias.

“God,” Lando groaned. He knelt beside her and peeked into her setup. “Need a hand?”

“I’ve got it,” she replied, then softened. “But you can sit there and pretend like you're helping. It makes me look cooler.”

Lando grinned. “That’s what I do best.” He sat beside her, picking up a random tool he did not know how to use.

“Do you think Charles and Matteo are gonna fistfight?” Lando asked, peering over.

“No,” she said, tightening a bolt. “They’ll just talk each other to death.”

Max let out a soft huff of laughter. “They deserve each other.”

All engines roared to life when the time came to hit the track. The heat from the karts radiated in waves as rubber met asphalt, the sharp smell of oil and anticipation hanging in the air.

Each driver pushed harder than the day before.

Charles spun on lap three, and Matteo overshot Turn 7. George and Alex kept decent lines but lacked pace.

And her and Max? Smooth. Fast. Deadly consistent.

Their lap times lit up the timing board like fireworks.

Y/n Acerbi – 1:02.47 Max Verstappen – 1:02.51 Matteo Acerbi – 1:03.06 Charles Leclerc – 1:03.21

As they rolled back into the pit lane, Charles tore off his gloves with unnecessary drama.

“That’s ridiculous,” he huffed. “He had to have copied my camber settings.”

Max blinked at him, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “You talk too loudly.”

“What?”

“You said your camber changes out loud. Twice. And your tire pressure. I didn’t have to spy, I just had to be within a ten-foot radius.”

Lando snorted so hard he nearly choked on his water.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

She finally looked up from inspecting her tires, cool and collected. “What’s not fair? Max beat you by two-tenths.”

That shut them up real quick. Matteo pointed at her with a dramatic flourish. “And that, my friends, is why I never talk around my sister. She listens and remembers.”

Day Five

The fatigue hit hard.

By midmorning, the once-energetic camp had turned into a quiet shuffle of sore limbs and sunburnt necks. Boots dragged through the gravel paths. Helmets hung a little lower in kids’ hands. Even Charles had stopped arguing with instructors about turn-in angles and was instead sipping electrolytes with the weary air of someone who’d just fought a war.

She limped slightly as she made her way back from a tuning workshop, sweat clinging to her neck. Her knuckles were raw where the gloves had rubbed wrong, and the blister forming at the base of her thumb throbbed with every use. Still, she didn’t complain. She never did.

The sun was dipping behind the tall pines, casting long shadows across the paddock when she spotted him—Matteo—curled up on a stack of tires near the pit lane. His legs dangled off the side, one glove still on, the other clutched loosely in his hand like a childhood blanket. His curls stuck out in all directions.

She stood over him for a beat, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her lips and without warning, she smacked his head.

Matteo flinched awake, eyes wild. “AH—what—?!”

“Nap’s over,” she said dryly, already walking past him.

Matteo groaned dramatically and fell back onto the tires. “Why are you so cruel. .”

“You’re just being a baby,” she shot over her shoulder.

That evening, warm air drifted through the open windows of the mess hall as rows of beanbags and mats were laid out in front of a projector screen. Popcorn machines whirred in the corner, spilling buttery handfuls into metal bowls. Some kids brought pillows from their dorms. Others collapsed dramatically, limbs sprawled like they’d just finished a marathon.

She wandered in wearing an oversized hoodie and matteos sweatpants, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She scanned the room until she spotted Matteo and Lando already staked out in a beanbag pile near the front.

Lando looked up as she approached and scooted sideways to make space. “Reserved the best seat for you,” he said, patting the spot between them.

She dropped down between them with a sigh, her entire body exhaling relief. “Thank god,” she murmured. “If I had to talk to one more instructor about ‘proper apex discipline’ I was going to drive into the lake.”

Matteo dumped a bag of popcorn in her lap. “Eat. You’re meaner when you’re hungry.”

She tilted her head back against his shoulder, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, and let herself relax for the first time all week. It was warm in the room, buzzing with soft chatter and the occasional high-pitched laugh from the younger kids. The film—some classic karting docu-drama everyone pretended to hate but secretly loved—flickered to life on the screen.

About halfway through, She shifted. Her neck was starting to ache from leaning sideways. Lando, sitting quietly beside her, noticed.

“Here,” he said, gently tapping his shoulder.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering to be a pillow?”

“I’m not just a cute face,” he replied with mock seriousness. “I’m a multi-purpose being.”

She laughed—quiet, real. “Fine. But if I drool on you, that’s on you.”

Lando shrugged and offered his shoulder again. “I’ll survive.”

She leaned in. His shoulder was surprisingly solid, warm. Comfortable. Not a word passed between them after that, but she felt him tense slightly, then relax, as if it took a second for him to believe she was actually leaning on him.

Matteo peeked over her head,eyes narrowing “If either of you starts snoring, I’m throwing popcorn.”

“Do it,” She mumbled. “And I'll cut your brakes.”

Lando chuckled under his breath. “This is what bonding looks like to you, huh?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “I guess so.”

As the film played, and the mess hall filled with the sound of engines on screen and popcorn crunching, She felt something in her chest ease. The loneliness she’d carried on arrival had dulled no longer sharp into something quieter—something warmer.

Day Six

The morning sun filtered through the pine trees in long, golden lines, casting a haze over the camp field. It was cooler than the past few days, and the grass still held the morning dew. The obstacle course was already set up when the campers arrived: mud, balance beams, rope climbs, tire hops, crawl nets, and a long sprint at the end. Some of the boys stared at it like they’d just been asked to climb a mountain.

She stood next to Matteo. Her eyes moved quietly over the mud course, scanning each section. She didn’t say anything—just watched. Listened. Waited.

Matteo bounced on his toes. “I bet George falls on the beam,” he said under his breath.

She didn’t answer. She was watching Max, who was crouched near the rope wall, running his fingers along the knots like he was memorizing them.

The instructors blew the whistle and called out the rules: time trial format, one by one. No karting today. Just grit.

Charles went first. He sprinted like he had something to prove, flung himself over every obstacle, and wiped out hard at the tires. Still, a decent time. Max went next—quiet, methodical, almost surgical. No wasted movement. When he sprinted across the finish line, his shirt was soaked, but his face was calm.

When they called her name, she felt that familiar quiet fall over the group. Some of the boys still hadn’t stopped doing it—pausing, watching her like she didn’t belong there.

She wiped her palms on her shorts and stepped forward.

“Go, nini!” Matteo shouted.

She ducked under the net and moved like water through the crawl. Quick. Efficient. Her foot caught briefly in the tires, but she didn’t fall. She kept her pace steady—not fast, just constant—and by the time she hit the rope climb, she wasn’t out of breath.

Her fingers gripped the knots tightly. One, two. Push. Reach. Up.

At the balance beam, she hesitated just once, then moved across. Calm. Arms out like wings. Her heartbeat was in her ears now, but she kept going.

When she crossed the finish line and dropped to a crouch to catch her breath, an instructor clicked the stopwatch.

Thirty seconds ahead of the fastest time. Except Max’s. They were tied. She just stood, brushed her hands on her knees, and walked back toward Matteo and Lando. Max passed her in the grass. Their eyes met, just for a second. No words. Just a nod.Like they both knew something unspoken. Something about who they’d be, years from now.

“Future enemies,” Matteo whispered beside her, but his tone wasn’t mean. It was like he was narrating something that hadn’t happened yet.

She didn’t answer.

Lando trotted over, holding two water bottles. He handed one to her without a word and sat down on the grass, cross-legged. He was flushed from cheering, the tip of his nose pink from the sun.

“You were really smooth on the rope,” he said, looking down at the bottle in his hands. “Like—like you’d done it before.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “Just guessed.”

He shrugged. “You guessed good.” They sat in silence for a bit. The grass itched the backs of their legs. A bee hovered nearby, then flew off. Then Lando leaned sideways and whispered, “If they make us do this again tomorrow, I’m faking a stomach ache.” She turned, startled—and then actually laughed. A small, surprised sound.

From a little way off, Matteo was chasing Pierre with a plastic cone. Someone had dared George to run the whole course backward.

For a moment, She forgot about the stopwatch. Forgot about Max. For a moment, it was just summer, Sweat, Dirt, Grass, and a boy who’d shared his water without needing to ask anything in return.

Day Seven

It was the first time all week the engines were silent.

No drills. No races. No shouting across the paddock. Just the low crackle of a campfire and the hum of kids sprawled out on tree stumps and old fold-up chairs, sticky fingers clinging to marshmallows and melting chocolate.

Her and Matteo sat side by side on a log, their shoes kicked off in the grass. They’d already caught two marshmallows on fire between them. The boys looked at them weirdly.

“I like it burned,” Matteo said, around a blackened lump on his stick.His sister humming in agreement, popping hers in her mouth and pretending not to flinch at the heat.

Lando was kneeling nearby, squinting carefully as he turned a marshmallow just above the flame. He held out the finished one to her without a word, and she took it, her hand brushing his as she did.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“You got the last piece of chocolate,” Lando said, grinning.

She broke her graham cracker in half and handed it over. “Then you get this.”

Matteo looked between them, straight face and narrowed eyes, then stuffed his entire s’more in his mouth with both hands.

They stayed like that a while, the fire snapping, someone telling a half-funny story about Charles falling into a bush earlier that week, and Pierre daring George to eat an uncooked marshmallow with hot sauce. No one cared about lap times or who got the fastest sector.She shivered. It had gotten cooler as the night slipped in. Her hoodie was too thin, and the pine trees whispered in the dark.

Lando noticed and stood without saying anything. He quickly walked over to the pile of spare blankets near the supply box and came back with a big, worn one—navy blue with rough edges. He draped it around her shoulders, then tucked himself under the corner beside her.

She didn’t say anything. Just nudged him lightly with her elbow and shifted a little closer.

Matteo watched them for a second, then leaned against her other side with a yawn, his head knocking into hers.

Their laughter died down when one of the instructors called out that the movie was starting. Everyone groaned but got up anyway.

They moved as a cluster toward the camp’s big outdoor projector screen, where folding chairs had been set up and popcorn was being passed out in crinkly paper bags. she sat between Lando and Matteo again, wrapped in the blanket still.

The movie started—something animated, something loud—but she barely watched. Her eyelids were heavy, and Lando was warm beside her, one hand holding the popcorn between them. She tilted her head, just a little, until it rested against his shoulder.Lando didn’t move. Just adjusted the popcorn so she didn’t spill it and kept watching.

By the time the opening credits were over, she was asleep. The fire behind them had died down and the night settled in quiet around them.

Day Eight

It was break time. Most of the boys were sprawled on the grass or flipping water bottles. Lando sat on a cooler, trying to look casual while watching her, who was deep in conversation with Charles about tire pressure like she was already running her own F1 team.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Lando nearly dropped his water bottle.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Pierre said, sitting beside him, eyes half-lidded behind sunglasses.

Lando didn’t even deny it. “She’s brilliant.”

“She nearly spun you off track a couple days ago.”

“Beautifully. Did you see the line she took through turn five?”

Pierre groaned. Across the way, she looked over. Their eyes met for half a second.Lando froze. She smiled—small but real—and waved. Lando, in full panic mode, waved back. Way too hard.

George, lounging nearby, snorted. “Bro, you're a goner.” Pierre cackled.

Day Nine

The day was bright and hot, the stands lined with parents and younger siblings arriving from all over Europe. The camp had opened its gates for two days to let families watch the trainees in their natural habitat—running drills, doing short heats, reviewing strategy with instructors.

She waited near the edge of the paddock, her hair braided neatly for once, thumb worrying the edge of her glove. She spotted her in the crowd—tall, elegant, camera bag over her shoulder—and sprinted across the tarmac. Iseul opened her arms just in time to catch her.

“My baby,” Iseul whispered, kissing her temple. “Let me see you.”

She pulled back, smiling, even though her eyes were glassy. “You came.”

“Of course I came. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Iseul ruffled her hair, then looked past her. “Where’s your brother?”

“Probably trying to act cool for the other boys,” she said, grinning.

They walked back to the paddock together, where Iseul met Matteo with another tight hug. She fussed over both of them, adjusting suits, complaining about the twins' posture, even quizzing them on kart balance like it was schoolwork. Kids nearby, watching from the sidelines.

“Guess their dad didn’t show up…”

“Bet he’s too busy with the real drivers.”

“Must suck. Everyone else’s dad came.”

Her back stiffened. Matteo pretended he didn’t hear. Iseul knelt down slightly, brushing her cheek. “Your father loves you more than anything, you know that. He was supposed to be on a flight last night, but the circuit had delays and the test run in China ran over.” The twins nodded, trying not to let it sting.

Day ten

Morning drills started early. she had her helmet on, lined up in the pre-grid for sprint heats, visor down to hide her face. Iseul had already left to grab coffee. She’d told herself not to care. It was fine. She was fine.

Until the paddock gate opened again. A familiar tall figure in a white linen shirt and aviators strode through, bag slung over his shoulder.

Giovanni Acerbi.

The crowd of kids shifted as the instructors turned. Matteo bolted from the tent. “Papà!!”

Giovanni caught his son in a one-armed hug just as she peeled off her helmet and sprinted over too. He pulled her in with the other arm, burying a kiss in her hair, breath catching.

“Did you think I’d miss this?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” she said, trying to be tough but her voice cracked just a little.

“I was at the airport all night. I would’ve walked here if I had to,” he said.

They squeezed their arms tighter around him. Across the paddock, a few kids exchanged glances—some sheepish, some in awe. Turns out, the legendary Giovanni Acerbi did show up.

The Acerbis sat together under one of the pavilion tents—Matteo with a slice of pizza in each hand, she was braiding and unbraiding her hair, Iseul laughing at something an instructor said, and Giovanni with his sunglasses pushed into his hair, watching both his kids like they were everything because they were.

“Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he said softly, resting a hand on her back. “You two… you’re going to rewrite this sport.”

She looked over at Matteo, who was now trying to balance a tomato slice on Lando’s sleeping head and smiled.

Day Eleven

The sun had just dipped behind the trees, leaving the track bathed in a quiet kind of light—the kind that made everything feel a little slower, softer. Most of the boys were inside the rec hall, crowded around the old PS2 someone had hooked up for the night.

She stayed behind, crouched by her kart, wiping down the frame with slow, careful movements. The smell of chain grease and warm metal lingered in the air. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and there was a smudge of oil on her cheek.

Lando lingered a few steps away, kicking a small stone with the toe of his shoe. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice a little awkward.

she looked up, surprised. “Hey.”

“Do you… need help?”

She paused, her rag halfway to the axle. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said, quickly, then hesitated. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

she tilted her head. “You can help if you want.”

He walked over and crouched beside her, a little too fast. “What do I do?”

She handed him a clean rag. “Just wipe along the frame. Careful around the chain.”He nodded seriously, like it was an exam.

For a while, they worked quietly, side by side. she didn’t say much, and neither did he. Sometimes their arms bumped. Once, they both reached for the same bolt and pulled back at the same time.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she replied.

The overhead lights clicked on above the paddock, buzzing faintly. A few moths fluttered nearby. From the rec hall, the sounds of shouting and pixelated engine noises echoed faintly. She sat back on her heels and rubbed her palms on her knees. “You don’t have to stay out here, you know.”

“I know,” Lando said. Then he looked down at the kart. “I just thought… maybe you’d want company.”

She glanced at him, quiet for a moment. “It’s kind of nice.”His ears turned a little pink.

she smiled, just a little, then got back to work. So did he. They didn’t talk much after that—not because they didn’t want to, but because it didn’t feel necessary.

The night settled in around them. Two kids. A half-clean kart. Shoulders brushing now and then, lit by the soft hum of the lights. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of quiet that feels like the start of something good.

Day Twelve

The sun was relentless that afternoon. After hours on the track, the boys collapsed under the only patch of shade near the paddock fence. Most of them had dust-streaked arms and red cheeks, shirts stuck to their backs. Everyone looked half-melted, but spirits were still weirdly high—probably from too much Gatorade and not enough water.

Lando sat on a tire stack, swinging his legs, grinning like someone who had a secret.

“So…” Pierre started, peeling the label off his water bottle. “How’s y/n?”

Lando’s ears went pink immediately. He tried to play it cool, looking up at the sky. “She’s good. We cleaned her kart together last night.”

Charles made a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Right. That’s code for you watching her clean it while holding one rag.”

“I helped!” Lando protested, cheeks burning. “I wiped the side panels.”

“Yeah,” George chimed in. “Then stood there like she just won the World Championship.”

Lando mumbled, “She smiled at me.”

Pierre flopped back into the grass dramatically. “You’ve got it bad.”

Lando didn’t argue. He just shrugged and smiled at his shoes. “She’s just… different.”

Max, who hadn’t said anything the whole time, leaned his head against the fence and muttered, “She beat all of us in the wet.”

“That’s what I mean,” Lando said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s fast. She just does things and doesn’t brag about it. I dunno. She’s cool.”

The others were quiet, which was rare. Then someone cleared their throat behind them.

The group collectively stiffened. Lando looked like he’d just been caught stealing candy. “Oh. Hey,” Lando said quickly. “Didn’t see you there.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow. “I bet.” He wasn’t frowning. But he wasn’t smiling either. He walked up slowly, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.Lando stood up a little straighter. Matteo looked at him for a long moment, then said, voice even, “She’s my sister.”

“I know,” Lando said. “I mean—I know that. Obviously.”

“Just don’t be dumb,” Matteo said. “She doesn’t care about all this drama. She just wants to race.”

“I’m not gonna be weird,” Lando promised quickly.

Matteo studied him, then gave a short nod. “Okay.”Then he walked off without another word.The group didn’t speak for a beat. Pierre leaned over to George and whispered, “That might’ve been the scariest ‘okay’ I’ve ever heard.”

George nodded solemnly. “We just witnessed a warning in disguise.”

Lando sat back down, exhaled sharply, and looked up at the clouds again. “She still smiled at me though,” he muttered.

Max smirked. “Better make it count.”

The fire pit crackled low, embers glowing soft red as the counselors slowly started shepherding campers toward their dorms. Most of the kids had already gone inside—tired after games, sugar crashes, and long, hot laps under the sun.

she lingered on the back steps of her cabin, a towel still looped loosely around her neck, her hair damp and curling against her shoulders. Her pajamas were simple—cotton shorts and a hoodie a size too big, definitely Matteo’s. She hugged her knees to her chest, chin resting on them, just listening to the night.

It was quiet here. Just the sound of the wind in the pine trees and the occasional squeak of a screen door. She liked it. No whistles, No engines, No instructors shouting over megaphones.

She heard soft footsteps on gravel and turned.

Lando stood a few feet away, hands buried in the pouch of his navy hoodie, curls sticking up at strange angles. He looked like he’d debated coming here for a while.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked. She shook her head and shifted over without a word. The wooden step creaked as he lowered himself beside her. They didn’t talk for a while. Not because there was nothing to say—but because the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. They watched the trees sway in the breeze and the stars blink into view.

After a bit, she spoke. “Do I look different to you?”

Lando glanced at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. Not just another kid. Like I’m something else. Everyone else treats me like I’m trying too hard to belong. Like I’m not supposed to be here. But you don’t.”

Lando’s brows furrowed. He thought for a second. “That’s because you’re not out of place. You’re better than most of us.”

She smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed thoughtful. She turned to look at him, quiet for a moment. “So why do you get all weird around me?”

Lando stiffened. “I—I don’t get weird,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

“You do,” she said, a tiny laugh escaping before she could stop it. “Like that time you spilled Gatorade all over yourself because I said ‘good luck.’”

“That wasn’t—okay, fine,” he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

She tilted her head, eyes soft. “Do you… like me?” Lando froze.

His voice was so quiet it barely made it out. “Is it that obvious?” she didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the trees again, thinking. Her heart was doing this strange fluttery thing, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando rushed out. “I just—I think you’re amazing. You don’t try to be like anyone else. You just… are. And I like being around you. Even if you never—”she gently bumped her shoulder into his. He stopped talking.

“You’re sweet,” she said, still looking ahead. He turned to look at her, eyes wide and blinking, like he couldn’t quite believe that moment had just happened. She stood slowly, brushing her hands off on her shorts and started walking down the steps then she looked back at him, just once. “Come on, Lando. I won’t wait forever.”

And with that, she padded off toward the other cabins, hair bouncing behind her. Lando scrambled up so fast he almost dropped his hoodie. He jogged to catch up, cheeks burning, heart hammering, already a little more in love than he’d been five minutes ago.

Day Thirteen

When she slipped out of her dorm, the camp was still quiet. The grass was damp with dew, the sky a soft grayish-pink, and the first sounds of birds were just starting to echo through the trees. She wore her favorite zip-up, the sleeves covering her hands, and dragged a pair of oversized trainers across the gravel path toward the paddock.

It was her favorite time of day. No whistles. No yelling. Just the hum of the track cooling from yesterday’s heat. She sat down on the barrier wall near the pit lane and tugged her knees up, resting her chin. Her eyes wandered across the karts lined up under covers, the scattered cones, the folded chairs still dewy from the night. She was early. She didn’t mind.

Then—footsteps. Soft and quick. She looked over. Lando came trotting up the path, curls still messy, hoodie half-zipped, one shoelace untied. “You waited,” he said, out of breath.

she shrugged lightly, though she couldn’t stop the little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always beat me here. Figured I’d flip it.” Lando sat beside her, careful this time not to trip or knock anything over. He was quiet for a second.

“I didn’t sleep much,” he admitted.

she looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

He scratched behind his ear. “I kept thinking about what you said. Last night.”

She looked away, heart thudding again. “Me too.”

They didn’t say anything else for a moment. It didn’t feel awkward. Just… real.Lando kicked a pebble off the edge of the barrier.Then, a voice—sharp, sleepy, unmistakable.

“y/n.”

Both heads snapped around.

Matteo was standing down the path, arms crossed, curly hair sticking up like a wild lion’s mane, clearly having just woken up and thrown a hoodie on. His expression was half-suspicious, half-annoyed.

she raised a brow. “You followed me?”

“You weren’t in your dorm,” he said, marching closer. “And it’s not even 7 a.m. You don’t wake up before the sun unless something’s wrong or unless you’re up to something.” Lando sat up straighter, visibly nervous. Matteo’s eyes narrowed at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I just got here,” Lando said quickly.

Matteo looked at her. “Seriously?”

She groaned softly and stood. “We’re just sitting here, Teo. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Matteo muttered, though his glare was still fully locked on Lando.

“I’m not five,” she added. “You don’t need to do the whole bodyguard thing anymore.”

Lando held up his hands. “I swear. No funny business. Just—early track vibes.”

Matteo didn’t respond. Just sighed, deeply. “Whatever. I’m not dealing with this before breakfast.” As he turned to head back, he added over his shoulder, “But if either of you sneaks out at night again, I’m telling the director.”

“We didn’t sneak out,” she called.

“Uh-huh,” Matteo replied without looking back. She sighed, then sat down again.

Lando glanced sideways at her. “He’s gonna kill me.”

She shrugged, still watching the track. “Probably. But you showed up.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, just once. “That’s what counts, at least for me.”

And in the morning mist, with the track still quiet and the first sunlight streaking through the trees, Lando felt like maybe—just maybe—he had a chance.

Day Fourteen - Camp Departure

The sun was just beginning to rise over the campgrounds, casting long golden beams through the thinning mist that hugged the trees. The final morning felt quieter somehow, like the forest itself knew the kids were leaving.

The once-bustling kart sheds stood half-empty, tire marks etched into the dirt like memories. Gear bags were packed and zipped. Helmets rested in their cases. And little knots of kids hugged tightly or traded last-minute candy and stickers, pretending they weren’t sad.

She stood outside her cabin, dragging her suitcase behind her. Matteo followed with his bag slung over one shoulder, clutching the worn helmet he refused to pack. Around them, kids were trickling toward the drop-off lot where parents waited, car doors open, duffels being tossed into trunks.

Their cabin counselor gave them each a high five and a warm smile. “Hey. You two were great this year. Keep it up, alright?”

“Thanks,” Matteo said. He meant it. He nudged her knee. “You think we’ll be good next year?”

She shrugged, watching the gravel path where parents were beginning to arrive. “We’ll be better. We have to be.”

Their conversation trailed off when they spotted Lando jogging toward them, his backpack bouncing on one shoulder, his cheeks flushed and his curls still damp from a rushed shower.

“Hey,” he said, breathless. “I was looking for you.”

She stood up slowly, brushing off her shorts. “Thought you left already.”

“Couldn’t,” he said. “Not without saying bye.”

Behind them, a black car pulled up. Matteo spotted it first. “That’s Papà.”

She followed his gaze and smiled when she saw Giovanni waving from the front seat, Iseul leaning over from the passenger side to squint at them through the windshield. Along with Luca and Leone making faces at them through the window.

The trunk popped open. Matteo gave them both a look. “I’m gonna go help load our bags.” Matteo turned to Lando. “See you soon, yeah?” Lando gave him a quick nod, then looked back at her then, without subtlety, he left them alone.

She folded her arms, watching Lando like he was hiding something behind his back—which, to be fair, he was. From his hoodie pocket, he pulled out a small silver keychain. It was shaped like a little star with some missing gems, scratched and a little bent, but clean.

“I found this in the dirt on the second day,” he said, holding it out to her. “Thought it was kind of lucky. You should have it.”

She blinked and took it from him. “Why?” She asked, holding the keychain up to her face.

“Because,” he said, voice softer now, “you’re the reason this week was lucky for me.” For a second, neither of them moved.

“Thanks,” she said. Then, quietly, “Are you really going back to the UK today?��

He nodded. “My dad’s picking me up soon but we’ll see each other again when the season starts. Couple months.”

She looked at the ground, then back down at him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said, his grin crooked and real. “I’ll even save you a seat in the paddock tent.”

She smirked. “You better.”

Across the campground, a car horn honked. Lando’s dad.

She hesitated, then stepped forward, hugging him briefly. Not rushed, not dramatic. Just enough. “Bye, Lando.”

He stood frozen for half a second, then nodded. “Bye.”

She smiled at him one last time before turning to grab her suitcase handle. Matteo had already loaded his bag into the trunk and was arguing with Giovanni about the best karting gloves for wet conditions.

As she climbed into the car and closed the door, she turned her head to look back through the window. Lando was still standing there, watching.

She lifted her fingers in a small wave. He lifted his back.

Then the Acerbi’s drove off, the gravel crunching under their tires, the camp shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The season wouldn’t start for a while but none of them doubted they’d see each other again and when they did, it would all pick up right where it left off.

Leone turned to look at her moment later, eyeing her, her eyebrows going up and down. “So…?”

“Don’t start, Leo” she muttered, cheeks warm. Leone laughed and turned back to the front.

The twins both turned to look at the horizon, where the road would take them home. Camp was over—but the season was just beginning.

2009 – Season Opener, Pavia Kart Circuit

The morning air was cold, the kind that made your breath visible and your hands numb unless you stuffed them into your sleeves. The Pavia circuit was already alive—teams setting up tents, mechanics checking tire pressures, and the smell of fuel clinging to the fog like it had missed everyone over the winter.

She stepped out of the van, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, blinking up at the gray sky. Matteo hopped down after her, arms wrapped around his helmet like it was made of glass.

“It smells like brake cleaner and cold bread,” Matteo muttered. She gave him a sideways smile.

Giovanni was already pulling bags from the trunk while with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Iseul unfolded a tiny camping table. Everything was familiar. Everything was back in place.

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the paddock..

Across the lot, under a red-and-black team tent, Lando stood beside his kart. His hair was longer, curling at the edges, and he was halfway through a juice pouch when he noticed her.

He blinked once. Then his face cracked into a grin—quick, lopsided, unmistakable.He jogged over before she even took a step. “Hi,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” she echoed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.

“You got taller,” Lando said, clearly unsure why he opened with that.

“So did you,” She smiled, now being able to look up at the brit “and you got more freckles,” she added.

They stood there for a second, awkward in the way that only kids who missed each other will ever be. Then Matteo cleared his throat behind them, arms crossed.

“You could say hi to me, too, you know.”

Lando perked up. “Hi, Matteo.”

Matteo gave a mock-serious nod. “Hey, Lando.”

She rolled her eyes. “Boys.” she muttered, shaking her head

“I heard you did winter training,” Lando said, looking at her again.

“A little. Mostly indoors,” she said. “And you?”

He nodded. “Spain. My dad said I needed more sun.”

She squinted at him. “No wonder, you're so dark.”

“I know,” he sighed, brushing his arm.

There was laughter from the Acerbi tent behind them—Giovanni’s unmistakable voice yelling something about someone putting the seat on crooked—and Iseul calling her and Matteo to start warm-up.

“We should get ready,” she said, tugging at Matteo’s sleeve.

Lando nodded, but didn’t move. “Hey, um—good luck today.”

She looked at him. “You too.”

Then, as she turned to go, Lando hesitated. “Wait.” She looked over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

Her expression softened, just for a heartbeat. “Me too.” then both of them vanished into the hum of a season that was just beginning. Lando stood there for a few more seconds, hands in his pockets, grinning to himself like the whole track had just lit up.

She gripped the wheel tightly, eyes narrowed as she hit the last chicane with practiced ease. The wind pressed against her visor, her little body tucked tight in the seat, every muscle remembering how this felt—alive and light and fast.

She caught a flash of neon and blue up ahead, Lando. He was a lot better than he’d been last year. His lines were sharper, braking points smoother. He was no longer just quick for his age—he was just quick.

She felt the fire stir in her chest, that quiet little thing that burned hotter when she chased someone she didn’t want to lose to. She didn’t want to lose to him. But she didn’t want to beat him too easily either.

She came up behind him in the hairpin, knowing she could dive down the inside. Matteo had always said she was ruthless when she smelled opportunity—but something in her paused.She held back just a fraction. She wanted to follow for now. To learn. To match. Not destroy.

When they rolled back into the pits, their suits streaked with track dust and arms aching from the cold, She unclipped her helmet and blinked up at the gray sky, chest heaving. Matteo was talking with his mechanic about gear ratios.

Lando took off his helmet beside her. His hair was flattened to one side, cheeks pink from the wind, and when he caught her looking, he grinned.

“That was fun,” he said, bouncing a little on his feet. She nodded, feeling her heart thud—not from the race, but from how warm her face felt when he smiled like that. “You’ve gotten better,” she said, almost surprised.

“So have you,” he replied, shoving his hands into his sleeves. “You didn’t go for the overtake in turn seven.”

She shrugged, eyes down on her boots. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You always feel like it.”

She looked up at him then, something flickering in her expression that she didn’t have the words for yet. “Maybe not always.”

They stood there in that awkward, quiet space that kids fall into when emotions get too big and unfamiliar. She didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling—why the race had been different, why chasing him had felt more like dancing than battling. She knew this: she didn’t want this season to end too quickly. The thought scared her a little.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing him one. “You’re still braking too late into turn nine.”

Lando laughed. “You sound like your mom.”

“I’ll tell her you said that,” she replied, but there was a tiny smile tugging at her mouth.

They sat down on the grass behind the tent, letting the sun break through the clouds for the first time that day. She picked at a loose thread on her glove and peeked sideways at him. She didn’t know what this was but she liked it.

The sun was starting to sink behind the hills, casting long orange shadows across the paddock. The twins sat side by side outside their tent, suits half-zipped, their damp undershirts clinging to their backs. They were quiet, but not in the way that meant something was wrong.

It was the kind of quiet that only came from a good day. A fast day. Matteo stretched his legs out and leaned back on his elbows. “You were smooth today.”

She sipped her juice box, legs criss-crossed. “You too.”

Matteo raised a brow. “No I wasn’t. I locked up twice and nearly spun in the double right.”

She smiled. “Still kept it on track. That counts.”

He glanced sideways at her. “You didn’t go for Lando in turn seven. Why not?”

She hesitated then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s not a real answer.” He said, finally turning to face his twin.

She picked at the Velcro on her glove. “I just wanted to follow. Watch his lines. That’s all.”

Matteo was quiet for a beat, turned his head to look back at the hills beyond “He talks about you a lot, you know.”

She looked up slowly. “So?”

“So I think he likes you.” She sighed and Matteo made a face. “He gets weird around you. Like—like you’re made of glass or something. It’s annoying.”

She stared down at her juice box. “I know.”

Matteo sat up straighter. “I just don’t want it to get messy. You’re my teammate, my sister. I don’t want anyone messing that up. Not even him.”

She didn’t answer right away. The hum of the generators, the clank of tools, and the low murmur of the mechanics filled the air around them. She leaned her shoulder into his lightly.

“You’re such a brother.”

Matteo gave her a side look. “That’s because I am your brother.”

“I know.” She smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I don’t really get it either. I just… feel different around him sometimes. Not bad. Just… different.”

He groaned and fell back onto his bag. “Great. That’s worse.”

She giggled and pushed into his side. “You don’t have to worry, Matty,” she added quietly. “I still like chasing you more.”

That made him smirk, even as he rolled his eyes. “You better. Otherwise I’m putting a tire in your room.”

“Teo, we share a room”

“Oh shit, yeah” they both burst out laughing.

They sat there for a while longer, the sky shifting to blue and purple, the last of the kart engines sputtering to sleep. Teammates. Siblings. Still each other’s favorite person—no matter what, or who, came next.

The sun was beginning to set over the hills of Emilia-Romagna, casting a soft golden glow across the vineyards and pomegranate trees that wrapped around the Acerbi villa like a protective shawl.

The long wooden table under the pergola had been set early—linen napkins, mismatched ceramic plates,white candles flickering in glass jars, fresh fruit in little terracotta pots, fresh bread tucked into napkins still warm from the oven, and pitchers of lemon water and sparkling red grape juice for the twins. The air smelled like rosemary and dusk.

Inside, Iseul moved through the kitchen with graceful efficiency, flipping rosemary potatoes on the stove while stirring a delicate tomato sauce on the stove. Giovanni stood at the island, slicing fresh homemade mozzarella and sneaking bites when she wasn’t looking.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite,” Iseul warned without turning around.

He froze, caught red-handed then laughed it off. “It’s tradition. I get to sneak food when the news is this good.”

The back door creaked open and Luca stepped in, sun-kissed and smiling, carrying a basket of bread. “Smells like you’re cooking to impress the pope.”

“We’re celebrating,” Iseul said simply.

The whole family was gathered on the patio, plates piled high with roasted vegetables, grilled chicken, handmade pasta, and the crusty bread Leone always insisted on buying from the old family owned bakery in town.

Iseul moved between the kitchen and the garden, placing bowls of steaming pasta and platters of grilled vegetables down with practiced grace.

Giovanni was at the head of the table, uncorking a bottle of wine, his expression unreadable but his eyes bright with something unspoken. Luca lounged back in his chair with his sleeves rolled up, halfway through a bowl of olives, while Leone had her camera out, snapping candids of the moment.

The twins ran barefoot from the back garden, cheeks pink from racing each other around the fig trees. Matteo skidded to a stop at his chair. She flopped into hers with a grin, only barely missing the pitcher.

“You almost knocked the drinks over,” Iseul said with a patient smile.

“Then we’d be racing for towels instead of trophies,” Luca added, chuckling as he sat down beside his sister.

She leaned toward Matteo breathlessly. “I totally beat you by, like, two seconds.”

“You cut through the hedge!”

“It’s still part of the garden,” she countered.

Giovanni cleared his throat with a small smile. “Okay, okay. Save the fighting for the track.”

“Why do we always eat so well when you guys have news?” Luca teased, nudging his dad.

Giovanni chuckled, “Can’t we just treat our family to a nice meal?”

Luca arched his brow. “You hate fancy dinners, dad.”

“I hate fancy restaurants,” Giovanni corrected. “I love this.”

Leone poured more juice into her little sister's glass. “So? Let’s hear it. The suspense is killing me.”

Giovanni leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He looked at the twins, both of them now quiet, watching him closely. She tilted her head the way she always did when something big was coming. Matteo narrowed his eyes like he was trying to solve a puzzle before anyone else could.

“You both know how hard you’ve worked,” Giovanni began. “And how proud we are—not just of the results, but of the effort, the way you treat eachother as teammates, your sportsmanship.”

“Even when she elbows me in the ribs?” Matteo said, earning a light laugh around the table.

“Especially then,” Leone said, pointing her glass at Matteo.

“You two,” Giovanni said, looking at her and Matteo, “have officially been offered a sponsorship deal for this season.”

“A sponsorship?” she repeated, unsure she heard right.

“From who?” Matteo asked, sitting up straighter.

Giovanni smiled. “Ferrari.” Matteo’s jaw dropped. She froze mid drink. He continued. “Ferrari has been watching, quietly and they’ve made an offer.” Silence. Even the candles seemed to pause. Giovanni smiled—soft, almost not believing himself. “They want to sponsor you. Both of you. Through the karting season.”

“Wait, what?” she breathed, bringing down her cup.

Luca slamming his hand on the table and letting out a cheer. “Let’s go! That’s my little sister and brother!” Leone clapped loudly letting out a “whoo!”

Her jaw dropped. “Ferrari… as in… your team?”

“As in Scuderia Ferrari,” Giovanni confirmed. “The real thing. Not just stickers. They’re going to cover your gear, logistics, travel, and some upgrades to the karts.”

Iseul reached across the table, brushing hair gently behind her ear. “It’s true. Official backing. Equipment support. Coaching. Race fees. They believe in you. Just like we do.”

Matteo blinked. “Wait—like—full suits with the prancing horse and everything?”

Her voice was soft. “Like Dad’s?”

Iseul reached over and brushed a curl from her forehead, her touch lingering just a second. “Just like your dad’s.”

Her mouth parted slightly in disbelief, then slowly curled into the kind of smile that started in her chest and moved outward until her whole face was lit with it.

“We’re going to be… Ferrari kids?” she whispered. Her throat tightened. Her father’s team. The same crest he carried on his helmet. The team whose posters hung above their beds.

“We wanted to make it special,” Iseul said. “It’s not every day your kids get picked up by one of the biggest names in motorsport. We didn’t want it to feel like just another thing and downplay this news.”

Luca grinned at Matteo. “You know what this means, right? You’re officially a part of the legacy now.”

Leone raised her glass. “To the next generation of Acerbis.”

“To Y/n and Matteo,” Iseul added, lifting her wine. “Fast, fearless, and finally… official.”

Giovanni locked eyes with her, a quiet kind of pride in his gaze. “And you earned this. Not because you’re mine. But because you’re good. Both of you.”

The twins looked at each other—just for a second—and something passed between them. A shared history, a shared dream, and now, a shared future.

Her eyes shimmered slightly. She blinked hard and looked down, cheeks flushed. Matteo leaned in and nudged her knee with his under the table. “Told you they were planning something.”

She gave him a sideways smile, then whispered, “I can’t believe this is real.”

He whispered back, “We better make them proud.”

“I’m gonna train harder than ever,” she whispered.

“You better,” Matteo said. “Because I’m not slowing down.”

They both grinned. Iseul reached for Giovanni’s hand under the table, giving it a soft squeeze.

And as dusk settled over the Acerbi villa, with laughter ringing in the air, wine glasses clinking and cicadas humming in the vinesstars beginning to blink awake in the sky. The Acerbi family felt the weight of the past shift gently forward—into the future they were building together.

The house smelled faintly of espresso and something sweet—maybe the leftover crostata Iseul had baked the night before. Outside, the bare vines of the surrounding vineyards stretched quietly across the hillside, the frost on the ground just beginning to melt in the late morning sun.

Inside, the usually loud and chaotic Acerbi villa had settled into a soft hush. Her and Matteo sat in the middle of the living room, where sunlight warmed the white carpeted floor. Matteo was poking around in a crate of spare gloves and gear they’d outgrown, while she quietly re-laced her karting boots with a pair of bright crimson laces she'd stolen from Leone's drawer.

“Do you think the suits will look like dad’s?” she asked, eyes down.

Matteo shrugged. “Maybe. I hope they don’t smell like his.” She smirked faintly, then fell silent again.

It was still settling in—the dinner, the announcement, the way Giovanni had looked at them with his hands clenched tight beneath the table to hide how emotional he was. The idea of Ferrari—their Papa’s team—choosing them. Not because they were his children, but because they knew they were ready.

Before she could spiral too far down into that thought, Iseul appeared in the doorway. She was dressed simply, hair pinned up, but her eyes shone with something deeper.

“They’re here,” she said gently.

Behind her, Giovanni stepped into the room with two long garment boxes in his arms, his expression quiet but filled with something electric. His voice was calm when he said, “Special delivery. They just arrived from Maranello.”

He carried them carefully, like glass. She felt her breath catch in her chest.

She and Matteo stood automatically as Giovanni knelt to place the boxes at their feet.

“From the Scuderia,” he said softly. “Your first suits.”

Matteo tore through the ribbon like a kid on Christmas morning—wide-eyed, breathless, already babbling something in Italian under his breath.

She hesitated. Her fingers hovered above the box for a beat too long. Iseul noticed. She moved to stand behind her daughter, placing a warm, steady hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Iseul whispered. She nodded once, then opened the box. The air felt different after that, heavier and more sacred.

Inside was the suit—fiery red, crisp and new, the same shade that had filled every living room screen of her childhood. The same shade Luca had worn. The same color her father had worn when she was just a baby crawling on paddock floors, before she even understood what legacy meant.

The prancing horse gleamed in golden thread across the chest Ferrari and just beneath it: Y/n Acerbi.

Her name was stitched like it belonged there. She reached out and touched the embroidery, fingertips shaking. Her throat tightened.

Matteo was already halfway into his suit, grinning, cheeks flushed with excitement. “It’s so light. Do you think it’ll make me faster?” he asked, spinning around dramatically.

Giovanni chuckled. “Only if you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

She didn’t say anything. She just stared down at hers.

Giovanni noticed. He came to her side, slower this time, and crouched next to her. His voice was soft—fatherly in the way that only he could be.

“You don’t have to be perfect to wear it,” he said gently. “You just have to be brave.” She swallowed hard.

“What if I mess it up?” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“But what if I’m not what they think I am?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached over and pulled a tiny chain from around his neck—a simple, worn silver charm of the Ferrari horse. The one he'd worn since his own karting days.

He slipped it into her palm. “This is yours now.”

She looked down at the charm, already warm from his skin.

“You carry us with you,” he said. “Always. This name… this team… It's not pressure, hon. It’s home. You bring it with you, not the other way around.” She didn’t know what to say. So she just nodded and threw her arms around him. Matteo, already in his full suit, trotted over and threw himself into the hug too, nearly knocking Giovanni over.

“I feel like a superhero,” Matteo declared. “Do we have to take these off for lunch?” looking up at his mom

Iseul snorted from the hallway. “Yes, or I’m not feeding you.”

A new voice chimed in—Luca, arms crossed but a proud smile tugging at his lips. “You two are going to break every record dad and I ever set, huh?”

Leone leaned against the banister with a camera in hand, wiping at the corner of her eye.

She finally pulled on her suit, Matteo helping with the zipper. It fit close and snug, and somehow wearing it made her stand taller. Not because she had to but because she could.

She caught her reflection in the tall mirror across the room. The red suit. The horse. Her name. The shimmer of Giovanni’s charm still in her hand.

For the first time, she didn’t see a little girl trying to keep up.

The fresh morning light draped over the paddock — engines warming up, tire trolleys squeaking across asphalt, and teams moving like clockwork around their drivers. Lando stood near the entrance to parc fermé, adjusting his gloves, visor still up. His team’s jacket hung off his shoulders, his mechanic checking something on his kart nearby then he saw them.

Ferrari red

At first it just looked like another team across the paddock. He saw her, and everything else fell away.

She walked beside Matteo, the two of them laughing quietly over something — their helmets tucked under their arms, the gold Ferrari badges glinting on their race suits. The red looked too big for them, heavy like it didn’t belong to kids that small but somehow, it fit perfectly on them.

Her hair was tied back neatly, her face calm and poised. She looked older in the colors, like someone already halfway to the future. Matteo walked with a slight bounce in his step, like the red gave him a little more lift.

Lando stared, jaw slightly open.

One of his teammates nudged him. “Dude. You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, almost under his breath “They’re with Ferrari.”

His chest tightened. Not in a bad way — not really. It wasn’t jealousy, it was… awe, respect, and something quieter. He wasn’t sure what.

She turned her head then — like she’d felt his eyes on her — and their eyes met.

She gave him a small, subtle wave with a smile. Not smug or showy, just her. The same girl who tied her shoes in double knots and sang off-key in the travel van but now wearing one of the most iconic colors in motorsport and she was waving at him.

Lando raised a hand back slowly, heart hammering. His mechanic said something — something about fuel or tires — but Lando didn’t hear it.

All he could think was:

She’s really going to make it and maybe — if he worked hard enough — he’d find a way to keep up with her.

The engines roared through the final sector like a chorus of bees on overdrive. The air reeked of fuel, rubber, and firework tension.

Her gloves were slick with sweat, her arms aching from the weight of the kart. She could see them—Matteo just ahead, his shoulders hunched with effort. And up front: Max. Calm. Relentless. Untouchable.

“Come on,” she whispered to herself, taking the inside line with a burst of speed.

Her tires kissed the curb. Matteo blocked instinctively, almost like he knew her move before she made it. They’d done this a hundred times on practice tracks. But this wasn’t practice. Max’s kart was already darting through the final chicane, clean and efficient. Too clean. He had it in the bag but second… second was still a fight.

She pushed harder, wheels screaming as she and Matteo flew side-by-side into the final straight. For a half-second, they were perfectly even then Matteo edged forward by half a nose.

The track erupted in noise as Max raised a fist. Matteo crossed the line a breath later, and she was right behind him, her kart jolting from the effort. Third place. Her best finish yet at this level. The crowd didn’t know her name yet.

The karts began to slow, circling into the cool-down lap, and she finally let herself exhale. She saw Matteo ahead, fist-pumping in his seat. She smiled tiredly then came the sudden, unexpected rush of emotion not from losing but from how close they all were to the dream.

Ferrari red, a podium, the world ahead of them.

She sat on a small stack of tires, helmet by her side, cheeks still flushed pink from the race. Her red branded suit was dirty now—scuffed at the knees, smudged at the collar but she didn’t care. Her hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline and from relief and disbelief.

She had done it. Not just finished but fought, fought like hell. A clean overtake, a narrow save on a corner she thought she’d lost and then third place. Her first podium under Ferrari. Third place. For them.

By now, with the crowd gone and the cheers faded, she sat in the stillness of her own head, trying to make sense of the way her heart still beats against her ribs, trying not to cry from the sheer pressure she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying until now.

She heard footsteps approaching—quiet, steady. Not rushed like her mechanics and not light like Matteo.

He sat beside her on the tires without a word. He had changed out of his team radio vest, into a worn sweater she remembered him wearing when she was little. He smelled like espresso and spice and something warm, and like home.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t trust herself too. Her fingers were tangled in the strap of her glove. “I know it wasn’t first,” she said finally, voice small. “I tried.”

“I know,” Giovanni said simply.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

That made him turn his head sharply toward her.

“Y/n.”

His voice was soft, but serious enough to cut through her haze.

“You could finish last in every race for the rest of your life and I’d still look at you the same way.”

She looked up at him, eyes glistening.He leaned his elbows onto his knees, glancing out at the emptying paddock.

“I know it feels heavy right now Ferrari, the Acerbi name, the karting championship, all of it,” he said. “And I know people are watching you harder than they should but you aren’t out there because of me or because of Matteo or even because of Ferrari.”

He turned to look at her.

“You’re out there because you love it and I’ve never seen anyone drive like you do when you’re fighting for something you love.” Her throat closed up.

“I just… I don’t want to mess up something that belonged to you first.” she said with a quiver in her voice. Giovanni smiled, slow and aching.

“Oh, Piccolina,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with the side of his finger. “It didn’t belong to me. It belongs to you now. You and Matteo. This—this world, this story—it’s yours to write.” She dropped her head into his shoulder, finally letting out a quiet, shuddering breath.

“I was so scared.” she said, letting her tears fall softly

“I know,” he whispered, wiping under her eyes and pulling her into his arms. “But you did it anyway and that’s what makes you brave.” They sat like that for a long time—father and daughter, red suit and sweater, legacy and future.

Eventually, Giovanni kissed the crown of her head and stood.

“Come on,” he said, offering her his hand. “Your mama made tiramisu and Leone’s already teasing Matteo for crying on the podium.”

She sniffled and smiled. She took her father’s hand.

And for the first time that day, she felt light.

Later That Night – Acerbi Villa, Back Garden

The villa was alive with the clatter of dishes and soft laughter from the dinner table inside, but Matteo had slipped out the back door after dessert, hoodie tugged over his curls, socks damp from walking in the dewy grass.

He sat on the low stone wall overlooking the vineyard, knees drawn up, arms folded over them. His karting suit had been traded for old sweatpants and a faded karting tee from two years ago, the one he refused to throw out. A light breeze tugged at the hem of it now, but he didn’t move.

His second-place trophy sat beside him on the wall, catching the faint light from the kitchen window.

It should’ve felt like more. It should’ve felt like something but it didn’t.

Because while everyone clapped and beamed and told him he was “so close” and “still amazing,” all Matteo could think about was the overtake he didn’t defend. The turn he took was too wide. That single mistake that cost him gold and there she was —smiling and hugging their new team manager like the sun had never shone brighter. He wasn’t jealous, not really.

But something twisted in him every time he looked at her and remembered how the world saw them now:

The Acerbi twins

Not Matteo and Y/n. No Matteo Acerbi. Just the Acerbi twins, a packaged deal, watched and expected.

He heard the grass crunch behind him and didn’t need to look to know who it was.

She climbed up beside him without saying anything. She had changed too—braids damp from a shower, oversized sweatshirt borrowed from Leone’s closet. She hugged her knees the same way he did. They sat like bookends.

“You left before I could say good job,” she said.

He shrugged. “You already said it at the track.” She was quiet for a second.

“Then why do you look like you lost?” Matteo didn’t answer. She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Matteo. You were second. In our first karting race under Ferrari. That’s great.”

He still didn’t look at her. “Not great enough.”

Her smile faded. “You’re mad at yourself.”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered. “Just… tired. I don’t know. Everyone’s acting like this is some fairy tale, and I feel like I’m already messing it up.”

She was quiet, but not in a dismissive way. In a listening way. The kind only siblings understand.

After a moment, she reached over and tapped the base of his trophy with her knuckle. “This doesn’t prove anything about you, you know.”

He glanced at her. “No?”

She shook her head. “You’ve been beating me since we were five. You’re the best driver I know and today didn’t change that.”

Matteo’s throat tightened, and he looked away quickly, blinking hard. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled. “You’re not supposed to say that if Lando likes you.”

She groaned. “Seriously? You’re bringing him up now?” Matteo cracked the smallest smile, and she shoved his shoulder. It was light, harmless. Familiar. They sat there, watching the sky darken.

“Do you think we’re ready for all this?” he asked finally.

She thought for a long moment. Then she said, “No but I think we will be. Together.”

Matteo looked at her and for all the teasing and the fighting and the competition, he believed her.

“Okay,” he said. “Together.” pulling an arm around his sister. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Next time,” he added, “I’m winning. Don’t get used to that podium spot.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Make me chase you.”

They stayed like that until the kitchen light flicked off, and their parents called them back inside.

They were lined up in the prep tent, engines rumbling in the distance, drivers pacing or adjusting gloves, nerves dancing just under their skin.

She stood next to Lando, pulling on her gloves, helmet tucked under her arm. Her hair was braided back tight, and she had that same calm focus she always wore before a race—except today, something buzzed under the surface.

Lando was next to her, helmet already on, his knee bouncing slightly from nerves. Not race nerves, her nerves. He wanted to say something. Anything to her but every time he opened his mouth, the words melted on his tongue.

She glanced at him, catching the tension in his shoulders. “You alright?” she asked, her voice soft under the noise.

“Yeah. I just…” He exhaled sharply. “You make me nervous.” She lets out the breathly laugh.“You’re like—brilliant a-and sharp and I want to impress you, but I feel like a wreck.”

She stared at him for a second, then slowly reached out her hand.

His eyes widened behind his visor.

She laced her fingers into his and gave a small squeeze.“You already do,” she said simply. Lando didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He was too busy mentally levitating.

They held hands until the officials came by and called them forward. She let go first—calm and collected—but Lando just stood there, grinning like he’d won the whole damn championship.

Later that day, the drivers lounged around the garage after the race. Lando had finished fifth. She had finished second. Not bad but someone had to run their mouth.

“Cute little cheerleader you’ve got now,” a smug kid muttered to Lando behind a crate of tires.

“Oh, you mean the one who passed you in lap six?” she called out, walking past with her gloves slung over her shoulder. “That cheerleader?”

The guy flushed red. “Just saying—”

“I’m sure you were,” she said, cool as ice then she turned to Lando. “You good?” He was staring at her like she’d just burned the Mona Lisa into the side of his heart.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I’m great.”

She smiled and nudged his shoulder. “Great.”

Everyone else was inside cleaning up or crashing from the long day. Lando sat alone on a tire stack, fiddling with the straps on his gloves, still caught in the echo of her voice, her hand in his, the way she defended him like it was second nature.

He didn’t notice Leone walking up until the older girl leaned against the trailer wall.

“Want some advice?” Leone asked, arms crossed, calm and unreadable.

Lando nearly jumped. “Oh—uh—sure?”

Leone tilted her head. “You’re in over your head.” Lando stared. “She’s got that effect,” Leone said, cracking a small smile. “She’s not just talented. She’s pure fire and fire will either keep you warm or burn you alive.” Lando stayed quiet, waiting for the punchline. “But,” Leone continued, “you’re not the idiot I thought you’d be.”

Lando furrowed his brow. “Thanks?… I think?”

Leone walked over and sat beside him. “You look at her like she’s the only thing that makes sense. That’s rare. Just don’t let it mess with your head when you’re racing or hers.”

“I wouldn’t,” Lando said quickly. “I wouldn’t ever want to hurt her.”

Leone nodded, eyes narrowing just slightly.“Then make sure you keep showing up. Not just when it’s easy. That girl’s got too many people doubting her already. Don’t be another.”

Lando swallowed hard, suddenly more determined than ever. “I won’t,” he said. “You have my word.”

Leone stood, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “You better mean it ‘cause if you don’t…” He smirked. “I’ll make brothers look like puppies.” and with that she walked off, cool as always, leaving Lando alone with the fire in his chest.

The hum of crickets buzzed in the background of the garden, and Iseul found her brushing out her hair on the porch of their patio, legs swinging off the edge.

“Can I sit?” Iseul asked gently. She nodded, scooting over. They sat in silence for a moment. Iseul’s gaze was soft but knowing.

“You like him,” she said finally, voice low and warm.

She stiffened. “What—Lando? I don’t—he’s just—”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Iseul said with a quiet smile. “I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching and the way you don’t look at him when you’re scared you’re too obvious.”

She looked down at her hands. “It’s stupid.”

“Why?” Iseul asked, brushing another loose strand of hair from her daughter’s face.

“Because I’m too busy. I have goals. I’m supposed to be focused. I don’t want people thinking I’m only here because of boys or because of him.” Iseul nodded slowly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Honey, having dreams and having feelings aren’t enemies. You’re allowed to be strong and soft, fierce and kind, in love with the track and someone who sees you for everything you are.” She swallowed hard.

“Does it ever go away?” she whispered. “The nerves, I mean… the way it feels when he looks at me.”

Iseul smiled, kissed her daughter’s temple.

“No, and that’s the magic of it.” She leaned into her mom’s side, quiet and full of something new.

2009 – Italian Grand Prix, Monza

The Acerbi twins clutched their pit passes like treasure maps. They’d been to a dozen races before, but Monza was different. It always was. Something about the smell of pine in the air, the way the Tifosi roared like ancient gods and this time, their father was on the front row.

Matteo’s eyes darted across the Ferrari motorhome. “Come on,” he whispered to her, tugging her sleeve. “Before Mamma finds us.”

She looked back toward the lounge, where Iseul was chatting with engineers. “If she finds us,” she corrected.

They slipped out the side exit, darting behind a catering cart and making their way down the corridor lined with team trucks and awnings. The paddock was already buzzing—mechanics, drivers, cameras, fans craning over fences.

Their first stop: Red Bull.

“Well, well, look who’s escaped parental supervision,” Sebastian Vettel said, crouching down beside his energy station table, grinning.

She beamed. “We’re undercover.”

“For what, exactly?” he teased, ruffling Matteo’s curls.

“Recon,” Matteo said, straight-faced.

Seb played along. “Ah, so you’re spying for Ferrari. Good choice.”

“Do you have juice?” she asked, peering over his table.

He handed her a cold apple juice without hesitation. “But if anyone asks, I never saw you.”

They waved goodbye, promising to bring him “intel,” and zipped off toward the next garage.

Next stop: McLaren

Lewis Hamilton was standing beside his car, chatting with his race engineer. When he saw the twins peeking around the corner one head on top of the other, he leaned down with a grin.

“Hey! I remember you two. Giovanni’s kids, right?”

“We met you last time in Melbourne.” she said proudly. He extended a fist and they both bumped it, grinning.

“You guys racing yet?”

“In karts,” Matteo said. “I beat her last weekend.”

Melbourne elbowed him. “He spun out. I let him win.”

Lewis laughed. “That’s what siblings do. Let each other win… sometimes.”

Kimi Räikkönen strolled by silently, glanced at them, and gave a nod that could be mistaken for a shrug if you didn’t know Kimi.

“That means he likes you,” Lewis whispered to them. “You got the Kimi nod. The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks like they’d just been knighted.

They spent the next half hour wandering the paddock, shaking hands, taking silly Polaroids with Felipe Massa, Jenson Button, Mark Webber, even Nico Rosberg, who offered Matteo a half-melted chocolate bar from his pocket.

The twins were ushered back into the garage, still grinning from their paddock adventure. They stood at the front of the Ferrari pit wall beside Iseul and Leone, watching mechanics fuss over their father’s car.

Giovanni turned around just before putting on his helmet. His eyes found his kids instantly.

“Double trouble,” he said, mock stern. “Cause any trouble yet?” The twins shared a look.

“Define trouble,” Matteo replied innocently. Giovanni laughed, pulling them both into a quick hug. He knelt briefly to their level, hands on their shoulders.

“You’re going to remember this,” he told them. “Not just the race—but the people, the smell of the tires, the sound of the crowd. Take it all in because one day you’ll be out here, racing for them and yourselves.”

She looked up at him. “With you?”

His smile softened. “No, after me. Far beyond me.”

The roar of engines began to swell outside. Mechanics motioned to the grid. Giovanni pressed one more kiss to each of their foreheads.

“I’m racing for you today.”

They watched as he walked out into the light and just like that, Monza swallowed him whole.

The roar of the Tifosi echoed through the Autodromo Nazionale Monza as Giovanni Acerbi stepped out of his Ferrari, victorious on home soil. The sea of red flags and banners waved fervently, celebrating the Italian hero's triumph.

The twins, clutching their Ferrari caps, pushed through the crowd, their faces alight with pride. Reaching their father, they embraced him tightly, the three of them forming a huddle amidst the chaos.

Giovanni, kneeling to their level, his eyes misty “This win is for you two. For every early morning, every lap you've raced. Today, we all stood on that podium.” The twins nodded, overwhelmed, their dreams feeling more tangible than ever.

The Acerbi family gathered at La Scala Ristorante, a family owned establishment known for hosting F1 celebrations. The private dining room was adorned with Ferrari memorabilia, and a special menu had been curated for the occasion.

Leone, raising her glass “To Papà, our champion and to the future champions, Y/n and Matteo.”

Luca, with a grin “May they inherit not just the speed, but also the style.” Laughter filled the room as glasses clinked. The evening was filled with stories of past races, dreams of future victories, and the warmth of family.

As dessert was served, a special surprise arrived: a replica of Giovanni's winning trophy, inscribed with “To the future of racing – Y/n & Matteo.”

Giovanni, addressing his children“This is just the beginning. The track awaits, and I have no doubt you'll both leave your mark.”

The twins exchanged determined glances, their hearts set on the path ahead.

------

Next part

Taglist: @dontsupressthejess

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

Hii just wanted to ask if in your 5th member au, is pietra and y/n close with each other??

Not yet, they haven’t hung out are anything, I kinda have this idea of Pietra not liking y/n because she wants Magui to be with Lando but idk. I think I might save that story line for my villain of f1 fic unless people want drama between her and Pietra.

If there are any questions you have please ask. I read all of y’all’s requests and thank you for the kind messages! 🫶😽

#spotlight&slipstream #ln4 x reader #LN4 #ln4 imagine #lando x you

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

hii can u do a reader cameo moments is dts??

( fifth member au)

DTS moments

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

Warnings: 2 uses of Y/n, heat stroke, Written in 3rd person

a/n: 105 followers!! Thank y’all so much for the love.

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

The steam curled in lazy ribbons off the rooftop hot tub, blurring the edges of the city lights below. She sat with her back against the far edge, hair piled on top of her head, shoulders bare and glistening. Across from her, Lando had sunk low into the bubbling water, arms stretched along the rim behind him, his curls damp from the heat.

It was quiet up here, save for the muffled bass of a playlist drifting through the outdoor speakers and the distant hum of traffic. The kind of pause that only really existed in places like this—between races, between headlines.

She rolled her neck, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Qatar’s going to be brutal,” she said, voice low and even. She didn’t sound worried—just observant.

Lando cracked one eye open. “Forty laps in heatstroke conditions,” he replied. “Delightful.”

She stretched out her leg beneath the water, nudging his thigh with her foot. “You’ll survive. You always do.”

He scoffed. “Will I survive, or just dramatically complain the entire time?”

“Both,” she said, deadpan.

Lando gave her a look, then lunged forward and splashed water in her direction. She let out a small squeal and retaliated immediately, sending a wave over the edge of the tub. Somewhere behind them, a cameraman chuckled but kept rolling, framing the shot from a respectful distance.

When the splashing subsided, Lando reached for her foot again under the water—this time slower. He wrapped his fingers loosely around her ankle and held it there. Not teasing. Just there.

“I’m glad you’re coming,” he said.

She watched him from beneath her lashes. “I always come.”

“No, I mean…” He hesitated. “I’m glad you’ll be there when I get out of the car.”

Her expression softened—just enough to catch in the corner of the camera frame. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifted closer, letting their legs tangle beneath the surface, then took his hand underwater and pulled it gently toward her.

Neither of them noticed the moment the camera slowly zoomed in.

Lando smiled faintly, something private flickering behind his eyes.

“I like this,” he murmured. “Just us. No paddock. No press.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Me too,” she said. “But don’t get used to me rubbing your ego every time you whine”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Try me.”

The city pulsed quietly around them as the camera faded to black.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The camera followed Lando from behind as he stepped into the Monaco apartment—keys tossed onto the kitchen counter, bags dropped with a heavy thud. The silence felt different than post-race highs. No celebration. No debrief buzz. Just… a quiet that stuck.

She was in a black McLaren hoodie, padding softly into frame. The cameras didn’t follow her into the kitchen, but stayed steady—framing her from across the island as she filled the kettle and grabbed two mugs. The only sound in the apartment is the hum of traffic outside and the faint boiling of water.

Lando sitting on the couch, leaned forward, elbows on knees, his expression unreadable. She set the mug in front of him. He accepted it with a nod, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Thanks," he murmured. She settled beside him, tucking her legs beneath her.

"Want to talk about it?"

The camera stayed back, intimate but not intrusive—focused on body language, not words.

He exhaled sharply, the tension evident in his posture. "I had the lead, baby. After the second pit stop, I was ahead, then the team asked me to let Oscar through." He let out a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. "I hesitated," he continued. "Not because I didn't want the team to succeed, but because... I was leading. I felt I had earned it."

The camera caught her subtle glance—concern flickering across her face as she set her own drink down.

“They told me Oscar had more pace. That I needed to play the team game.” He scoffed softly. “Maybe they were right. But it felt like I was being erased.”

The camera slowly zoomed in, catching the subtle clench of his jaw. She shifted closer, looping her fingers through his without a word.

“You don’t need to win every race to prove who you are,” she said quietly.He turned his head toward her, eyes meeting hers with something raw and unspoken.

“You think I made the right call?” he asked.

“I think you made the human one,” she replied. They sat in silence, Lando’s thumb brushing against hers as he exhaled deeply.

The camera lingered on them — two people not speaking, just breathing in each other’s quiet. The race was over, but the story was still being written.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The camera cuts in with a soft transition: the hum of the jet engine, the slight shake of turbulence. Light streams through the small cabin windows as the camera slowly pans to Lando, slouched sideways in his cream hoodie, headphones resting around his neck. He’s staring out at nothing, foot tapping restlessly against the carpet.

Next to him bundled in a gray blanket, hair tied up, no makeup, AirPods in. She’s got her macbook on her lap but has been displaying the same screen for the past 15 minutes.She glances sideways, catches Lando zoning out, and nudges his knee with her own.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs. No microphone. It’s caught only through the faint boom of the lav mic clipped under his hoodie.

He gives her a side glance and shrugs. “I can’t stop replaying Turn 2.” Camera zooms just slightly. His jaw’s tight. His fingers twitch in his lap like he’s still holding a steering wheel.

She folds her blanket, tosses it aside, and shifts to face him. “You do realize it’s over, right?”

“It shouldn’t have been.”

“Neither should Malaysia 2017,” she replies, dry as a bone.

Lando blinks. “That was a BTS thing, wasn’t it?”

She smirks. “See? You do pay attention.”

They sit in silence again. The plane hits a bump of turbulence. She leans her head against his shoulder. The camera catches the way he softens, almost instantly.

“Are you always this annoying mid-flight?” he jokes, his arm reaching and wrapping around her shoulder.

“Only when I’m bored,” she says. “You get moody, I get clingy. It’s our system.”

The camera cuts to her bare legs crossed over his. He nudges her foot. “We land in two hours.”

“What’s the plan when we do?”

“Media. Debrief. Pretend to sleep.”

“And after that?”

“Crash at the hotel. With you. Hopefully.”

She smiles softly and tucks her head under his chin. A camera placed at the back of the cabin frames them in silhouette—two young people between cities, between lives, between the pressure of performance and the quiet no one else sees.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The camera cuts in with ambient audio — trainers chatting in the background, a Nespresso machine sputtering, someone tossing a protein bar onto the table. The drivers' lounge is low-lit, buzzing with calm tension before the start of media duties.

Lando leaned back on a wall, scrolling on his phone. He’s in his McLaren kit, still slightly flushed from practice. The camera picks up Oscar walking past, glancing over Lando’s shoulder.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Oscar asks, grinning.

Lando immediately flips the phone down onto his lap, as if it’s muscle memory. “You didn’t see anything.”

“You’ve been smiling at your screen for ten minutes,” Oscar says, flopping down beside him. “What’d she send you? A voice note or a hit list?”

“A photo. Of her new merch for her album. She's also threatening to wear Ferrari merch if I’m slow in quali.” Lando smirks

Charles overhears from a few chairs away. He swivels in. “She did not say that.”

“She did,” Lando says. “She said ‘Don’t embarrass me in Italy. I have an image to protect.’ Her words.”

“Iconic,” Charles says, biting into a banana. “She should be the team a principal.”

Camera cuts wide as Pierre walks in holding an energy drink. “Who are we making a principal team?”

“Y/n,” Oscar says, nodding toward Lando.

Pierre lifts his brows. “She scares me. I saw her in Miami and I straightened my posture so fast.”

Lando grins, soft around the edges. “She’s not scary. Everyone keeps saying she's scary. She’s just… honest. Direct.”

George leans against the wall, arms crossed, amused. “She’s terrifying but like in a Greek goddess kind of way. You’ve got good taste.”

Lando shrugs, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “She just gets it, y’know? The pressure. The travel. The chaos. She doesn’t flinch.”

“Are you guys serious-serious?” Charles asks suddenly.

Lando pauses, just for a beat. Camera zooms slightly on his face. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “She’s… real and I think I needed someone real.”

There's quiet in the room. No teasing. Just the kind of respect that hangs between people who understand how hard this life is — and how rare it is to find someone who can live alongside it.

Oscar finally breaks the silence. “Do we all get free BLACKPINK tickets now?”

Lando throws a protein bar at his head. “No, but she might send you a sticker sheet if you behave.” They all laugh.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The screen in the McLaren garage shows the timing board flickering. Purple, yellow, green — sectors dancing in real time.

She stands off to the side with Lily and Carmen, all three of them wearing oversized headsets and watching the lap unfold on the monitors in front of them. Lily put her hand over her mouth. Carmen is tapping her leg. Her arms were folded, eyes locked on the screen.

On-screen: Lando Norris – Sector 3 – PURPLE

A beat. The timer stops. P2.

The garage bursts into quiet, contained claps and half-hugs. Mechanics nod. Someone whistles low.

Her smile is soft but small. She doesn’t whoop or cheer. She just exhales. Shoulders dropping just slightly. A quiet kind of pride — not the wild stadium kind, but something steadier. More personal.

Lily grins and nudges her. “That was solid.”

She nods. “That was fast.”

Behind them, Lando pulls into the pit box, helmet still on, visor up. The crew claps as he climbs out. Sweat glints off his hairline. He rips the gloves off. The headset comes off. Immediately, his eyes flick left and find her. He doesn’t go to the engineers. Doesn’t go to the data screens. He walks straight to her.

The cameras catch it — no dramatic music needed. Just the slight rush in his step and the way her smile tilts a little wider.

She tugs her headset off just as he stops in front of her.

“Nice lap,” she says casually, though her eyes are shining.

He breathes hard, cheeks flushed. “You watched?”

“No,” she deadpans. “I was playing Candy Crush.”

He grins and leans in to kiss her cheek — brief, but caught fully by the camera lens angle between two mechanics.

Lando lets out a breathy laugh, then is pulled away by one of the engineers, already gesturing toward a tablet. She steps back, letting him work. The camera lingers on her as she slips the headset around her neck again, looking out at the pit lane.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The camera cuts to a quiet moment inside McLaren’s hospitality unit. The air buzzes faintly with post-session debriefs and espresso machines. A few mechanics drift past in the background, voices muffled under the hum of paddock life.

She stands by the snack table, brows furrowed, trying to peel the foil seal off a protein yogurt like it personally insulted her.

Her fingers slip. She resets her grip. Still no progress.

She exhales dramatically. “Is this like rage bait or something?”

Behind her, Lando appears. Still in his race suit, gloves off, hair damp and curling at the edges. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stops and watches her struggle like she’s about to arm-wrestle a dairy product into submission.

She glances sideways, deadpan. “You’re just going to stand there?”

Lando steps in silently, takes the yogurt, and—with almost unfair ease—peels it open in one smooth motion. No effort. No mess.

He hands it back with a smirk. “God’s strongest soldier.”

She snatches it from him, narrowing her eyes. “Shut up before I stick this at your helmet.”

She takes a bite, proud and annoyed, then walks off, spoon between her lips.

The camera pans to Lando, still standing there. He watches her go, then turns to the Netflix lens, eyes wide with faux fear. He mimes wiping sweat from his brow, mouth forming: “Close call.”

She’s sitting on the corner couch now, flipping through something on her phone, the yogurt half-eaten beside her. Lando walks past again. She holds up the spoon like a warning.

He raises both hands in surrender, still grinning.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Lando, shirtless in swim trunks, playfully tossing a grape at Keegan, who catches it in his mouth like a circus act. The boys laugh — Max Fewtrell has one arm slung around his girlfriend Pietra, sunglasses on, beer in hand.

Music pulses faintly in the background — upbeat, expensive, carefree.The camera crew was steady moving through the group, capturing wind-blown hair and clicking glasses

She sat near the bow of the yacht. Legs folded, oversized sunglasses, gold hoops, a white shirt loose over her bikini. She's sipping from a crystal glass, black nails tapping against the base absently.

She’s not in the middle of the group. She doesn’t have to be. The camera lingers long enough to capture the way she watches. Pietra, smiling with Max, hair swept over one shoulder. She doesn’t look at her.

“No, Magui said she might fly in for the race,” Pietra says. “But only if Lando texts her back.” Pietra added, words barely picked up from the cameras, but she heard it.

The glass stays perfectly balanced in her fingers. She shifts slightly, lifts her chin, and looks out toward the marina — pointedly away from the conversation. The cameras caught her unreadable expression, her leg bounced slightly.

Lando eventually drifted toward her, handing her a bowl of fruit and brushing his fingers against hers for no reason at all. “Keegan’s trying to convince me to base jump off the boat,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Sounds like a great way to be single again.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Below them, Pietra laughed a little too loudly at something Max said, her voice carrying over the music. She just leaned back against the cushions, rested her drink against her thigh, and closed her eyes behind her sunglasses.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The door opens.

Lando walks in, flushed and sweat-drenched, shirt already stripped off. He’s breathing heavily, hair plastered to his forehead, race suit knotted at the waist. He tosses his gloves down on a metal table.He doesn’t speak. Just gives a sharp exhale and steps toward the tub.

She is already there — perched on a bench against the wall. Legs crossed at the ankle, McLaren jacket draped over her lap, sipping from a water bottle. Her hair’s tied up, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. The camera switches between them.Lando eases into the tub with a hiss through his teeth.

"Every time," he mutters, bracing both hands on the sides.

"You make it look like childbirth," She says, not looking up from her phone.

He glares. “Have you ever sat in a tub of frozen death?”

She shrugs. “Can’t be worse than some rehearsal injuries.”

“You don’t get blisters from dancing.”

“Tell that to my physio.” He lets out a soft, tired laugh, sinking deeper. Only his shoulders and messy curls are visible now above the ice. The camera gets a close-up of his hands clenching around the rim of the tub. She finally looks up. “You drove well today,” she says, quieter now.

He doesn’t answer right away. The sound of ice crackling in the tub fills the room, then he says, “Didn’t feel like enough.”

She leans back, kicking off her heels. “You say that even when you win.”

“I don’t want second or third,” he mutters. “I want first.”

She watches him for a beat, expression unreadable.

“Maybe, but getting second doesn’t mean you didn’t give everything.” Their eyes meet. It’s quiet.

He breaks the silence again. “You’re staying in the hotel tonight, right?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” she says, lips twitching.

“Stay.”

“I’ve got a flight.”

“I’ve got an hour left in this tub and no one else who makes fun of me like you do.”

The camera crew zooming in on her face as she exhales through her nose, barely smiling

“I guess the flight can wait,” she says.

Lando grins, tired and boyish. “That’s the spirit.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The crew shakely zoomed in from the hallway as Lando is helped inside by two McLaren team members and his performance coach, Jon. The air conditioning unit hums low. Lando looks pale—sweaty, glassy-eyed, face flushed but somehow drained of color.

She is already in the room, having rushed down from the McLaren pit wall as soon as the checkered flag dropped. She’s still wearing her paddock lanyard and oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head, her face tight with concern.

Lando nearly stumbles trying to sit.

Jon steadies him quickly, guiding him to the padded bench near the ice. “Breathe, mate. In through your nose. Slow.”

The camera crew inches forward, getting Lando bent forward, chest rising and falling too fast, shaking as Jon presses an ice pack to the back of his neck.

She crouches in front of him, voice gentle but urgent. “You’re overheating. You need to sip, not gulp.” She lifts a water bottle to his lips. He tries to take it and misses.

“Hey,” she says more firmly, cupping his jaw to focus him. “Look at me. You’re okay.” He meets her eyes for half a second — and something in him softens just slightly.

The camera pans behind Jon and captures Lando murmuring, nearly unintelligible: “Can’t feel my arms.”

Jon immediately starts working the cooling gel into his forearms. “It’s just dehydration. You’re alright, mate. We’ve got you.”

She looks over her shoulder and sees the Netflix camera still rolling from the doorway.

She stands up fast. “Hey—no.” putting her hand up. The camera jolts slightly at her tone. “Turn it off. Please.” Her voice is controlled, low, but absolutely firm. “Give him a second to just be a person.” She pushes the crew out the door.

They keep the cameras rolling, filming the closed door. Their mics still on, catching the hum of the cooling unit, Jon muttering, “Keep breathing, good lad, that’s it,” and her quieter voice, almost a whisper: “I’m right here.”

Once Lando had calmed down and felt comfortable enough, Jon let the crew back in.

She is sitting beside him now, his head resting against on her lap. She ran her fingers through his damp curls slowly, methodically, like she was memorizing the rhythm of his breathing. while holding an ice pack to his neck and moving it anywhere its needed.

Lando reaches for her hand, grabbing hold of it, making her let go to the ice pack.

Lando’s eyes are closed. His race suit unzipped halfway, shirt off, cooling packs along his collarbone. IV now in his arm. Jon is off to the side on the phone with medical staff, giving quiet updates.

Her hand never leaves Lando’s.

“I’ve never seen her like that before. She dropped everything for him.” The producer whispers off-screen.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

They weave past camera crews and engineers wheeling equipment, she leans in and whispers something into his ear. He smiles—not wide, but soft. Real.

He gives her hand a squeeze. She swings their joined hands once between them.

A cameraman tracks them from behind as they walk through the paddock. A fan yells, “GO GET HIM TODAY, LANDO!” and she turns slightly, offering the fan a small smile.

They pass a cluster of journalists. Some pretend not to stare. Others clearly don't bother.

In the distance, someone murmurs into a mic: “That’s Y/n from BLACKPINK with him—yeah, they’ve been taking over the grid. Every time he’s in a title fight, she’s not far.”

She glances up at Lando, her hand tightening in his as the roar of the crowd near the McLaren hospitality grows louder. The shimmer of tension is there — the pressure of a home race, of title implications — but she leans into him slightly, her shoulder brushing his. He smiles wider now. Somehow, in the noise and pressure of it all, she’s the one thing that grounds him.

[VOICEOVER — Lando] "There’s a lot of noise in this sport. Pressure. Expectation. But when she’s here with me, it’s... quieter and easier to get through the day. If that makes sense."

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The city lights flicker like a neon dream behind him. The audio shifts—less polished, more real. A distant hum of scooters, chatter in Singlish, a sizzling wok somewhere offscreen.

Lando flips the camera to his face. His hair is still damp from a post-practice shower, face a little flushed from the heat.

“Okay,” he says, squinting slightly. “We survived FP2. Barely and I promised someone we’d go find food that doesn’t involve a performance chef or electrolytes.”

The camera swings to his side. She’s in a baggy graphic tee and black baggy sweats that sat nicely on her high-top panda Jordans, her hair pulled back loosely, a paper fan tucked into her tote. When she notices the camera, she gives Lando a mock-annoyed look.

“You told me this wasn’t going in the vlog.”

Lando grins behind the lens. “Yeah, but you look good in street light. It’s hard not to put you in”

She snorts and keeps walking. “If you film me eating noodles like a raccoon again, I swear—”

Then it cuts to her leaning over a hawker stall counter, slurping noodles as Lando zooms in dramatically. “Don’t!” she says through laughter, swatting at the camera with chopsticks. Lando laughing in the background.

Cut again. They’re sitting on a curb, each with a plastic cup of boba tea. Lando pokes his straw in, then struggles to get a tapioca pearl.

“This is not a drink,” he says. “This is an obstacle course.”

She snickers and offers hers. “Mm, try mine”

He takes a sip, makes a surprised face. “Okay, this is good. I take back my hate.”

Another cut. They’re now standing under a canopy of red lanterns strung between buildings, the city glowing behind them.

She holds up a tiny paper fortune she got from a vendor. “It says I’ll have good luck with love.”

Lando lifts the camera slowly. “Guess it’s accurate.”

She looks at him, warm-eyed, and just says, “You’re annoying.” But she leans into his side anyway.

The final clip he filmed shakily as they walk back to their hotel. “Don’t tell Zak we stayed out too late.” He mumbles into the camera,

She reaches over, gently turns the lens back toward herself and whispers, “He made me eat six dumplings in a row. He deserves the fine.” Lando’s laugh trails off as the video fades to black.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Lando’s in his team polo, slightly slouched against the white-paneled wall, mid-laugh. His cheeks are flushed, hair messily pushed back from a rushed styling attempt. He turns slightly away from the lens, eyebrows raised in mock protest.

She was holding his phone. The lens follows her movement as she playfully swings it toward him, filming low and then dramatically zooming in. She’s out of frame but you can hear the soft shuffle of her sneakers as she circles him.

Lando ducks out of the shot. She steps closer. He bolts. The camera jolts.

In the same hallway, moments later. She’s standing now, leaning casually against the wall, scrolling through something on his phone. Lando returns from the side with two bottles of water in hand. He passes her one without looking. She takes it absently, still focused on the screen, his screen.

He says something. She laughs silently, her shoulders shaking.

He says something else. Her hand flicks out, gently shoving his face with a smirk.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The camera finds Lando in the far corner, still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and bunched around his waist. He’s slouched forward on a crate, elbows on his knees, eyes down. The silence around him is thick, punctuated only by a faint, garbled stream of team comms from a nearby headset.

A water bottle sits untouched beside him.

No one says anything. No one needs to.

The footage is steady—lingering, quiet.

Then, just outside the frame, movement.

She steps into view, still in her paddock attire, McLaren cap low, sunglasses tucked into her shirt. She doesn’t break his line of sight. Doesn’t pull focus.

She walks behind him, slow, unobtrusive.

Her hand—just her hand—rests gently on his shoulder. A pause. Barely a second. Her thumb brushes once, soft and grounding. Then she’s gone.

Lando doesn’t look up. But he exhales, slow and heavy. His shoulders drop by a fraction. Something in his jaw unclenches.

The moment ends. The camera lingers a beat longer. A soft mechanical whir hums in the background. A spanner clicks against metal.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As the final checkered flag waves, music swells over footage of orange-clad mechanics leaping over pit wall barriers, arms raised. Confetti cannons burst. McLaren flags wave like wildfire. The team celebrates like it’s not just a win—it’s the win.

In the middle of it all, She’s pulled into hug after hug. Mechanics. Engineers. Even Zak Brown throws an arm around her shoulder for a half-second as they cheer together. She’s in a papaya windbreaker, her sunglasses long gone, hair damp with sweat and champagne and adrenaline. One of the crew hands her a towel, but she just shakes her head and laughs.

Lando comes barreling toward her—still in full suit, visor up, sweat pouring down his neck—and scoops her up without slowing down. The camera angle catches her legs swinging midair as he spins her once, maybe twice, then sets her down again, both of them flushed, breathless, glowing.

Champagne. Bubbly arcs through the air like glittering smoke. She ducks too late—gets caught in the blast of foam, squeals, head thrown back as her laughter pierces through the audio swell. It's become a tradition at this point. The camera captures it at the perfect moment: her soaked, beaming, arms up in surrender, completely caught in the high of it all.

Lando walks toward the back of the garage, helmet under his arm, balaclava half-pulled off. His curls are a flattened disaster. He’s flushed from the heat and pace of the session, and when he looks up—he sees her.

She’s in a team tee, leaning casually against a crate, talking to one of the McLaren comms staffers. When her eyes meet Lando’s, she breaks into a grin.

She lifts her hand, twirls her finger around in a loose motion—miming the shape of his hair.

Lando mock-scowls, exaggerated, then runs both hands through his hair to fluff it back up. Which makes it worse. She deadpaned at him then stifled a laugh. Lando walks the last few steps to her. She reaches up, fixes a stray curl near his forehead, smoothing it back. He tilts his head forward, just a little. Letting her. She steps back, examines her work like a stylist. Tilts her head. Shrugs. Good enough.

He mouths something—not picked up by audio. The camera zooms on her smile.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Lando stands surrounded by engineers—one of them gesturing toward a tablet, another pointing to a telemetry graph on a monitor. He’s nodding slowly, hands on his hips, helmet tucked under one arm. His face is tired but focused, processing the information like puzzle pieces he’s still trying to fit together.

A few feet behind them, She waits.

She’s in a long black dress that reaches her heels, phone in one hand, the other resting on the strap of her small shoulder bag. Her sunglasses are pushed up into her hair, revealing the faintest crease in her brow as she scrolls—not distracted, not bored—just giving him space. A practiced sort of patience.

People pass by: PR staff, engineers, VIP guests, a roaming Netflix camera crew trailing behind. She doesn’t move. She’s done this enough to know when it’s time to wait, and when it’s time to step in.

Eventually, Lando steps back from the group. Someone pats his shoulder. Another nods. The circle dissolves.

He turns. She’s already looking up.

Their eyes meet. There’s a pause—not for dramatic effect, just a small, private moment tucked between chaos. The kind of glance that’s full of silent communication:

You okay? Yeah. You? Come on, let’s go.

She slips her phone into her pocket. He falls into step beside her. No words exchanged, no contact necessary.

They walk side by side, his suit unzipped to the waist, her hand brushing close to his as they disappear around the corner of the McLaren hospitality unit. A water bottle bounces against his hip. She adjusts her sunglasses.

The camera lingers behind them, following just long enough to watch the tension from his shoulders melt—just a little—with each step.

Then it cuts to the roar of the podium celebration echoing down the paddock corridors. But they’re already out of frame. Out of the spotlight.

Together.

----------

Taglist: @verogonewild

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Text

First Wins, First Times

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Warnings: Slight NSFW but not too detailed, clubbing scene, drinking, Written in 3rd person

SUNDAY – MIAMI GRAND PRIX – PADDOCK ENTRANCE

The morning sun burned high and bright, casting long shadows across the concrete as engines buzzed in the distance. The paddock was already a circus — cameras flashing, media zones full, heat rising like static off the tarmac.

The cameras were already waiting. It wasn’t a surprise anymore — not since Barcelona. They stepped through the gates together again

It was only their second time walking in officially like this — hand in hand. Yet somehow, it still felt surreal. The flash of cameras. The buzz in the air. Media attention swung toward them like a spotlight.

She held her head high. Her linen button-down was open over a tiny black tank top, paired with a Prada Natté mini skirt and vintage McLaren sneakers the team had sent her two days before. A VIP Paddock pass knotted on the handle of her orange Birkin. Last night’s eyeliner still lingered soft and smoky beneath her lashes, not quite slept-off, not quite intentional.

Lando looked relaxed beside her – crisp McLaren polo tucked into black slacks, sunglasses on, cap low, but she could feel the tension in his palm. Not from nerves. Focus. That quiet edge he always had before a race. And yet, even with the storm of competition brewing behind his eyes, he still made space for her — like he always did.

It was strange. The last time she was at a race, it had been a secret. Her name hadn’t been in a single headline. Now?

Now she’s “Kpop Princess turned Paddock Queen.”

The walk toward McLaren’s hospitality unit was fast but punctuated — greetings, waves, a few shouted names. One Sky Sports interviewer did a not-so-subtle double take. Charles Leclerc called out a teasing, “Look who’s gone full team girlfriend!” from Ferrari’s side. Max Verstappen passed them with a grin and tossed Lando a thumbs-up.

She just smiled, tossed her hair back, and kept walking.

Lando nudged her playfully. “Still surviving?”

She glanced at him sideways. “Barely. You all do this every week?”

“You get used to it,” he shrugged. “Sort of like turbulence. Loud, disorienting, and no leg room.”

As they reached the McLaren hospitality suite, his manager and comms team were already waiting — friendly but slightly frazzled. She saw the moment coming, the way his posture shifted just a degree sharper, the way the team moved in like a pit crew with schedules and last-minute reminders.

But before they could pull him away completely, Lando tilted his head toward the second-floor balcony of the unit.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged her hand. “Five minutes. Just us.”

They found a quiet spot with a view overlooking the paddock. Fans pressed against the fences below, media darting between teams, drone cams buzzing in the sky. But up here, it felt calm.

He leaned against the railing, and she slipped in beside him, arms brushing. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just breathed.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Sort of,” she said. “Your mattress was trying to assassinate my spine. You?”

“Dreamt they fucked up my pit strategy,” he muttered. “Woke up sweating.”

She smirked. “Sexy.”

“I do what I can.”

She laughed softly and tilted her face toward the sun. “It’s weird being back here. Like déjà vu.”

He turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

“Last year, I was watching you race on my phone halfway across the world . Now I’m walking in next to you and getting dissected by Sky Sports Twitter.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, thoughtful, then reached out to brush a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You’re handling it,” he said quietly. “Better than most. You make it look easy.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

She leaned in then, kissed his cheek, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You always make me feel safe, though.”

He smiled — that slow, crooked one reserved just for her.

“Good. Because after an hour of pretending to care about brake temps, I’ll need something real to look forward to. You in that skirt? That’s a start.”

She stepped closer, eyes flicking over his face. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll be the distraction your engineers warned you about.” Her voice dipped lower, teasing. “Focus now. You can misbehave later. After you win.” He tilted his head, cocky. “But only if you promise not to ghost me afterward.”

“I always text you after the briefing.”

“Sometimes it’s just a thumbs-up emoji.”

“Still counts,” he grinned.

Below, someone called his name — sharp, clipped, urgent. Time was up.

He turned, pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head — then again, slower this time, lingering like he needed to draw from her, like she was his calm in the noise.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

She squeezed his hand. “Go win,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

He gave her one last look — a look that said you matter more than any podium ever could — and then he was gone, swallowed whole by orange polos, headsets, and the blur of the McLaren team.

She stayed a moment longer, watching until the last glimpse of him disappeared into the crowd. Then she straightened her sunglasses, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and turned back toward the paddock — chin high, heart steady.

The Red Bull setup was bigger, brasher. White umbrellas. Custom espresso bar. Giant screens looping highlight reels. Every part of it screamed we win, and we know it.

Lisa was already waiting in the shade, perched on a lounge chair like she owned the entire team. Her outfit was… questionable. Possibly ironic. Space buns, and sunglasses with mirrored lenses that reflected the paddock like a warzone.

When Lisa saw her bandmate, she stood immediately. “Took you long enough,” Lisa said bring her into a hug

She sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “The walk through the paddock felt like Coachella with engines. People are trying to guess if I was carrying baby Lando already.”

Lisa snorted, pulling a can of Red Bull from a nearby cooler. “You should’ve told them you’re debuting your own team.”

“Team Pink Punk,” she murmured, accepting a drink of her own. “Powered by starting fandom wars and praying we’re planning a comeback.”

Lisa took a long look at her, then softened. Her smirk faded, just slightly. “I missed you, you know,” Lisa said quietly.

She turned her head toward her. Her voice was gentle. “I missed you too.”

The words were heavier than they seemed. Because she hadn’t just missed Lisa. She’d missed them. All of them. The late-night rehearsals that bled into dawn. The smell of studio candles. The off-key laughter on long-haul flights. The way Rosé used to hum into her hoodie sleeves. The way Jisoo always knew when She needed to be left alone, and when she absolutely didn’t. The way Jennie would invite her out to eat with her, they always end up fighting for the bill.

She hadn’t seen any of them in almost a year.

She remembers all five of them going their separate ways, no drama, no explosions — just a quiet scattering. She remembers crying on her solo flight to Monaco, forehead pressed against the window, unsure of when or if they’d make music together again. The silence between them had grown—not cold, just distant. Time zones and obligations and new lives.

“I don’t even know how to say it right,” she admitted, the words barely above the low hum of the crowd. “But it feels like something cracked a little when we stopped. Like… we had been orbiting the same sun, and then suddenly—”

“We were floating,” Lisa finished, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know.”

she looked down, twisting the ring on her finger. “I think I was scared to say it out loud.”

Lisa nudged her shoulder. “We all were.”She paused, then leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Rosé sent me a voice note last week. It was just her, playing guitar in her hotel bathroom. She didn’t say anything. Just… played. It felt like home and heartbreak at the same time.”

Her throat tightened. “Jisoo sent me a selfie of her and that same dog she said she wouldn’t adopt.”

Lisa laughed under her breath. “Of course she did.”

The two of them sat like that for a moment, drinks in hand, sunglasses hiding everything that their smiles didn’t.

“I’m glad our paths crossed today,” she said finally, her voice full of that weight she rarely let anyone see. “Even if it’s brief. It reminds me that we’re still us. No matter what.”

Lisa reached over, laced their fingers together for a beat. “We’ll find our way back. You know that, right?”

she nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The big screens flickered again — Lando’s qualifying replay. He looked fast. Focused. Electric. A spark of pride stirred in her chest.

Lisa caught her glance. “So,” she teased, tone shifting back. “Walking in with Lando. Very casual. Very low-key.”

she rolled her eyes. “We’re being casual. That’s not a crime.”

Lisa smirked. “Yet.”

They slipped into silence again, watching the pre-race shuffle build around them — pit crews rushing past, media swarming, camera operators sweating, influencers posing like it was fashion week. It was loud. Flashy. But strangely, not overwhelming. Not with someone like Lisa next to her.

“I’ll admit,” Lisa said after a beat, stretching her legs out, “I kind of like this. It’s different and loud and weird… but it suits you.”

She looked out at the garages, her gaze catching for a moment on the flash of papaya orange. Somewhere beyond the screen, beyond the fences, Lando was suiting up, calm and steady under pressure. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her drink.

“I just want to keep showing up for him,” she said. “And maybe… get the world used to the idea that I’m not going anywhere.”

Lisa grinned. “God, you’re sooo romantic. I love it. It’s gross. But I love it.”

She smirked, brushing her hair out of her face. “Gross love is still love.”

Lisa held up her can for a toast. “To gross love. And band reunions. And possibly stealing a race car later.” They clinked cans, and the world didn’t feel quite so far apart anymore.

Heat shimmered off the tarmac like a warning. Engines were silent but coiled, ready. Photographers lined the edges. VIPs clustered in designer sunglasses and exclusive passes. And in the middle of it all, they walked side by side — sunglasses low and completely unbothered.

She adjusted her ear cuff and scanned the grid. “So… this is what walking through the grid feels like.”

Lisa flicked her hair back, eyeing a cameraman already panning toward them. “You mean walking through a trap.”

“Same thing,” She said, waving a hand. “It’s like the Met Gala had a baby with a Red Bull can.”

A Sky Sports mic appeared in front of them. “Quick question—what brings you to Miami this weekend?”

She smiled politely, but her eyes were already calculating. “The weather,” she said smoothly.

Lisa added, “And our mutual obsession with carbon fiber.”

The reporter laughed. “Any predictions for today’s race?”

She tapped her chin. “Fast cars, sweaty drivers, and… um, champagne.”

Lisa threw in, “And maybe one of us fainting in the heat. Place your bets.”

They kept walking, the reporter falling behind as the grid swallowed him in tire blankets, cameras, and mechanics.

“God, it smells like testosterone,” Lisa muttered, fanning herself with her VIP pass.

She leaned in. “Probably the Ferrari fans.”

“Yup. Eau de delusion.”

They passed Oscar mid-grid, who gave them a polite nod. Then Daniel Ricciardo, who greeted them with a cheerful “Hey!” and looked two seconds from asking for a TikTok cameo.

Lisa mimed zipping her lips and winked at him. “Oi!” Daniel called back, laughing.

Then came the familiar hum of McLaren orange. Lando, already in his race suit, jogged up from the front row — grin wide.

Her heart lifted instinctively. “Look who’s all dressed up.”

“Look who’s trying to outshine the cars,” he shot back.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek quickly, and pulled back just as a dozen cameras snapped. “Behave,” he warned with mock sternness before jogging off toward the national anthem lineup.

Lisa watched him go. “Is it weird that I feel like we just witnessed the cover shoot for GQ: Fast Boyfriend Edition?”

She snorted. “Wait until he wins a race. He’s going full Vogue spread.”

A woman from F1’s grid protocol team approached, trying not to look like she was herding cats. “Ladies, we need to clear the area—”

She gave her a perfectly measured look. “We know.”

Lisa raised both hands like she was surrendering. “We’re moving, ma’am. No need for the FIA.”

They reached the side barriers near McLaren’s section just as Martin Brundle came within ten feet. He was deep into his grid walk, practically beelining for them — until an AlphaTauri engineer stepped in the way.

Lisa leaned close. “That man wants us.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he can’t have us.”

“Tell that to the internet,” Lisa muttered, spotting a boom mic floating just out of frame.

On the other side of the fence, fans shouted their names. Some held up Blackpink albums. One waved a hand-drawn poster that read: “From Kpop Star to Pitlane Royalty 💙🧡”

She smiled and waved. Behind them, mechanics started rolling tire carts away. The anthem was coming. The energy shifted — tension curling through the grid like smoke.

Lisa adjusted her sunglasses. “Okay, but if I pass out during the anthem, I expect a dramatic montage and at least one Ferrari team radio reaction.”

She deadpanned, “Only if it’s Charles saying ‘Mon dieu, someone get her an iced latte.’”

“Honestly,” Lisa grinned

As the orchestra rose and attention swept toward the line of drivers, her eyes stayed fixed on the boy with the curls.

She slowed her pace as she and Lisa approached the Red Bull garage, the air humming with energy. The bass of a deep house track pulsed from hidden speakers, mingling with the rhythmic clang of pit gear and the scent of fresh rubber and sunscreen.

Lisa adjusted her bucket hat and smirked like she’d just been handed VIP access to mischief. “You sure you don’t want to come in for just five minutes? There’s air conditioning.”

She gave her a knowing look. “If I go in there, I won’t come out until lap 42.”

Lisa laughed, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Tell him If he doesn’t win, I’m photoshopping him into Twilight posters or tweeting ‘he tried his best’ with a suspicious amount of sarcasm.”

“I’ll let him know,” She laughed. “Behave in there.”

“Obviously,” Lisa said, winking as she turned and disappeared into the Blue Zone like a girl on a mission.

She turned back toward the main walkway, already hearing a few camera shutters nearby, and that’s when she spotted Lily Z weaving through the crowd like she was floating. Iced coffee in one hand, her sundress catching the breeze, white sneakers looking criminally clean for a race day.

“Hey,” Lily called with a grin, lifting her drink in greeting. “You’re alive!” 11They hugged quickly, melting into each other’s energy with an ease.

“Barely,” she sighed dramatically. “I lost Lisa to Red Bull. Pray for her.”

“They’ll feed her Red Bulls and propaganda,” Lily said with a mock-serious nod. “She’s done for.”

They fell into step, heading toward McLaren’s hospitality tent with no urgency. Heads turned, phones came up, and a Sky Sports producer practically tripped trying to follow them discreetly. Neither flinched. It was the strangeness of the paddock — be seen, don’t be fazed.

“How are you really?” Lily asked after a beat, voice gentle. “your travels, race weekends… dating a driver.”

She hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “It’s… a lot. Amazing. But also… I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase and a WiFi signal. I don’t even know what city I’m waking up in half the time.”

Lily gave her a sympathetic side-eye. “Welcome to Formula 1. You’ll know you’ve fully adapted when you cry on a private jet while ordering a drink.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted, brushing a hand through her hair.

“Oh, I don’t,” Lily deadpanned. “I just pretend I’m not jet-lagged and sob into Oscar’s hoodie when no one’s looking. Yesterday I cried because I dropped my AirPods in the toilet. He thought I broke a nail.”

She laughed. “Relatable.”

“I mean, it looks good on the outside,” Lily continued, gesturing to everything around them. “But behind every good driver is a sleep-deprived girlfriend running purely on caffeine and repressed emotions.”

She nodded and smiled. “Last week I sent Lando a demo for a possible solo I was proud of and passed out before he even replied.”

Lily winced. “Oh no. Did he text back?”

“He sent back, and I quote, 3 fire emojis and “sounds pleasant.’ Which I think means he liked it.”

The noise of the paddock grew louder as the grid walk neared, but the moment between them was calm.

“Oh, that’s love. That’s modern-day Britain right there.”

The noise around them grew louder as the drivers were going to their positions on the grid

“Still,” Lily said, bumping her shoulder lightly, “You and Lando? You work. You soften him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So he was feral before me?”

“Oh, absolutely. Still is. But now with slightly better time management.”

“Growth,” she said, mock-solemn. “We love to see it.”

They both cracked up, drawing a curious glance from someone in HAAS gear.

Lily sobered slightly, her tone softening. “I’m really glad you’re here. You belong here more than you think.”

Her throat tightened slightly at the sincerity. “Thanks. I think… I’m starting to feel that too.”

Ahead, McLaren’s garage shimmered in papaya orange like a safehouse in the middle of mayhem. The metallic heat of the paddock gave way to the cooler hum of the garage, where the air smelled faintly of engine oil, burnt rubber, and the lingering traces of sunscreen and energy drinks. Engineers in papaya polos moved with quiet urgency, radios crackling softly, and monitors flickered with telemetry data.

They stepped in together, their footsteps slowing instinctively as they crossed into McLaren territory. Someone handed them branded headphones with their initials and lanyards without a word—everyone was locked in. Focused. This was where it all happened.

A staff member guided them to a pair of seats just behind the main row of engineers. The chairs weren’t glamorous—more folding than plush—but the view was unmatched. A massive screen dominated the wall in front of them, already showing the pre-race feed: onboards, pit lane shots, the occasional dramatic camera sweep across the starting grid.

She slipped the headphones over her ears, the world going quiet except for the calm voice of the race engineer and the low murmur of comms. It was oddly grounding, like slipping below the surface of a storm into something steady.

Lily leaned closer, already fiddling with her mic toggle. “This is my favorite part,” she said softly, grinning. “The quiet before the chaos.”

She nodded, her eyes scanning the garage. Lando’s name blinked softly on a data screen nearby. She caught sight of his helmet in the car— neon green with black blobs. It made her heart stutter just a little.

Then the signal came through the radio: cars rolling out onto the formation lap.

The rumble from the track outside vibrated through the concrete floor beneath their feet.

Seated in the McLaren garage, headphones on, She watched the race unfold on the big screen. The atmosphere was electric, the tension palpable. She cheered as Lando climbed positions, her heart pounding with every overtake.

Starting from P5, Lando felt the familiar adrenaline surge as the lights went out. The initial laps were intense, with Max Verstappen leading the pack. Lando maintained his position, conserving his tyres and waiting for the right moment.

On Lap 29, a collision between Kevin Magnussen and Logan Sargeant brought out the Safety Car. Seizing the opportunity, Lando pitted and emerged in the lead, ahead of Verstappen. At the restart on Lap 33, he defended his position fiercely, then began to pull away as Verstappen struggled with tyre grip.

When the Safety Car emerged and Lando took the lead, she gripped her seat, barely breathing during the restart. Each lap felt like an eternity, but as the gap to Verstappen increased, hope blossomed. Tears welled up as Lando crossed the finish line, victorious. She whispered, “You did it,” her voice choked with emotion.

Each lap, Lando pushed the car to its limits, the McLaren responding beautifully. The gap widened, and with each sector, victory edged closer. The moment the checkered flag waved, Lando crossed the line, the world turned gold.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at the timing screen. P1. Her knees buckled slightly, and beside her, Lisa grabbed her elbow, steadying her.

“Holy shit,” Lisa, who left the red bull garage after Max dropped to second, said. “Your man just won a Grand Prix.” She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink.

The garage exploded into cheers. Zak was hugging everyone in sight. Mechanics vaulted over the pit wall. Papaya-clad arms reached for each other, some slapping backs, others wiping their eyes. The buzz of engines faded beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The team erupted in celebration as Lando secured his maiden F1 victory. Lisa turned toward her, eyes wide, but she was already moving.

His voice cracked as he screamed into the radio—words slurred by joy, adrenaline, disbelief. “We did it! We actually fucking did it!” His engineer’s voice, half-choked with tears, came through the headset, but the rest was a blur. Mechanics flooded the pit wall. His team—his family—waited for him.

He parked the car, hands trembling as he ripped off his gloves. Helmet tossed aside, he broke into a sprint. Straight into the waiting arms of his crew.

They engulfed him. Cheers and swears and tears. Everyone yelling over each other. One arm around Zak Brown, another around his race engineer, and still—he kept searching the crowd, breath short, heart already pulling toward her.

There she was.

Still in her team pass and headset, standing frozen just beyond the barrier, one hand pressed hard to her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place.

Their eyes met.

Everything else—mechanics, cameras, microphones—melted away.

He broke from the huddle without a word. Ducking under the barrier, cleaving through the crowd with a singular focus.

She ran too.

They collided with a force that knocked the air from her lungs more than singing ever could. His arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her completely off the ground, her feet dangling as she let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sob, tucking her face into his neck.

“Jesus, Lando…” she whispered, overwhelmed. “You actually did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “You’ve been with me through everything.”

Her hands curled into his hair, into the collar of his suit. “I’m so proud of you. So—so proud.”

He tightened his grip, held her as though letting go might wake him up. “You kept me steady. Every bad race. Every near-miss. Every stupid doubt I had about myself. You were there.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, face flushed with the sun and something far deeper. He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t shy or careful. It was months of holding back. Late nights in hotel rooms. Phone calls cut short. Dinners interrupted by strategy meetings. Every quiet sacrifice finally paid off in one, spine-tingling kiss. Some girl somewhere around the world fell to her knees at the sight.

Lisa, crouched a few feet away, phone in one hand, proper DSLR in the other, grinned like a cat. The media also caught it all.

The cameras clicked like fireworks. The feed jumped from garage celebrations to the shot of Lando holding her like she was oxygen. Every commentator fell quiet for a moment, letting the image speak for itself.

@/f1girlythings: SHE JUMPED INTO HIS ARMS I'M SOBBING 😭💔 @/wagscentral: her in the McLaren garage, her in parc fermé, Y/n in my heart 🧡 @/raceweekromance: This is their world. We’re just living in it. @/formulalovee: LANDO JUST KISSED HER IN PARC FERMÉ?????? MY HEART @/motorsportromantics: the way he ran to her. like a man possessed. @/Landoandynsupremacy: I am not fine. I am sobbing in papaya-colored tears. @/gridgirlchronicles: no matter where you stood on the grid today, love won. 🧡

He finally lowered her to the ground, slowly, reluctantly.

Her hands were still resting on his chest. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.

“I love you,” he said it so softly, as if the world might steal it away.

she blinked, then smiled like it physically hurt to hold that much emotion. “I love you too.”

From behind them, someone called his name—FIA official, maybe. He glanced back once, then leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.

“You’ll be there at the podium?”

“Of course,” she said again. Her voice was steady now. Sure.

He kissed her once more—quick, reverent—then turned and jogged toward the cool-down room, team members slapping his back, laughter echoing around him.

Lisa slung an arm around her shoulder once he disappeared down the corridor. “That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

she wiped her eyes with a laugh. “Shut up.”

she stood where he left her, her arms still crossed over her chest like she could hold the moment in place. She smiled through fresh tears, cheeks aching, breath shallow.

The steps to the podium felt like they went on forever.

Lando’s heart was hammering, not from adrenaline now — but disbelief. He was still drenched in sweat, curls damp under his cap, still breathing like he hadn’t taken a full breath since Lap 47, and his cheeks already hurt from grinning. He took the final step, squinting as the crowd exploded into cheers.

They roared his name.

LANDO LANDO LANDO

His name echoed from the grandstands to the marina. Papaya flags waved like fire. Phones pointed skyward. The McLaren crew punched the air.

He waved, a little dazed. Lando stood in the middle. For the first time. The middle. A little disoriented. It didn’t feel real until he looked down.

Wearing one of his team shirts, oversized and tied at the waist. Hair messy from the wind, makeup a little smudged from tears. Hands clutched to her chest. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before.

Pure pride. Pure love. Like he was the sun and she'd just watched him rise.

She blew him a kiss, her fingers trembling slightly. He grinned wide.

The anthem started. Lando stood a little straighter as the British flag rose behind him, chest swelling. He bit his lip to keep it together.

All those years. All the near-misses. All the heartbreak. And now?

Gold confetti exploded into the air. Champagne time.

The cork launched skyward with a sharp pop, and the podium burst into a storm of white spray. Lando slams the bottle onto the floor making the spray shoot up. Max aimed straight for Lando, soaking him. Charles turned and doused Max back. Lando turned.

A wide arc of champagne sprayed across the barricade. She saw it coming a second too late. “No—no no no not again—Lando!”

She gasped, hands flying up. She laughed. Loud and unfiltered, even as the champagne mist splattered across her shirt and shoulders.

He beamed, soaking in the sound. He spun around to spray Max in the back.

McLaren crew nearby whooped. A camera caught it all—the race winner turning away from the formal chaos of the podium, grinning like a man with nothing to lose, just to drench his girl in his victory.

@/F1LoveAffairs: Lando spraying his girlfriend AGAIN with champagne from the TOP STEP. I’m sobbing. This is cinematic romance. @/GridGossip: Forget the trophy. Lando just baptized his girlfriend in Moët. @/McLarenFanatic: So this is what winning and being in love looks like. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

As the ceremony wrapped, the drivers made their way off the stage, but Lando jogged down the last few steps, handing off his empty bottle. He didn’t care about the media. Didn’t care about protocol.

She met him halfway.

“You aimed right for my face.”

“You loved it.”

He leaned in and kissed her hard before she could argue, champagne and sunscreen clinging to both of them.

“Lando!” one of the press officers called from the side.

He pulled back slowly, reluctant, still buzzing. “I have to go lie about how calm I was. Wanna go to the club later”

She smoothed his soaked race suit. “Of course, let’s celebrate your first win”

He winked, turned, and jogged toward the media pen.

The door swung open, and they practically fell inside — Lando kicked it shut with his foot while she kicked her shoes in the middle of the floor like she’d been in boots for twelve hours.

She sighed dramatically. “You know what I need?”

“A second shower because you reek of champagne.”

She shot him a glare. “I was gonna say food.”

Lando laughed, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto a chair. “Room service it is, then.”

she flopped onto the bed face-first, muffled. “We’re going clubbing in two hours. I’m gonna die.”

“You can’t die. I just won my first Grand Prix. I need to show you off.”

“You already did. In front of the whole world,” she mumbled, still face-down.

He collapsed next to her and rolled her onto her back, grinning. “And I’m gonna keep doing it until they name a corner after you.”

She wheezed out a laugh and grabbed a pillow to swat him with. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it.”

She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

They laid there for a minute, just breathing, just smiling. Then Lando turned onto his side and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You looked really pretty today. In Parc Fermé. Even soaked in champagne and yelling at Lisa.”

She snorted. “You looked like a wet dog. I almost cried.”

“You did cry.”

She kissed him, quick and soft. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He kissed her again, longer this time, hand on her cheek. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Lando.”

“I mean it.”

She just held his gaze for a beat longer before whispering, “Let’s go be disgustingly hot and famous in a club now.”

Their hotel room turned into mild chaos.

She stood at the sink applying eyeliner over her sparkly eyeshadow, wearing his oversized McLaren t-shirt and blasting music from his big ass speaker. Lando walked past behind her, towel around his waist, still dripping water. He smacked her butt as he went by.

“Hey! I’m doing a wing!”

He peeked over her shoulder. “That’s not a wing. That’s a dagger.”

“Oh, perfect.”

In the mirror, she watched as he walked behind her again, now fully dressed in a black button-down he hadn't bothered to button properly and trousers that fit him entirely too well.

She blinked. “Okay, no, you can’t look that good.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen what I look like in a helmet.” she shook her head.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later — hair curled and full of volume, Dolce&Gabbana sequin embellishment mini dress on, Satin Versace Medusa Aevitas in hand — he just stood there in silence.

“What?” she asked, self-conscious for the first time all day.

“You’re gonna start fights tonight,” Lando muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over every inch of her. He couldn’t look away.

She turned just slightly, checking her profile in the mirror, her earring catching the light. “Good,” she said casually. “Let the weak fall.”

He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “No, seriously, baby. You walk into that club and men are going to spontaneously combust. I might have to knock someone out tonight.”

She smirked. “Possessive much?”

“You wore that, knowing I’d lose my mind,” he said, pushing off the wall, walking over with zero self-control. His hands found her waist, his voice dropping. “And now I have to act like I’m not picturing getting you out of it every ten seconds.”

“Pretend all you want. I’ll still be the one going home with you and.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting, her heel dangled from her finger. “You’re stalling.”

He dropped to his knees with a half-laugh, half-growl. She arched a brow but perched on the edge of the bed, amused as he took the heel from her hand and carefully slid it onto her foot, his fingers brushing up her ankle to clasp the strap around, slow and reverent.

“Is this your Cinderella fantasy?” she teased, letting her knee nudge his shoulder.

He kissed the inside of her calf. “No. In mine, the clock never runs out.”

The second heel followed, just as gentle, just as charged. When he looked up at her, still crouched between her knees, she saw it—full, aching devotion burning behind those blue eyes.

He rose to his feet, slow and magnetic, hands finding her waist again. Now with heels on she was just below his chin. She tilted her head up at him, her hands sliding over his broad shoulders to clasp together around his neck, the smirk softening into something gentler. “You've won your first Grand Prix and you’re still obsessed with me. How tragic.”

“Hopelessly,” He groaned, leaning in to kiss her, deep and lingering, like he needed it to anchor himself. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her cheek. She kissed him again—harder this time, the kind of kiss that promised they were already late and about to make even worse decisions. When she pulled away, breathless, she tugged him toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Before we get too carried away” before grabbing his face and kissing him again, hard.

“God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said, already pulling him toward the door, “Let’s go give Miami something to talk about.”

He reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to say, “With you on my arm, they’ll never shut up.”

And with that, they disappeared into the electric Miami night — golden, glowing, and completely in love.

The McLaren pulled up to the curb like a comet, low and gleaming under the Miami moonlight, its papaya orange catching every flash of paparazzi and phone screen like it was made to be seen. The thrum of the engine faded into the background roar of the club’s bass, but the car itself kept every eye on it.

Behind the tinted windows, she reapplied a coat of gloss with the casual confidence of someone who knew the world was about to watch her walk through it. Her legs were crossed, heels glinting under the streetlights, and her expression unreadable—until Lando cut the engine and glanced over at her.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low, but there was something boyish in his tone—a quiet awe that hadn’t faded since the hotel.

She turned to him, one brow raised. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He chuckled, running a hand down his face like he needed a second to collect himself. “You’re gonna be the end of me tonight.”

Lando stepped out of the car first, straightening the collar of his black button-down. The second he appeared, the crowd shifted, the velvet rope pressing tighter as people leaned in for a glimpse. Miami was already buzzing about his win, and now it would buzz about this.

He circled around the McLaren like it was muscle memory, not a performance, and opened her door with a practiced sweep. Cameras fired. Lights popped. And then she stepped out.

She moved like she had all the time in the world—shoulders back, chin lifted, her dress hugging and slipping in the right places. The city heat curled around her, but she was the one setting it ablaze. Her hand found Lando’s, fingers threading easily, and the grin he gave her was pure worship.

The bouncer clocked them instantly, stepped aside without a word, and unhooked the rope. A handful of people in line gasped—one even dropped their phone.

Lando leaned in as they walked past the crowd. “I think someone just fainted.”

She barely blinked. “They’ll survive.”

They entered the club like a movie scene. The moment the doors shut behind them, the bass swallowed the world whole—pulsing lights, shimmering walls, and VIP lounges carved out like altars of neon and champagne. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed.

Every eye found them as they moved through the haze: Lando, fresh off his first win, glowing with adrenaline and unfiltered joy—and her, dressed like a siren in heels he’d knelt to put on, walking like she had him on a leash.

They were greeted at the VIP balcony with drinks already chilled and staff already grinning. Lando tugged her close with one hand on her lower back, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, and the DJ dropped into a remix of something fast and electric—Miami’s unofficial welcome. And still, he couldn't stop looking at her.

She leaned into his chest, letting him hold her drink while she fixed her earring. He watched the curve of her jaw like it was divine geometry.

“Can I confess something?” he said into her ear.

“That you’re obsessed with me?”

“That’s not a confession, that’s common knowledge.” He grinned. “But I mean it. You—you’re all I’ve thought about since I crossed that finish line.”

She paused, her expression softening just slightly. “It was always going to be yours, Lando. The win. The moment.”

He shook his head, pulling her a fraction closer. “Nah. It was never just about the win. It was about getting off that podium and finding you.”

She blinked, then smiled slowly. “God, you’re getting sappy.”

“You love it.”

“Tragically,” she admitted, taking a sip from her glass. “Now shut up and dance with me.”

And just like that, Lando Norris—F1’s newest Grand Prix winner—followed her into the center of the dance floor like a man willingly lost.

The beat dropped into something heavier, a rhythmic thump that vibrated through the soles of their shoes as she led Lando into the glowing pulse of the VIP dance floor. Neon lights flickered off glass, ice buckets glinted, and smoke machines curled mist around everyone like magic.

Just ahead, Lisa spotted them first—perched on the edge of a velvet couch with a cocktail in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a silver mesh top over a black bralette, her eyeliner sharp and a wicked smile. Lisa gives her a quick hug.

Just then, the rest of their circle appeared—Ethan and Morgan pushing through the crowd, both already a little flushed from drinking, followed by a couple of Lando’s McLaren crew and one of her backup dancers still in sequins from their last performance. Champagne was flowing like tap water. Someone handed Lando a bottle straight from the ice bucket, and someone else passed her a lemon drop shot.

“To Landos first Formua 1 win!” Max F. toasted, lifting his glass. The rest followed suit and cheering, downing whatever they had in their hands. All making faces at the strong drinks. They laughed—loud, open, unbothered.

Lando couldn’t stop smiling. He pulled her to his side again, arm draped around her waist like it belonged there. She glanced up at him, makeup flawless, eyes shining under the strobes. He leaned down just a little, brushing his mouth by her ear.

“I could stay like this forever.”

She tipped her head, amused. “Sweaty, tipsy, and surrounded by idiots?”

“I meant you next to me,” he murmured. “But yeah, that too.”

The camera clicked, catching her mid-laugh and Lando gazing at her like he’d already won more than any podium could offer.

The group exploded into another round of drinks and banter, she felt Lando’s hand slide down her back, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.

“Come dance with me,” he said, voice low and warm in her ear, already tugging her gently away from the booth.

The dance floor was a swirl of bodies and color, all bass and heat and pulsing light. Lando pulled her close the second they stepped into the crowd, hands finding her waist with zero hesitation. She turned toward him, arms slipping around his neck, the sound of the club fading into the electric buzz between them.

The rhythm slowed into something sultry, deep and rolling like thunder. SHe swayed against him, her body pressed fully to his now, hips moving in time with the beat—and with his.

Lando ducked his head, letting his forehead rest against hers for a breath. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the music. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips just beneath his jaw. “I have a pretty good idea,” she teased, smirking when she felt his grip tighten on her hips.

His hands slid lower, hands grabbing her ass through the sparkly fabric of her dress, holding her close—possessively. One hand traced its way up the bare skin of her back, slow and deliberate, until he was cradling the base of her neck.

She gasped softly into his ear, the feeling of his touch sending sparks up her spine. “Lando…”

“Mm?” His lips ghosted across the corner of her mouth.

“You keep touching me like that, we’re going to get kicked out.”

“Let them,” he said, his voice rough now. “You’re the only thing I want to get in trouble for tonight.”

She laughed, breathless, half-dazed from the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room. The kind of look that could start fights. That could ruin him. That already had.

Their hips stayed in sync, moving to the deep, seductive rhythm of the music. She let her fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly. He rewarded her with a soft groan, eyes fluttering shut.

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper—right there under the lights, surrounded by strangers and stares. She didn’t care. Neither did he.

He pulled back just enough to say, “Let’s stay on this dance floor until your heels hurt and my hands stop knowing where to go.”

And for the next few songs, they didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Everything they needed to say was in the way their bodies moved together, in the hands that didn’t want to let go, and the eyes that kept saying mine.

It was way past midnight, and the club had hit its fever pitch.

The air was thick with perfume and sweat, flashing lights casting electric shadows over the crowd. She was flushed, her skin glowing, hair wild from dancing, the hem of her dress hitched slightly higher with every spin Lando pulled her into. Her laugh was a melody layered over the beat—unbothered, untamed.

They’d barely left the floor. Drinks had been brought to them now—delivered like tribute by grinning friends who knew better than to break the spell between them.

Lisa reappeared at one point, sliding in with a drink and a devilish grin. “You two are putting on a show,” she teased,

Lando, behind her now, wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, the crowd moving around them like waves breaking around a rock. He was still grinning—but it had softened into something darker, needier.

“You’re the hottest person in this entire building,” he murmured, breath warm against her neck.

She looked over her shoulder at him, coy. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me like you don’t know,” he growled, hands drifting down to her thighs again, thumbs brushing under the hem of her dress as the music pounded through them. “I’m two seconds from telling everyone we’re leaving.”

“You won today,” she said, leaning back into him. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“I am,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to the space behind her ear. “I’m just greedy. I want you all to myself.”

Her heart stuttered. That voice—rough, low, too intimate for a dance floor. She turned to face him again, their lips nearly brushing. “After this song,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby.”

“And you’re losing it,” she said with a wink, just as the beat dropped again.

More friends joined them—Oscar and Lily showing up with neon drinks, a few others from the McLaren team, some familiar paddock faces now loosened by alcohol and glittering under strobe lights. A circle formed around Lando and her, the dancing growing more chaotic, more reckless.

At one point, she climbed onto a low platform with Lisa, both of them raising their glasses like queens of the night, dancing with eachother. Lando looked up at her, a dazed, reverent grin on his face like he couldn’t believe she was his.

When she jumped down, he caught her mid-air without hesitation, hands splayed on her thighs, lifting her easily before sliding her back down against him, slow and deliberate. Their eyes locked. Breath mingled.

“No more songs,” he said, voice like gravel.

She traced a finger down his chest. “Lead the way.” He didn’t even grab their things. Just her hand.

As they pushed through the crowd, She caught Lisa’s eye. Her best friend gave her a dramatic salute and mouthed ‘good luck’. She blew her a kiss.

They stepped out into the humid Miami night, bodies still humming from bass and touch, hands still tangled like they'd forgotten how to separate.

The McLaren waited at the curb—sleek and purring, engine soft as silk. Lando opened her door, gaze flicking down her legs as she climbed in.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes darkening as he got in on the other side, “how bad would it be if I made this the night you never forgot?”

She smiled, sliding closer until their legs were touching. “I was counting on it.”

The McLaren’s engine purred low as they pulled away from the club, the lights of Miami streaking past the tinted windows in blurred, electric ribbons. Inside, the air was quiet—except for the low thrum of Lando’s uneven breathing and the heavy beat of both their hearts filling the space between them.

She sat with her legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other dragging lightly along the hem of her dress like she could still feel the ghost of his hands there. Lando’s grip was tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw locked. His eyes never left the road, but every inch of him was wired—buzzing, burning. Her voice was soft but sharp when she finally broke the silence. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m trying not to wreck the car,” he muttered, shifting gears like it might somehow calm him down. “Which is hard when you keep looking like that.”

She turned her head, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose control.”

He glanced at her then—just a flash—but it was enough to see the way her lips curled into a smirk, legs uncrossing slow, deliberate. “You already did. On the dance floor.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “babe.”

“What?” she said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You said you wanted to celebrate.”

“I didn’t mean in public,” he snapped, eyes fixed ahead, but his hand drifted, unthinking, to her thigh, fingers pressing into the skin like he needed to ground himself.

She covered his hand with hers, holding it there. “Then you’d better drive faster.”

That was all the permission he needed.

The rest of the ride was a blur. Every red light was a curse. Every second not spent with his mouth on hers was unbearable. By the time they pulled up to the hotel, the valet barely had time to open her door before Lando was rounding the car, grabbing her hand, and pulling her through the lobby like a man on the edge.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not because they didn’t want to speak—but because one wrong word would’ve had them stopping the lift between floors. She leaned against the mirrored wall, watching him through heavy lashes. Lando stood in front of her, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets, doing everything he could not to turn around and press her into the glass. The doors slid open with a soft chime. They didn’t speak. Lando swiped the key card with shaky hands and shouldered open the door to their suite.

it all fell apart.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, her heels were off, and Lando was on her—lifting her, kissing her, hands in her hair, down her back, gripping her like she was air and he’d been drowning all night.

Her legs wrapped around his waist. “You gonna pin me to the wall again?” she whispered, mouth grazing his ear.

He groaned, stumbling toward the bed with her still clinging to him. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

“Good,” she whispered, kissing him breathless. “Then we’ll be even.”

He laid her down gently, reverently, like she was breakable and burning all at once.

Lando kissed her like it was the only language he spoke. His hands cradled her face at first, gentle, like she might slip away if he wasn’t careful. But as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, something shifted—urgency replacing restraint.

They moved together in a blur of whispered names and held breaths. She unbuttoned and peeled his shirt off, fingers grazing the warm skin of his chest like she was memorizing it again. He trailed kisses along her collarbone, each one softer than the last, until she tilted her head back and exhaled his name like a secret.

“Look at me,” he said against her skin, voice rough and low.

She did. And what she saw in his eyes wasn’t just desire—it was worship.

He took his time. Every touch was deliberate, slow, like he was proving a point: that no matter how wild the club had been, no matter how many eyes had been on her, she was his. Here, now, and only his.

They moved like they’d done this a hundred times—but still, it felt brand new. Deeper. Like the high of his win was still pulsing in their veins, but this was the real prize.

Her hands slipped into his curls, pulling gently as he kissed down her stomach, his voice rasping, “You drive me mad.”

She smiled, breathless. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he said, so fiercely it stole the air from her lungs.

When he finally laid over her again, chest pressed to hers, he kissed her like they had forever. Their bodies fit together in that way they always had—familiar, electric, sacred. Nothing else existed.

The world outside their suite—the press, the fans, the cameras—none of it mattered here.

There was only him. Only her. Only the quiet symphony of skin and breath and love blooming between them.

And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

She brushed her fingers down his spine and smiled. “Took you long enough to say it.”

“I’ll say it again,” he breathed, kissing her nose, then her lips. “As many times as you’ll let me.”

The first thing she registered was the sunlight—bright, merciless, and filtering through the sheer curtains like it had a personal vendetta.

The second was her hangover. Sharp behind the eyes, a low throb at her temples, and a mouth as dry as the desert. Somewhere, the bass from last night still echoed faintly in her bones.

She groaned, hand coming up to rub her temples.

From beside her, a muffled voice replied, “Please tell me that wasn’t you dying.”

She cracked one eye open.

Lando was lying flat on his stomach, half his face buried in the pillow, hair a tousled mess, the bedsheets tangled around his waist. One arm hung off the bed, the other flopped across her stomach like he was still claiming his territory even in unconscious misery.

“You’re the one who challenged Max to tequila shots,” she croaked.

“You cheered me on.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually win.”

He let out a broken laugh, immediately wincing. “Mistakes were made.”

She reached over the side of the bed and grabbed a bottle of water from the floor that had gotten knocked over from last night's activities, holding it out to him like an offering. “here”

Lando dragged himself up on one elbow, looking at her like she was a divine entity. “God, I love you.”

“Don’t try to flirt with me while you look like roadkill.”

He grinned, raspy and unbothered, then took a sip and collapsed again. “I’m serious. Even roadkill has feelings.”

She let her hand rest on his bare back, trailing absent-minded circles along his spine. “Do you remember trying to convince Lisa to a dance-off?”

“Do you remember grinding on me in front of, like, half the grid?”

Her head dropped back onto the pillow with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“Best night of my life.”

“Our best night but your PR team’s worst nightmare”

He laughed again, nose scrunching. “Worth it.”

Their limbs slid together like muscle memory, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand brushing through her hair with lazy affection. They stayed like that for a long while—bodies aching, heads pounding, but hearts light.

Finally, he whispered, “Let’s never do that many shots again.”

She smiled against his skin. “Agreed.”

“But let’s always wake up like this.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft despite the headache. “Deal.”

And in the mess of sheets and champagne-soaked memories, they kissed—slow, hungover, and completely in love.

--------

Stay tuned for more hehe

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f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Note

Heyyy! I’M IN LOVE WITH THE BLACKPINK 5TH MEMBRR AU!!!😩🫶 if possible can you make one on how they met or how they started dating? Hehe 🥰

Y'all I am so sorry I disappeared 😭 for a little. My water spilled in my bag and FRIED my MacBook, got a new one so now we’re back. Enjoyy

Crashing Into You

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Ralph Lauren Flagship – Paris, early evening.

The venue was a blur of crystal chandeliers and vintage brass, all velvet drapes and champagne bubbles and the unmistakable hum of luxury. Lando was used to events like these—smiling, handshakes, pretending to remember people’s names. The room was full of people who walked like they were being watched. The kind of crowd where you were either the main event or completely invisible. He mostly just knew his way to the bar. He was halfway through his drink when she happened.

Someone brushed past him, just hard enough to jostle his elbow and make him fumble the glass not enough to spill it. Just enough to freeze him in place.

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” a voice said, low and musical, almost amused. He turned instinctively, ready to brush it off and—Oh.

She was stunning. Not just beautiful. Stunning. In the runway-model, too-unreal-to-be-approached way. She looked like fire and he wanted to touch. Dark eyes, long hair, the kind of posture that said I know who I am even if he didn’t.

“That was my fault. I was in the way,” he said mindlessly quickly. “I wasn’t looking.”

She tilted her head. “Neither was I. So I guess we’re even.” Her accent was hard to place. A blend of places. Like she'd been everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She smiled and he found himself grinning back.

“Lando,” he said, offering a hand.

“Y/n,” she replied, slipping her hand into his. Her hand fit perfectly in his. Her shake was firm yet soft and warm. “Are you part of the brand?”

“Sort of. Sponsor one of the colognes.” He grinned. “You?”

“Clothes,” she said, sipping her pink drink. “Or whatever they feel like selling out.”

They started talking—casually at first. Then easily. Way too easily.

“What do you do when you’re not crashing into women in couture?” she asked eventually, arching a brow over her glass.

"I'm a driver."

She raised an eyebrow “Like an Uber driver or…?”

He choked on his drink, laughing. “No—no, nothing that useful. Formula 1,” he said slowly, watching her face. Nothing. “....race cars. Fast ones. Around tracks.”

“Uhh,” she said, nodding politely. “Is that… like Nascar?”

He laughed — one hand coming to his chest in exaggerated pain. “You did not just say that.”

Her expression stayed innocent. “I don’t know! I live on planes and hotel room minibars, I’m not exactly keeping up with… engines.” He blinked, god, it was refreshing. The complete lack of recognition. No awkward excitement, no mention of lando no wins, or “Oh my god, you’re the McLaren guy!” Just… her. Real. Effortless. Curious.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, I like it,” he said. “You’re not pretending to care.”

She shrugged. “I’m just being honest.”

He took a sip of his own drink, smiling. “What do you do then? Aside from showing up at fashion shows to get crashed into?”

“I’m in a group. I sing. Dance.”

He nodded slowly. “Like a choir?”

Her face contorted into fake offense. “You did not just say that.” They were cracking up now—shoulders brushing. “You’ve never heard of BLACKPINK?” she asked, half-incredulous.

“No,” he said honestly, brows raised. “That's a thing?”

“You’re joking.”

“I swear on my steering wheel.” she laughed. Really laughed. Head tilted back, hand over her mouth, glowing under the soft lighting. He liked her laugh. A lot.

They stood there, just smiling at each other as if the room didn’t hum around them with flashbulbs and fashion icons. As if it had gone quiet for a second.

“So,” he said eventually, “you’re a singer who doesn’t know racing. I’m a racer who doesn’t know pop.”

“And yet,” she said, leaning a little closer, “here we are.”

“Talking, Laughing, and bonding over mutual ignorance.”

She clinked her glass against his. “Cheers to that.”

From there, the conversation melted into shared gripes about hotel breakfasts, cities they loved (Tokyo, for both of them), and airport horror stories. She told him about spraining her ankle on stage and still danced. He told her about DNFing during a race and crying behind a tire wall. They had rhythm—conversation rhythm. A kind that didn’t need effort. The kind that just clicked. He liked her. That was fast. Maybe too fast. But her voice was warm, her energy addictive, and he found himself not wanting to go back to the table of sponsors and stylists just yet.

Eventually someone tugged gently on her wrist. “Honey,” the woman murmured, apologetically. “They’re waiting.”

She sighed softly, then looked back at him. A warm, real smile on her lips. “Nice to meet you, Lando.” The way she said his name was dangerous. Soft and slow, like a secret. Like she planned to remember it.

“Nice to meet you too, pretty girl,” he said before he could stop himself. She laughed, cheeks dimpling slightly, and walked off with her assistant. He watched her until she was swallowed by the crowd. Then it hit him.

He didn’t get her number.

Later that night – Hotel room, Paris

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, still grinning. That had been—something. But now she was gone, and the odds of seeing her again in a city like Paris? Slim.

He picked up his phone. Opened Instagram. With the caution of a man stepping into a minefield, typed: BLACKPINK

Blue check. 70 million followers. Holy hell. He clicked, seeing the accomplishments posted. He clicked on the following

@/roses_are_rosie Nope.

@/jennierubyjane Not her.

@/lalalalisa_m Definitely not her.

@/sooyaaa__ Still not her.

@/yourusername bingo

He clicked on her profile. She followed no one, not even her members. His eyes widened at the 98 million followers. Damn. Lando blinked, scrolling slowly through her posts. Stage photos. Studio mirrors. Candid selfies that still looked like editorial shoots. He was careful—so, so careful—not to accidentally like anything. Until…Tap. Double click. Red heart.

“No. No no no—shit—” He froze. Stared at the post he’d just liked. It was from five years ago. He quickly threw the phone onto the other pillow like it burned. A moment later, he picked it back up, carefully scrolled to her most recent story. A blurry Boomerang of the fashion show crowd.

In the corner—barely visible—he could see the back of his own head. He stared at her profile for another full minute before clicking off his phone

The next morning — Her hotel suite, Paris.

It was still early.

A pale wash of sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, casting soft gold across the polished marble and velvet of the suite. The city below was just waking up, its sounds distant and muffled.

She was curled up sideways on the deep emerald chaise lounge, her robe half-falling off one shoulder, a warm mug of black coffee nestled in her hands. Her dark hair was still a mess from sleep, her legs tucked beneath her.

She was scrolling—half-awake, half-bored—through a sea of mentions, tags, and fan edits. Her thumb moved lazily over the screen, pausing occasionally on a funny tweet or a well-lit concert shot. She looked serene, unbothered until her thumb hovered. Wait, that wasn’t from last night or last week. Her brows pulled together slightly as she narrowed her eyes. The post was old. Really old. Dated: July 2019.

A grainy backstage photo. She and Jennie were mid-laugh, arms slung around each other, no makeup, oversized hoodies and messy ponytails. A pure, blink-and-you-miss-it candid—buried beneath years of sleek press shots and Vogue covers. Someone liked it recently.

@/landonorris

She blinked. Sat up slightly. Tapped the username and there he was—Driver Boy himself. The same sharp features staring back at her from his profile picture.

His feed was exactly what she expected and somehow not at all: Fast cars, fast friends, podium selfies, blurry nights out with other drivers, golf swings, and an unhealthy obsession with helmets. She bit back a laugh and shook her head slowly. “You’re so bad at lurking, my guy.”

The door to the suite creaked open behind her. Jennie padded in, makeup-free, hair in a topknot, spooning yogurt straight from the tub. She gave her a sleepy glance.

“What’s that face?” She didn’t answer right away. She just took a sip of her coffee and blinked innocently, thumb already clicking her phone screen off like a guilty teenager caught texting their crush. Jennie tilted her head, suspicious. “Is that a ‘someone cute just liked my post’ face?”

She leaned back into the cushions, sipping with dramatic nonchalance. “Just someone accidentally liking my 2018 trauma photo dump.”

Jennie smirked. “Someone cute?”

She just hummed, watching the sunrise over Paris, and thinking about a boy who drove like fire and lurked like an idiot.

That evening — a rooftop afterparty, somewhere above Paris.

The party was hosted by a designer’s son—of course it was—and the rooftop was lined with string lights, glass floors, and too many people wearing sunglasses at night. Music pulsed low and sultry beneath the buzz of conversation. The air smelled like jasmine, champagne, and smoke. Like secrets.

She wasn’t even supposed to go. She hated afterparties. They always felt like the encore to a concert no one asked for. But something in her had told her to wear the black silk, just in case.

She was halfway through her first drink, pretending to listen to a story about someone’s yacht in Ibiza, when she saw him.

Alone at the bar again. Same slight slouch. Same curls. Different suit.

“Wow,” she said, sliding up beside him and leaning on the bar. “You survived the internet?”

He looked over—and grinned, bashful and busted. “You saw that, huh?”

“You mean the deep dive from 2019? Yeah. Bold move.”

“I panicked. My thumb slipped.”

“Mhm. Sure. Tell me, were you admiring my friendship with Jennie or the tragic grainy filter?”

He laughed, sheepish. “Honestly? You were laughing in it. I liked that.”

That caught her off-guard. Her smirk faltered just enough to show something real. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass. “You’re kind of charming when you’re not trying.”

“Oh no,” he said, mock horror. “Do not say that. I’ve worked very hard on this whole ‘awkward hot guy who crashes into women’ brand.”

She leaned in a little closer, just enough to catch the spark in his eyes. “You’re nailing it. Truly.”

They smiled and again, that bubble. People moved around them like waves against glass. Voices, cameras, bodies brushing past—and none of it touched them. They were suspended.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

She held up her glass. “Something pink and overpriced. You?”

“Something brown and dangerous.” He clinked his glass against hers.

“Cheers to bad decisions,” she said.

“To very attractive bad decisions,” he replied, and she laughed. He watched her as she took a sip. “You came here hoping to see me again, didn’t you?”

She nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—look, I’m not saying I came here hoping to see you, but—”

“You totally did.”

“I one hundred percent did.”

She bit her lip, amused, trying not to grin. “I came here for the free alcohol.”

“Liar,” he said. “You wore black silk. You absolutely dressed for damage.”

She tilted her head, playful. “And what damage are you expecting, Mr. Norris?”

He leaned in—not enough to crowd, but just enough to make her breath hitch. “The kind that doesn’t hurt. Much.”

Her laugh was soft this time, breathy. “You’re trouble.”

“Maybe,” he said, eyes dancing. “But I’m good company.”

She set her glass down, fingers brushing his wrist just briefly. “Prove it.”

“Dance with me,” he said, eyes gleaming.

“Huh” visibly caught off-gaurd

“Dance with me,” he repeated

She blinked. “There’s no dance floor.”

“There’s music.”She looked at him for a long moment, like she was weighing something. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached for his hand. He took it, warm and steady. And right there, in the middle of a rooftop with no official dance floor, surrounded by models and moguls, and champagne towers—he pulled her close and started to sway.

No rhythm. No choreography. Just movement. Just closeness.

He smelled like expensive cologne and something electric. She didn’t know if it was adrenaline or him.

Her arms wrapped around his neck almost too naturally. Like muscle memory from another life. His hands rested on her waist, careful like he was holding something important. They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. For a moment, time felt indulgent. Like the city stopped for them.

At one point, she tucked her face into his shoulder and laughed at something he whispered—a low joke about someone trying to twerk near a sculpture. She never did find out what the punchline was. Just the way his voice rumbled in her ear and made her stomach flip.

He walked her back, because of course he did. Because he was raised right, and also—because he didn’t want the night to end.

“Thanks for the dance,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, fingers grazing the knob.

“Thanks for not mocking my two-step,” he grinned.

“I still might.”

“Fair.”

The hallway was quiet, dim, the buzz of the party somewhere far below them now. Just the two of them, wrapped in the echo of too much champagne and the possibility of something.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close. “You should come to a race.”

“You won’t even let me Google Formula 1,” she replied.

“I’m trying to preserve the mystery.”

She smiled. “You’ve got a lot of mystery, Norris.”

He looked at her like he didn’t want to leave. Like he didn’t want this to end.

“Text me,” she said, finally.

“You haven’t given me your number.”

She held out her hand. He placed his phone in it like it was some kind of offering. She typed in her number, added a peach emoji after the nickname he gave her, and handed it back.

Before he could say anything else, she leaned in and kissed him—just a brush at the corner of his mouth. A hit-and-run. A flicker of a spark, not a fire. Not yet.

Then she slipped inside the suite and closed the door behind her, soft and certain. He stood there, staring at the door for a second. Then two.

And then he laughed to himself, just once, quiet and disbelieving. Grinning, he walked back down the hallway, thumb already hovering over her contact.

The Eiffel Tower glittered like it was in on the secret. She sat curled up in a hotel robe, legs tucked beneath her, phone glowing in her lap. Her lip gloss had long faded, but the smile hadn’t.

A new message lit up her screen:

Racer Boy 🚦: Still thinking about your terrifying cheekbones. Are they TSA approved or do they count as weapons?

She snorted and typed back:

Pretty girl 🍑: I aim to terrify but only in low lighting and emotional vulnerability.

Racer Boy 🚦: Speaking of emotionally vulnerable I passed the cemetery near Abbey Road earlier today Swear I heard it whisper "She’s gonna break your heart, mate."

Pretty girl 🍑: Was it haunted or just British?

Racer Boy 🚦: Bit of both, honestly. But I told it: "Too late. I’m already ghosted."

Pretty girl 🍑: You are so dramatic. Ghosted by who?

Racer Boy 🚦: You. Every time you leave me on read for 46 seconds It’s like being buried in a tiny emotional grave

Pretty girl 🍑: Sounds cozy Should I bring flowers to your tiny grave?

Racer Boy 🚦: Only if they’re fake So they last Like my tragic love for you

Pretty girl 🍑: omg. you are so dumb

Racer Boy 🚦: Dumb and doomed. The best kind. Also, I’m watching that video of you walking the Jacquemus show in slow-mo Trying to understand how someone can walk like a goddess and still text me back

Pretty girl 🍑: You say that like I’m not also sitting here watching an F1 compilation called “Lando Norris funny moments” You’re a funny man

Racer Boy 🚦: I KNEW those views were you

Pretty girl 🍑: Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll deny it to the grave. Your tiny, emotional grave.

Racer Boy 🚦: The slow death of my dignity. When are you headed to London again?

Pretty girl 🍑: Next month. Flying Friday night. London by Saturday. Why?

Racer Boy 🚦: Silverstone’s that Sunday. Want to go out that Saturday night?

Pretty girl 🍑: Like…out out?

Racer Boy 🚦: Like…first date out.

Pretty girl 🍑: Hmm. Tempting. Will there be pasta?

Racer Boy 🚦: You tell me what you want and I’ll pretend I planned it.

Pretty girl 🍑: Good. I like my artisanal lies.

Friday – YG building, Seoul, Korea. 2:45 PM.

It had been hours of dance drills, water bottles half-drunk and the air thick with the scent of effort and expensive dry shampoo. Practice was winding down, and the group had collapsed into their usual recovery spots around the studio—Lisa sprawled on her back with a towel over her face, Rosé curled in the corner scrolling through her camera roll with Jisoo over her shoulder, Jennie perched like a cat on the ledge by the window. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sweaty strands of hair clinging to her neck, practically glowing—and not just from the workout.

She kept looking at her phone. Then smiling. Then biting back the smile like it might betray her.

Jennie caught it first. She said nothing at first—just watched, brow faintly arched, sipping coconut water like she was biding her time.

Then Rosé caught on too. She tilted her head slightly, catching Jennie’s eye. A silent glance passed between them. No words, just a well-honed sisterly radar buzzing in sync.

Lisa didn’t bother with subtlety. Lisa straight-up leaned over her shoulder, eyes wide with nosy glee. “Who’s Racer Boy?” she chirped.

She jolted and locked her screen so fast she nearly dropped it. “No one.”

Lisa gasped dramatically. “You have a contact name for him?! And an emoji?! That’s not no one. That’s a thing.”

Jennie raised a sculpted brow. “You’re giggling.”

She blinked, defensive. “I do that sometimes.”

“You’re wearing lip gloss in rehearsals,” Jisoo added.

She crossed her arms. “I like gloss.”

Jennie didn’t blink. “You wore chapstick for three years straight. Even to the Met Gala.”

Lisa was rolling on the floor now. “Guys. She’s blushing. She’s actually blushing. The Ice Queen has thawed.”

Rosé, still calm in the corner, sang softly like she was scoring a drama, “She’s in loooove…”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

The girls froze. Then they pounced.

“Oh my God,” Lisa squealed, sitting up on her knees. “You’re totally in love. You’re, like, early-stage in love. You’re in pre-love.”

“It’s barely been a month,” she said, heat creeping up her neck.

“But you’re still here,” Jennie said softly, eyes knowing. “Smiling like an idiot.” She didn’t answer.

She turned back to her phone, thumb hovering over the contact labeled: Racer Boy 🚦

She didn’t open the thread yet. Just stared at it.

Rosé scooted closer, brushing her knee against hers. “Is he nice?”

She nodded slowly. “He’s…funny. And stupid. And sweet. And—” She caught herself and looked up. “I can’t tell if this is real or if I’m just enjoying the distraction.”

“Distractions don’t make you wear lip gloss,” Lisa said, nudging her shoulder.

“Distractions don’t make you glow,” Jisoo added, voice soft but certain.

She looked at her sisters. These girls who’d shared cramped dressing rooms, impossible schedules, heartbreaks, and hair disasters. They knew her. All of her. The guarded parts. The lonely ones. The girl who rarely let anyone in. So she finally said it.

“I really like him,” she whispered. “And it’s terrifying.”

The silence after wasn’t mocking. It was reverent. The kind of silence that only comes when the truth lands in a room like a slow-burning spark.

Rosé smiled. “It’s supposed to be.”

Lisa grinned. “So when do we meet this emotionally reckless traffic light of a man?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. “Not until I’m sure he’s not going to run away screaming.”

Jennie stood and walked over, brushing a thumb gently over her flushed cheek. “If he does, he’s not worth your lip gloss.”

She laughed. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

“We learned from you,” Rosé said.

Lisa threw a towel in the air. “Blackpink in your boyfriend's area!”

The room burst into laughter, and somewhere in the center of it, her phone buzzed again. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She unlocked it, pened the thread, and smiled again.

And the girls? They saw it. All of it.

Not just the fruity gloss. But the soft, tender thing underneath—the beginning of something.

Tuesday – 9:42 AM Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, Monaco

“Still can’t believe you wanted to fly commercial,” Oscar said, elbowing Lando in the side as they passed through the first-class queue.

“I like having my feet on the ground with the peasants,” Lando deadpanned. “Also, my jet’s being serviced.”

“Tragic,” Oscar replied. “Shall we alert the tabloids?”

They moved toward their gate lazily, both in joggers and hoodies, blending into the elite crowd of silent headphones and sleek carry-ons. Lando scrolled through his phone absently—mostly ignoring it—until a Korean news outlet he recently started following popped up on his feed.

Dispatch Korea: BLACKPINK rumored to be heading to London this Saturday for an MV shoot.

He swallowed. His thumb hovered over the image.

“She's going to London,” he muttered.

Oscar turned. “Who?”

Lando locked his screen quickly, but not quickly enough.

“Oh,” Oscar said, grinning now. “Pretty girl.”

“Don’t call her that.” Lando snapped.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You're the one who picked the nickname.”

There was a pause. Then:

“You nervous?” Oscar asked, voice lower now.

Lando stared out the terminal window, at the clouds stacking like hills in the distance. His jaw tightened.

“No,” he lied. Then added, softer, “I just want to see her.”

Oscar clapped him on the back. “You will.”

And with that, they boarded.

Tuesday — Heathrow Airport, London 6:03 AM

The sky was still bruised with dawn when Lando and Oscar stepped off the flight from Monaco, tired but wired with race weekend energy.

Oscar yawned. “You’re unnaturally chipper for someone who didn’t sleep.”

Lando didn’t look up from his phone. “Didn’t need sleep.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes, catching the edge of a smirk. “You’re tracking her, aren’t you?”

“I’m tracking the traffic for Silverstone,” Lando lied.

Oscar laughed as they made their way through the terminal. “You’re so far gone.”

Lando didn’t deny it.

Saturday – 1:12 PM Incheon International Airport, Seoul, Korea

Flashes clicked the moment Blackpink stepped through the automatic glass doors.

Her oversized hoodie was zipped halfway up, her cap low over her brow, and yet Dispatch still got their shots. Jennie had sunglasses on, Lisa was yawning dramatically for the cameras, and Rosé clung to her neck pillow like it owed her rent. Jisoo going through her Dior purse to find their passports.

“Thank god there’s no dating rumors this time,” Jennie muttered under her breath, shielding her face with her phone.

“Just a music video,” Lisa added brightly, tossing the words toward the lenses as they walked. “Just Seoul to London. Simple stuff.”

She kept her eyes forward, the hood of her hoodie pulled low enough to ignore the chaos, but not so low that she couldn’t see the gate signs. Her suitcase rolled smoothly behind her—quiet, composed, like her. But inside, everything buzzed.

Twelve hours. Give or take and he’d be there.

The ache built in her ribs like pressure at takeoff.

She hadn’t told the girls he’d be in London too. It wasn’t a thing, not really but she could feel the weight of his last text sitting in her pocket. Could still see it like a ghost behind her eyelids.

Hope you’re flying safe. Let me know when you land. You better bring the gloss.

She pressed her lips together.

Yeah. She was going to see him again.

Saturday — Heathrow Airport, London. 2:27 PM

The terminal was chaotic in the way only Heathrow could be—loudspeaker announcements, luggage wheels humming, paparazzi waiting at barriers like vultures in branded windbreakers.

Blackpink moved through the crowd like they’d done it a hundred times. Because they had.

Jennie in sunglasses, Rosé with headphones, Lisa and Jisoo pulling faces at fans who called their names. She walked at the center, incognito in an oversized hoodie and sweats, but the camera shutters still found her. She waved politely, murmured a few hellos. The moment they passed through to the car waiting outside, she exhaled.

Jisoo climbed in first, peering at her bandmate as she followed.

“You okay?” Jisoo asked.

She nodded, then glanced at her phone. Still nothing. No new messages.

Just a calendar ping reminding her: Dinner – 7PM. Notting Hill.

Rosé caught the look. “You’re seeing him tonight.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

Lisa leaned forward between the seats. “Tell him we said if he breaks your heart, we break his legs.”

A few more shutter clicks. Paparazzi murmurs. But no chaos. Just quiet speculation.

“BLACKPINK touches down in London for new MV shoot” the headlines read.

Inside the black car she sat by the window, pretending to look out the window. Her stomach twisted with anticipation.

Lando was already here.

Saturday night after Quali

He was waiting outside, pacing slightly beside a rented matte-black Jaguar. Crisp black button-up shirt. Rolled sleeves. Slacks and nerves.

She had stepped out of her hotel in a low, backless black dress and a leather jacket. Hair half-up, minimal makeup, like she wasn’t trying. Which meant she definitely was.

Lando looked up—and stilled.

“Hi,” she said softly, tugging her jacket tighter against the London chill.

He exhaled. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

She grinned. “Strong opening line.”

He opened the car door for her. “Wait till you see the menu.”

They sat across from each other at a private corner table, candlelight flickering between them.

“So,” she said, swirling her wine. “How do you usually spend a Saturday before your home Grand Prix?”

“Carb-loading. Simulator practice. Crying.”

“Ah,” she said. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “And you? How do kpop stars prep for filming a music video?”

“Usually not by going on a date with a Formula 1 driver.”

“Uncharted territory?”

“Just… new.”

They lingered in the pause. There was something quiet settling between them. Not quite nerves. Not quite ease. Something like possibility.

“You’re not what I expected,” she admitted.

“Oh?” Lando leaned back, intrigued.

“You’re… gentler. Funnier. Grounded.”

Lando cocked his head. “What were you expecting? Champagne and ego?”

She smirked. “Something like that.”

Lando smirked. “And you? I thought you’d be terrifying.”

She raised a brow. “I am terrifying.”

He leaned in. “Only a little.”

Their eyes held.

And for just a second, the noise of the world faded.

Later — walking through empty London streets.

The restaurant was behind them. Her heels clicked softly against the pavement. Wind played with her loose hair.

They walked close—shoulders brushing now and then, like gravity pulling them nearer with each block.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

“A bit,” he admitted.

“You drive at 300 km/h for a living.”

“And you dance in front of stadiums. We’re both mad.”

They stopped at the corner under a streetlamp. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her cheek.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, voice low.

She smiled. “Thank you. You didn’t make it weird.”

He grinned. “Yet.” She laughed, quiet and full. Then he kissed her—Just soft, steady warmth.

A beginning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against hers.

“Can I see you at Silverstone?” he whispered.

She hesitated, the ache already there. “I have to film all weekend.”

He blinked. “No pressure then.”

She leaned back, a little sad, a little smitten. “Good luck, racer boy.”

And then she turned, leaving him at the corner, already counting down the hours.

Sunday — Silverstone Circuit. Race Day. 3:11 PM.

Lando was strapped in. Visor down. Engine roared behind him like a beast with breath. And yet—somewhere in the noise, there was her.

The memory of her laugh over wine. The way she called him racer boy like a dare. The kiss on the corner under the streetlamp.

He blinked. Focus. Turn 9. Copse. Hold the inside. Be clinical.

But her voice still floated at the edge of his thoughts— "You're gentler than I expected."

He downshifted, sharpened. Not a distraction but a tether.

Sunday — Somewhere in East London. Music video shoot. 3:26 PM.

She stood in front of the camera, drenched in soft red lights and smoke. They were mid-take. Her lips were syncing perfectly to the track. But just out of frame, behind a monitor—

The Grand Prix streamed in silence.

A pit stop. The commentator’s gestures were exaggerated. Lando’s car blurred in and out of frame. P2.

Her eyes flicked to the screen again between takes. Jennie noticed. So did Rosé. Jisoo whispered, “He’s second. Lap 38.”

She didn’t respond. Just smoothed her skirt and went back to her mark. But her stomach wouldn’t settle.

Sweat still on her skin. Glitter still in her hair. She peeled off her boots, collapsed onto the couch, and unlocked her phone.

1 New Message

Racer Boy 🚦 P2 today. Not bad, right? You would’ve looked hot in a McLaren hat.

She smiled. Bit her lip. Typed back.

Pretty girl 🍑: Watched between takes. Almost tripped on stage when you overtook that tall guy in the Mercades. Proud of you, racer boy.

A pause. Then:

Pretty girl 🍑: Can I see you before I leave London?

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

Racer Boy 🚦: Yes. Tell me where and when. And wear that fruity lip gloss again. For science.

She laughed quietly into the pillow on the couch.

And somewhere across the city, Lando was still in his fireproofs, hair damp, heart pounding harder at her text than at the finish line.

Monday night — Some hotel, South Kensington. 11:42 PM.

Rain tapped gently at the windows. London was half-asleep. The room smelled like hotel linen and vanilla shampoo. She opened the door still wrapped in a robe, towel around her neck, her hair damp from a shower.

Lando stood in the hall—hood up, cap low, McLaren duffel slung over his shoulder. When she opened the door, he looked up.

“Hey,” he said, breathless, like he’d run the last few blocks. She let him in without a word.

Inside, the lights were low. A single bedside lamp glowed. Her suitcase lay open on the couch. He dropped his bag and reached for her. She folded into him easily, like it was muscle memory already.

“You did so well yesterday,” she whispered against his chest.

“You weren’t there,” he murmured. “Didn’t feel right.”

She pulled back just enough to look up. “You’re getting soft, Norris.”

“You made me soft.”

She laughed—quiet and warm. Then, “You came all this way just to be sappy?”

“No.” He brushed a thumb across her cheekbone. “I came to ask if this is something.”

She blinked.

“I know it’s fast. I know it’s complicated. But I keep thinking about you. At the track. In the car. Before every corner. After the podium.”

She stared up at him, heart racing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I just needed you to know.”

She didn’t answer. She kissed him instead. Slow, steady. No urgency. No performance.

Just them. Quiet and real.

When she finally pulled away, her forehead stayed against his.

“It is something,” she whispered. “And I want to keep it.”

Lando smiled—soft, boyish. “Just us, then. For now?”

She nodded. “Let them gossip about who Jennie’s dating.” He laughed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come to bed,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

He followed her under the covers, fully clothed, hands respectful. But the way he held her—arms tight around her waist, breath even against her neck—it felt like claiming something. Not as possession but as peace.

Before the sun came up, Lando left through the back entrance of the hotel. Cap pulled low. Hoodie up. She watched him from the window, coffee in hand.

One last glance back from him. A small wave. he disappeared into the London drizzle, taking their secret with him.

April 2023 – California, USA. Coachella Weekend One.

Blackpink’s Coachella headlining set lit up the desert sky. Fireworks burst. The crowd roared. She hit every move, every note, sweat-slick and electric under the lights.

Thousands watched live. Millions streamed online.

One of them was Lando—propped in his motorhome in Baku, Azerbaijan, the race on pause, earbuds in. His engineer’s notes sat untouched beside him.

He didn’t even blink as she spun into formation.

When she winked into the camera halfway through Kill This Love, he smiled to himself.

Oscar walked by, holding his phone. “Are you watching the race edit?”

“No,” Lando murmured, not looking away. “Something better.”

Oscar squinted. “Is that…Coachella?”

Lando just grinned.

May 2023 – Monaco GP Weekend.

Their world tour had taken her to Madrid, then Paris, then Berlin. She was running on three hours of sleep and oat milk lattes.

But her AirPods were in during hair and makeup. McLaren race radio crackling softly.

When Lando crossed the line P3, her face lit up—caught on a behind-the-scenes cam. “Why are you smiling like that?” Jennie asked.

“No reason.”

Rosé smirked. “Racer Boy again?”

“Shut up,” She mumbled.

But that night, in the greenroom, she texted him:

My Pretty girl 💕: "P3 looks good on you. So does that champagne spray."

Seconds later:

Lando 🧡: Say that again in person.

June 2023 – London.

She landed at Heathrow. He was there for simulator testing.

A quiet 14-hour overlap.

She showed up at his hotel at 1 a.m., wearing sunglasses and a hoodie, laughing as she pressed the elevator button like it was a mission.

He opened the door half-asleep—and woke up fast.

“I miss your stupid face,” she muttered, head tucked into his neck.

“You’re the one touring the planet,” he teased.

“I’d cancel Berlin if it meant ten more hours like this.”

They didn’t leave the room once. Just room service, kisses between sentences, her asleep on his chest before he finished the film they started.

By sunrise, she was gone—the scent of her shampoo on his pillow, a lipstick print on a hotel glass.

October 2023 – Japan.

Suzuka was brutal. Rain. Red flags. Strategy chaos.

Lando finished P2.

Hours later, still in his race suit, he FaceTimed her from the back of the paddock truck.

She was in a dressing room in Bangkok, eyeliner smudged, exhausted.

“I can’t wait till you’re done being famous,” she said sleepily.

He laughed. “Says the Coachella girl.”

“I just want to kiss you without needing a disguise.”

“We’ll get there.”

A beat.

She whispered, “I love you, you know.”

Lando blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I know,” he said softly. “I love you too.”

January 2024 – Seoul.

He waited outside a rehearsal studio, leaned up against a black car, baseball cap pulled low.

She ran out between dance drills. Hugged him so hard he lifted off the ground.

Ten minutes. That’s all they had.

Ten minutes of reality before she was gone again.

March 2024 – Melbourne.

Race morning. Lando sat in the back of the McLaren garage, headphones in. The world buzzed around him—mechanics, pit strategy, journalists shouting across pit lane.

But his focus stayed fixed on one thing: a small voice message from her, sent at 3 AM her time.

“Go get ‘em, racer boy. Make the corners jealous.”

He smiled, then pulled his helmet on.

April 2024 – LA.

Blackpink had a surprise release. The studio was chaotic.

But her lockscreen still lit up with one name.

Lando 🧡: Post-qualifying facetime? I need your lucky eyes.

She called. He answered instantly.

And just like that—the noise faded. For a minute, they were in the same room again.

Late April 2024 – FaceTime call, two time zones apart.

She was curled up in bed in Seoul, bare-faced and wrapped in Lando’s hoodie — the one he’d left behind months ago, intentionally or not. Her hair was messy. She looked tired, but when she smiled, Lando felt it across continents.

He was lounging on the hotel balcony in Shanghai, race weekend winding down, the city lights behind him. One earbud in, a smile tugging at his lips as he listened to her ramble about rehearsals, tour drama, and a coffee order that had gone hilariously wrong.

Then he quieted.

Just watched her. Thought about the ache he felt every time the call ended. Every time he had to fly somewhere she wasn’t.

And then, softly—almost casually, but not quite—he said it: “Come to Barcelona with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He hesitated—half-smiling, half-serious now. “Join me for the Grand Prix. Be there.”

A beat.

“I know it’s insane. And I know your schedule is chaos. But… I want you there. Not as a secret. Not hiding behind paddock walls. Just… with me.”

The silence stretched.

She stared at him through the screen, stunned into stillness. She looked like she’d stopped breathing.

Then—quietly, carefully— “You mean… like, be seen?”

He nodded. “I mean, officially. No disguises. No running. Just us.”

She didn’t speak right away. But her eyes were soft. Her thumb rubbed the seam of his hoodie, her voice smaller than usual when she answered:

“You really want that?”

“I want you.” He didn’t flinch when he said it. “With me. In Barcelona. Let the world talk, for once.”

She exhaled slowly, lips curving just a little.

“…Then let’s give them something to talk about.”

195 notes · View notes

f1-mcmuffin · 3 months ago

Text

Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist

Lando Norris x 5th member of BLACKPINK reader

Ask to join the taglist to keep up with updates

ALL STORIES ARE WRITTEN IN THIRD PERSON

Main Masterlist | Lando Norris Masterlist |

★ angst | ❀ fluff | ♡ smut

────୨ৎ────

Spotlight & Slipstream

Summary: You join Lando in Barcelona for your first Grand Prix (requested) ❀

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Spotlight & Slipstream pt. 2

Summary : You invite the drivers and the WAGS to a BLACKPINK concert (requested) ❀

────୨ৎ────

Crashing into you

Summary : How you and Lando meet (requested) ❀

────୨ৎ────

First Wins, First Times

Summary : you and Lisa head to the 2024 Miami GP. Lisa’s first time and where you witness Lando get his first win (requested) ❀

────୨ৎ────

DTS Moments

Summary : some moments of you and lando in DTS (requested) ❀ ★

────୨ৎ────

{Pietra and Your relationship}

────୨ৎ────

The Other Woman

Summary : Your reaction to Magui's attempts (requested) ❀★

────୨ৎ────

Hot Seat

Summary : McLaren invites you to to a hot lap with Lando for their YouTube channel (requested) ❀

────୨ৎ────

Meeting the WAGs

Summary : The WAGs first impressions of you and what they think of you after you meet ❀

────୨ৎ────

Ruby

Summary : Jennie invites you and Lando to her Ruby experience in Paris (requested) ❀

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MORE WAGS

Summary : Moments with the WAGS ❀

────୨ৎ────

Hot Ones

Summary : After Jennies episode, they ask you to join ❀

────୨ৎ────

COMING SOON...

Quad | Context: You are featured in Quadrant videos and some steams (requested) ❀

The Album | Context : you drop your new album. Lando and your new friends make appearances in the MV's (requested) ❀

BLACKPINK moments that boil my noodles | Context: While scrolling through YouTube Lando finds a video compilation of you in your active BLACKPINK era ❀

Exhaustion | Context: Tour and trying to keeping up with Lando takes its toll (requested) ❀★

Through their eyes | Context: moments caught by fans and moments in general (requested) ❀

Miami | Context : you, Lisa, and Rosé attend the 2025 Miami GP (requested) ❀

MISS POSSESSIVE | Context: 2025 Monaco Grand Prix and a run in with Magui (requested) ❀

I'm Sorry | Context: After being told by Magui to stand down, Pietra realises how disrespectful she was to you and plans to make it up (requested) ❀★

MR POSSESSIVE| context: while at DEADLINE you invite your male idol friends back stage for a picture and post it, Lando sees it and for the first time feels…jealous (requested) ❀

DEADLINE | context: after 3 years, you and the rest of blackpink start what maybe Blackpink last tour (requested) ❀

Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless | context: after the British Grand Prix Lando attends the LA DEADLINE show, along with your ex (requested) ❀★

More DTS moments | context: just some more DTS moments my tiny brain came up with ❀★

WHAT IF | context: situations what would never happen but what if…★

405 notes · View notes

f1-mcmuffin · 4 months ago

Text

THUNDER | III |

Part of "The Villain of F1" story, a Lando Norris Fanfic

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒱𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝐹𝟣 Masterlist| Lando Norris Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Previously

warnings: family angst, Written in 3rd person

----------

"𝒮𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃' 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇, 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇"

"𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇?"

(FLASHBACK) Early 2006 - UK

The paddock buzzed around them—engines humming in the distance, people yelling over radios, tires rolling across pavement, and the air thick with sun and tension. But Matteo stood still beside their tent, helmet in hand, suited up in red and black, the number 80 stitched over his heart.

She was perched on a folding chair nearby, legs swinging, already dressed for her competition later that afternoon. Her hair was pulled back into a perfect high ponytail, glitter already dusted across her cheeks. She had her sparkly dance duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a snack pouch in her lap. Their schedules rarely lined up this way—Matteo racing in the morning, she's dancing that afternoon. But when they did, it always meant the ritual.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter. “Time for the thing.”

Matteo turned toward her immediately, a tiny, knowing smile on his face. “Right. The thing.” she slid off the chair and walked up to him. She opened the pouch and pulled out two things: a small, silver charm shaped like a lightning bolt, and a pink plastic hair clip shaped like a star.

They’d started it when they were five— he gave her the lightning bolt for strength, she gave him the star to help him "shine under pressure." Somehow, those objects had survived races, flights, messy hotels, and a few wash cycles.

She reached up on her tiptoes and clipped the star to the inside of Matteo’s suit collar, right where it wouldn’t be seen. “For sparkle power,” she said with all the solemnity of someone casting a real spell.

Matteo nodded seriously, then took the lightning bolt charm and looped it through the tiny drawstring of her dance bag. “To overcome adversities,” he replied, just as serious.

They bumped fists, a soft thud between gloved hands and glittery fingers.

“Hey,” Matteo said, his voice quieter now. “You’re gonna be awesome today.”

she tilted her head at him. “I know. But thanks.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay.”

She tugged at his glove. “You too, Teo. Remember what Papa said—smooth like syrup, not like spaghetti.”

Matteo wrinkled his nose. “Papa did not say that.”

“He did in the kitchen once,” she argued. “Syrup is smooth and fast. Spaghetti is wild and messy,” she waved her arms around.

“I’m gonna pretend that made sense,” he muttered, already walking toward his kart. She followed him halfway there. “Just win, okay?”

“Only if you promise to jump the highest today.”

She saluted. “Yes, Captain.” Matteo smiled, climbing into his seat. As the engine roared to life, She stood back, hands on her hips like a very tiny coach. Giovanni came up beside her, watching his son settle in.

“Helping him focus?” he asked quietly.

she grinned. “Obviously.”

Later that afternoon, after Matteo had crossed the finish line and she had landed her final pirouette, they sat side by side in the backseat of the car, medals around their necks, tired and sticky from the day. She leaned her head against Matteo’s shoulder, the lightning bolt charm still hanging from her bag. He bumped her gently with his.

“Good ritual,” he said.

She yawned. “Works every time.”

Parma Karting Circuit, Italy – Early Spring, 2008 Before Karting Season

The morning air hung crisp over the rolling fields of Emilia-Romagna, a faint mist still lingering at the edge of the Parma karting track. The Acerbi twins—eight years old, suited up in matching black and red racing gear—stood by their karts with wide eyes and helmet hair, their breath visible in the cold. Their father, Giovanni, watched with a quiet smile, arms crossed, while Luca, their eldest brother, tall and composed, leaned beside him. Their mother, Iseul, had packed warm drinks, and Leone, their older sister, had already started a stopwatch from the pit wall.

Today was no ordinary practice day. The track had been closed off for a very special private training session.

Session 1: Michael Schumacher – Precision & Presence

Michael arrived with Mick in tow, the younger boy barely older than the twins and dragging his small helmet behind him. The twins lit up at the sight of him—The Michael Schumacher, but ran straight to Mick first like it was any other playdate.

“Ready to get lapped, Schumacher?” Matteo teased.

“You wish, Acerbi,” Mick grinned back.

Michael knelt to her and Matteo’s level, his presence commanding, but soft in the way only family could make it.

“Today,” he said in Italian, “we work on feeling the kart like it’s part of your body. There is no jerking, no wrestling. Control comes from calm.” He walked the track with them on foot first, pointing at corners and elevation changes, where rubber left from old tires would guide their grip.

She is always a fiery, wanted to push harder and brake later. She had natural aggression, but Michael made her stop after every lap and narrate exactly what she’d done.

“Tell me where you broke. Why. How the kart responded.” Her brow furrowed in frustration.

“Y/n,” he said gently, “you want to be faster than everyone? Learn to think faster than everyone. You’ve already got the fight. Add the mind.” Matteo, meanwhile, absorbed everything quietly, asking about apexes and ideal throttle positions, already focused on perfection.

After one session, Michael stepped back and whispered to Giovanni, “These two? They’re going to rewrite everything.”

Session 2: Sebastian Vettel – Joy & Rhythm

It was late afternoon when Sebastian arrived in his usual chaotic energy, bounding from his car with his helmet still on.

“Where are my future champions?!” he shouted, spinning her around like a helicopter before she could react. Seb’s teaching was kinetic—he wanted them to laugh. He brought out karts with no engines and made them push each other down the slope behind the garages to practice “feeling the roll.”

“Karting should feel like a dance,” he said, “not a fight. Every corner has rhythm. Find it. And then... dance like it’s your favorite song.”

she found herself loosening up, laughing until her cheeks hurt. Matteo, who was usually more reserved, cracked a grin when Seb tossed Matteo’s helmet over his head and landed square on his sisters. Which left a pretty nasty bump they had to hide from their father...

They spent an hour just “racing” around cones set up like a slalom—with Seb chasing them on foot, arms flailing. Later, when Matteo’s lap times improved and her lines grew smoother, Seb winked and said, “Told you. Laugh first. Fast second. But the two always follow each other.”

Session 3: Lewis Hamilton – Mental Strength & Self-Belief

When Lewis arrived, it was already dusk. The twins had never seen someone move so gracefully, like every step had purpose. He sat with them at the edge of the track before they even got into karts.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he asked.

Matteo said, “To be the best.”

She said nothing at first. She stared at the track. “To show everyone I belong.” Lewis turned to her.

“That’s exactly why you do. You show them why they’re wrong, with your racing, with your soul, and not for them, for you.” The session was quiet. Lewis guided them through breathing exercises before laps, made them close their eyes, and visualize each corner.

“Your mind is your strongest engine,” he said. “Fuel it with belief.”

After the laps, Lewis watched her from the pit wall. Her lines were smoother now, yes—but something else had changed. Her jaw wasn’t clenched. Her shoulders were relaxed. When she pulled in, helmet off, hair a mess, she was glowing.

He handed her a bottle of water. “See? You belong more than anyone.”

Session 4: Fernando Alonso – Strategy & Sharpness

The next morning, the sun rose low and golden, casting long shadows over the karting circuit. The twins were already suited up, running warm-up laps while Mick and a few local kids watched from the edge.

Fernando Alonso pulled in quietly in a matte black car. No grand entrance. Just a nod to Giovanni and a subtle “Hola” to the twins as he walked the length of the track on his own. Observing. Calculating.

“Y/n. Matteo. Off track. Come walk with me,” he said, beckoning.

They obeyed immediately, falling in beside him. He didn’t talk at first—just traced the lines in the asphalt with his feet. When they reached Turn 3, he stopped.

“Here is where I’d win every race.”

Matteo tilted his head. “Turn 3?”

“Everyone thinks the battle happens at Turn 7, the hairpin, but Turn 3 decides if I’m close enough to attack there. Think ahead. Every move should have a purpose, three corners from now.”

The twins looked at each other.

“You win with your head, not your hands,” Fernando said. “Now go. Think. Plan. Execute. Then we review.”

Her laps slowed at first—she was processing. But by the third try, she’d found her rhythm and positioned herself like a chess player, attacking corners from strange but clever angles. Matteo, analytical as always, caught on even faster. He wasn’t just driving the circuit—he was reading it.

When they parked, Fernando said, “That’s how champions drive. The rest? They just race.”

Session 5: Kimi Räikkönen – Composure & Cold Execution

Kimi arrived late. No announcement. No smile. He stepped out of the car, put on sunglasses, and walked straight to the pit.

“Are we karting or not?” he asked, monotone.

The twins stood straight as arrows. She whispered to Matteo, “He’s scarier than mom.”

Kimi’s method was brutal but effective. He didn’t coddle. He didn’t sugarcoat.

“Too aggressive,” he told her flatly after one lap. “Try again.”

Matteo tried to apologize after overshooting a braking point. Kimi raised a hand. “Don’t explain. Fix it.”

At first, she hated it. She was used to emotion, feedback, and flow. Kimi offered none of it—just cold truth, and that was the point. He watched their body language, their reactions when frustrated or tired. When her kart sputtered, she slammed the wheel and yelled.

Kimi crouched next to her. “Emotions won’t fix it. Composure will. The one who keeps their cool... wins.”

For the rest of the day, she didn’t yell once. Her focus turned ice-cold. Matteo thrived in that atmosphere too—he was quiet by nature, and Kimi’s silent approval lit a fire in him.

Kimi handed them both a juice box and muttered, “You’re alright.”

Coming from him, it meant everything.

Session 6: Felipe Massa – Adaptability & Heart

The final session brought with it a warm breeze and a rare, playful atmosphere. Felipe Massa showed up with a little box of brigadeiros from Brazil and handed them out like gold coins. She took two. Matteo tried to say no—Felipe shoved one into his hand anyway.

“Today, we play,” he smiled.

He brought out strange karts—some with loose tires, some with uneven engines. “You won’t always get perfect machinery,” he explained. “The best learn to adapt. Smile while you suffer.”

He placed cones in unpredictable configurations. He sprayed water over the corners. He even got on track with them, racing in a kart that clearly had something wrong with it.

She started laughing halfway through the chaos. “This is insane!”

“Exactly!” Felipe grinned. “You think racing is predictable? It’s not! Smile! React! Make it yours.”

When Matteo’s seatbelt snapped mid-run, Felipe calmly called him in, rigged a fix with zip ties and duct tape, and said, “Go again.”

It wasn’t about perfection—it was about feeling. That day, she stopped fighting her kart and started flowing with it. Matteo, ever the perfectionist, loosened up. He even cracked jokes during cooldown. Felipe ruffled their hair as the sun dipped below the paddock buildings. “Racing isn’t just skill. It’s soul. You two have it. Just don’t forget to enjoy the ride.”

As the Acerbi twins packed up for the day, karts stowed and visors lifted, they were different than when they’d arrived.

Sharper. Smarter. Stronger.

And most importantly—more themselves.

Northern Italy – Acerbi Family Villa, Late Night, 2008

The house was still, the silence that settles deep after a long day. Only the occasional creak of old wood and the low whirr of the refrigerator filled the kitchen, where a single lamp cast warm golden light onto marble counters and worn wooden cabinets.

Giovanni Acerbi stood leaning against the counter, still in his Ferrari polo, dark hair slightly tousled, hands wrapped around a lowball glass half-filled with something amber and strong. His eyes were sharp, but his posture was bone-tired. He hadn’t sat down since they’d gotten back from the track.

Luca sat at the table, peeling an orange with slow, almost surgical precision, each movement taut with frustration. His shirt was rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looked like he’d been waiting to explode.

Leone was perched on the edge of a stool by the window, arms crossed, quietly taking in the tension building like thunderclouds. Ever the mediator, her jaw worked silently as she debated whether or not to speak.

Iseul entered barefoot, wrapped in her thick grey robe, a porcelain mug of tea cradled in her hands. Her dark hair was pulled loosely back, and her eyes—sharp and steady—immediately locked onto Giovanni’s. There had been a conversation brewing for days now. But tonight, it was all coming out.

“She’s eight,” Luca snapped suddenly, breaking the fragile silence. “Eight years old, and she’s out there driving like she’s auditioning for Formula One.”

“She wants to,” Giovanni replied, not flinching. “She’s not being pushed. Not by me. Not by anyone.”

“That’s not the point,” Luca shot back. “This isn’t ballet. This isn’t a school play. This is dangerous. One spin, one kid who doesn’t brake fast enough—and she ends up in a hospital bed.”

“I was racing at nine,” Giovanni said coolly. “You were ten. And no one told us we were too young.”

“Yeah,” Luca snapped. “But we were boys.”

The silence hit like a slap.

Iseul didn’t hesitate. “So that’s what this is about,” she said coldly, setting her mug down. “Because she’s a girl, her dreams are worth less? She’s not strong enough to be in a kart?”

“No,” Luca said quickly. “That’s not—don’t twist this, that’s not what I meant—”

“It’s exactly what you meant,” she cut in, voice steely. “You don’t think she can handle it. Not because of her age. Because of who she is.”

Luca rose to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “You think I’m not scared enough already? That I don’t wake up panicked at the thought of her flipping a kart on a slick corner? Or if she does make it to Formula 1 and can't control the car? I don’t want to bury my baby sister.”

“You think I don’t feel that?” Iseul snapped. “Every time she buckles that helmet? I’m her mother. I know exactly how much it could cost. But I’d rather be terrified than teach her to be small.”

“She’s not asking for safety,” Leone said quietly, “she’s asking for a shot.”

“She’s earned it,” Giovanni added, stepping forward now, his voice lower, firmer. “She’s one of the most coachable kids I’ve ever worked with. And that includes Matteo. She listens. She thinks. She wants to be there.”

“And what if it gets her hurt?” Luca asked, his voice cracking slightly. “What if one of those cocky little bastards shoves her off track and she breaks something?”

“Then she heals,” Iseul said, softer now, but unwavering. “The same way we’d let Matteo or you. But we don’t take her fire from her just because we’re scared.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Giovanni looked at Luca and gently said, “You’ve always protected her. I know that. But protection doesn’t always look like control. Sometimes it looks like belief.”

Leone finally pushed off the counter. “You know what she reminds me of, Luca? You. Same eyes. Same obsession. Same recklessness wrapped in brilliance. The difference? No one ever told you to stay home.”

Luca stared at the floor. Then away. He dragged a hand through his hair again and finally muttered, “I’m just… trying to keep her safe.”

“She’s not made of porcelain,” Iseul whispered. “She’s like thunder, strong and unpredictable.”

Giovanni nodded. “Let her be exactly who she is.”

The morning light was soft, golden, sliding through the olive trees lining the villa’s backyard. Birds chirped lazily in the branches above. She sat at the stone table alone, her little legs swinging beneath her as she picked halfheartedly at her scrambled eggs.

She didn’t hear Luca approach until the wooden chair scraped slightly across the stone.

He sat down across from her, wordless, and slid a ripe mango from their garden onto her plate.

She glanced at it, then at him. “I heard you last night,” she said quietly.

Luca winced. “Yeah. I figured.”

“I didn’t mean to make you fight,” she mumbled. “With Dad. Or Mom or Leone.”

Luca shook his head. “You didn’t. It was long overdue.” She stabbed her eggs with her fork but didn’t take a bite. Luca leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice was gentler now. “You know, when you were born, you scared the hell out of me. You were so small, I thought you’d disappear if I held you wrong.”

She peeked up at him.

“I-I made this vow that day,” he said, “that I’d protect you from everything. But you started racing… and I realized I couldn’t. Because you didn’t need me to.”

“I still want you there,” she said softly.

“I know,” he smiled. “And I will be. Every lap.”

A quiet pause.

Then She added, “Even when I pass you one day?”

He grinned. “Especially then.”

He nudged the peach closer again.

“Try it,” he said. “It’s good. Sweet. Like you.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You’re such a sap.”

Luca laughed, and for a moment, the weight of fear and protection and growing up didn’t feel quite so heavy.

In the distance, an engine revved, and her eyes lit up. Luca saw it.

And this time, he didn’t flinch.

Northern Italy – Karting Championship Weekend, 2008

The paddock buzzed like a beehive on espresso.

Engines whined, tires screeched, radios crackled. Mechanics shouted over the din, mothers paced with sunhats and clipboards, and the unmistakable scent of fuel, rubber, and sunscreen hung in the air.

But near one of the tents, in a rare pocket of calm, she sat on an overturned crate, her racing suit tied loosely at her waist, white tank top spotted with grease, sipping a cold pear soda. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, but her grin was all sunshine.

Boys surrounded her.

Alex Albon lounged on a folding chair with his feet propped on a cooler. Pierre Gasly squatted nearby, flipping a tire pressure gauge between his fingers. George Russell sat cross-legged on the grass, clean and proper, even in the dirt. Charles Leclerc leaned against a post with his arms folded, nodding to her story.

And Lando—Lando Norris sat beside her on the crate, knees brushing. Like always.

She was mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly. “So I’m jogging up the hill, right? Helmet in one hand, sandwich in the other—don’t ask why—and I trip. My helmet flies down the slope like a bowling ball, bounces off a rock, and lands in a mud puddle. Right in front of Kimi.”

Alex nearly spat out his drink. Pierre howled with laughter.

“You’re kidding,” Charles said, eyes wide.

“Wish I was,” she said, mock-grim. “He just stared at me. Didn’t even blink.”

George shook his head, smiling. “You’re hilarious.”

“Shockingly,” Charles muttered under his breath, with the kind of teasing smirk that meant he meant it.

Pierre grinned. “And she knows more about engine tuning than half the pit dads.”

“Lando knew it before the rest of us,” George added, shooting him a knowing look.

Lando, cheeks immediately flaming, tried to act nonchalant as he sipped his juice box. “I just have good taste,” he mumbled, then winced.

She elbowed him gently. “Smooth.”

Across the paddock, watching from beside the Acerbi tent, Giovanni and Luca stood with arms crossed. Matteo hovered between them, helmet under his arm, lips pressed into a flat line.

Giovanni’s voice was low, but sharp. “She’s getting too close with them.”

“They’re boys,” Luca muttered. “They’re going to distract her. Twist her focus.”

Matteo didn’t respond. He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on the group—on Lando, especially. He didn’t like the way she smiled at him.

“She’s making her way,” came a calm voice behind them.

They turned. Leone and Iseul stood side by side, watching too.

“She’s earning their respect,” Leone added, arms folded but not in judgment. “That doesn’t come easy in this crowd.”

“She’s nine,” Luca repeated, like it was some kind of defense.

"eight" Matteo grumbled out, annoyed their brother forgot their age.

"even worse" Luca said, voice nearly cracking.

Iseul laughed softly, shaking her head.

“And already making boys who’ve been karting longer than her lean in to listen.” Iseul said. Giovanni didn’t look convinced.

Matteo finally exhaled. “I just don’t want her to lose focus.”

“She won’t,” Iseul said gently, her eyes following her daughter. “But she will grow. And she’ll find her people. You don’t get to pick them for her.” Matteo didn’t reply. He just watched as her leaned toward Lando, laughing again.

The hotel’s game room had seen better days—peeling posters of 90s arcade games on the walls, a ping-pong table with a broken net—but to the kids, it was magic. Card decks shuffled across the floor, sugar-fueled snacks were everywhere, and music played low from someone’s old Nokia.

She sat cross-legged in the circle’s center, a pile of gummy bears next to her. She was in a hoodie three sizes too big—Lando’s, maybe—and was shuffling the deck like a pro.

The boys surrounded her again: Max, George, Charles, Pierre, and, of course, Lando. Competitive chaos swirled around them.

“You’re cheating,” Pierre accused with a grin.

“I'm not,” she shot back.

“She’s just fast,” Max added, pointing. “Watch her hands.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “She’d make a terrifying poker player.”

As they reset the cards, George leaned back lazily and said with zero warning, “Y’know, Lando’s had a crush on her since Melbourne.”

The room went silent. Her head whipped up. “Wait—what?”

Lando made a choking sound, nearly inhaling his cookie. “GEORGE!” Max burst into laughter. Charles’s eyes lit up. Pierre’s jaw dropped. It was like someone had set off fireworks in the middle of a library.

She blinked.

“I didn’t say that!” Lando stammered, face going crimson. “I just—I might have said something once, but—”

“You brought me apple juice three days in a row.”

“Because I’m polite! That’s what people do!”

“Uh-huh,” she said, biting back a smirk.

He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God, please stop talking.”

She leaned in, her voice soft enough that only he heard it. “Don’t worry. It’s cute.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “It is?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “You’re not that bad.”

At the doorway, Matteo stood frozen.

He’d come to fetch her for dinner, but his footsteps halted when he caught sight of her laughing, inches from Lando, soft and glowing. The way the boys looked at her.

His eyes narrowed. His fingers curled tightly around the doorframe.

Hotel Room Balcony – Late Night, Northern Italy, 2008

The race was tomorrow. The nerves, the energy, the million emotions swirling inside her—none of it let her sleep. She sat on the balcony, curled in a chair with a fleece hoodie zipped to her chin. The night air smelled like lemon trees and exhaust. Below, the city blinked quietly, unaware of all the little lives preparing to go to battle at dawn.

Matteo stepped out without a word, barefoot, hair tousled from sleep. He sat in the other chair, arms crossed, eyes on the dark. Silence stretched between them like old yarn.

“You’re mad,” she said quietly.

“I’m not mad.”

“You didn’t look at me once during dinner.”

Matteo shrugged. “You were busy. With them.”

She sighed, tucking her knees up. “You know they’re not replacing you, right?” He didn’t answer. “I didn’t pick them over you. They just... finally stopped treating me like I didn’t belong. That’s all.”

Matteo looked away, jaw tight. “You laughed at all their jokes.”

“Because they were funny, Teo.” She gave a small, tired smile. “You act like I joined a rival team.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

He hesitated. Then: “They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know that you mess with your necklace when you're nervous, that you play with you’re hair when you have anxiety, or that you drink hot chocolate with a straw like a lunatic.”

She blinked, then burst into a quiet laugh. “That’s what you’re scared of? That Lando gonna steal my weird?”

Matteo didn’t laugh. “ Lando would follow you into traffic if you told him to.”

She grinned. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s not. He’s soft, small, and sneaky. Like a puppy with an agenda.”

She nudged him gently with her foot. “I can handle myself.”

He finally looked at her, and all the fire faded into something vulnerable. “I know. That’s the hardest part.” her heart clenched. She reached over, wrapping her arm around his, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m always gonna be your twin,” she whispered. “No one gets to take that away. Not Lando. Not Charles. Not anyone.”

Matteo leaned into her, forehead resting against her head for a second.

“You promise?”

“Pinky swear.”

He held up his pinky. She linked hers with it, tightly. It felt like home. They sat like that for a while, wrapped in quiet, in love, in the invisible bond that tied them tighter than blood. Then, Matteo muttered, “But if he brings you juice again—I’m stealing it.”

She smiled. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

Northern Italy – Karting Championship Week | Day 1 | 2008

The air was thick with the sting of petrol and the electric crackle of nerves. Engines snarled on the starting grid like caged animals, ready to pounce. She stood beside her kart, helmet in hand, visor up. Her heart thudded like a war drum beneath her fireproof suit.

All around her were boys—older, taller, cockier. Max. Charles. George. Pierre. Alex. Lando. Each in their colors. Each with something to prove.

Two spots down, Lando looked over, gave her a quick nod—subtle but real. A silent, shared spark.

She returned it with the tiniest chin dip, lips pressed into a firm line.

She was ready.

On the sidelines, behind the metal fence, Giovanni and Luca stood shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Leone had one arm around Iseul, who clutched her bag strap so tightly her knuckles were white. Her mouth moved in silent prayer.

The red lights lit up above them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Green.

Chaos

She launched perfectly—her reflexes second nature, like the kart was part of her. She threaded through the pack with pinpoint control, slotting behind Max and Charles like a shadow, her engine howling as she held third through the opening corners.

For half the race, she danced the knife’s edge—defending, calculating, holding her own. Lando loomed behind her, fast but careful, never diving too hard. There was respect in the way he raced her. He gave her space, others didn’t. And then—chicane. A nudge.

Barely a tap, but enough. Her back tire skipped over the curb, momentum lost. She was wide. And just like that, George slipped by. Then Pierre. Her rhythm shattered.

Sixth, but she fought.

She gritted her teeth and went to war—dives down the inside, late braking, elbows out. She climbed to fifth, then fourth, hunting like a storm. But the gap to the podium was just too wide by the final lap.

Fourth.

As she rolled into the pit lane, helmet down, visor locked—nobody could see her face. Matteo felt it in his bones. He didn’t wait. He ran. She hadn’t even unclipped her seatbelt when he reached her.

“You were amazing,” he said, voice fierce with pride as he pulled her into a hug before she could protest. “You scared the hell out of them.”

“I lost,” she whispered, fists clutching his suit.

“No,” Matteo said, tightening his arms around her. “You just showed them what’s coming.”

Over his shoulder, Lando caught her eye. He was pulling off his gloves, medal-less but still smiling. He gave her a thumbs up and mouthed, You were fast.

She nodded, slow but sure. Tomorrow would be different.

Race Day 2

The paddock had a different rhythm. Fewer sideways glances. No more smirks.

Today, everyone knows her name.

She stood in her grid spot—P2. Max was on pole. Matteo is in fourth. Lando is in sixth. She tapped the side of her helmet twice, a nervous tic, and then slid it on with a click. Her breathing slowed.

When the lights went out, it wasn’t chaos. It was precision.

She was sharper. Her start was near flawless, and by the end of lap two, she was glued to Max’s rear bumper. They danced in and out of corners, battling with a maturity far beyond their years.

Three lead changes. Three times she overtook him, three times he fought back. But she didn’t flinch. On the final lap, Charles came hunting. He was faster on straights, hungry for second, but she blocked him with such poise—such absolute control—that the crowd on the sidelines roared. Final straight.

She dipped into Max’s slipstream, eyes locked, timing it perfectly. She slingshotted past him—clean, calculated, electric.

Checkered flag. P1.

Her kart rolled into the pit lane like a victor returning from battle. She yanked her helmet off, gasping, curls damp with sweat. Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain. From joy. From proof.

Matteo was already running. He didn’t speak. He just swept her off the ground in a hug that crushed the air from her lungs. “I told you,” he choked out. “I told you.”

Giovanni was next, his nod subtle but full of weight. You did it.

Iseul’s hands trembled as she cupped her face, whispering in Korean, “jeongmal jalangseuleowoyo, jagiya (I'm so proud, love) … You were brilliant, my love.”

Lando, standing off to the side with a bronze medal around his neck, caught her gaze. She beamed, flushed and radiant. Thank you, she mouthed. He smiled back, soft and steady. “Told you.”

Late Night Kart Hangout – Northern Italy, 2008

The stars were out. The crowd was long gone. But the track was still alive.

Someone had bribed the night staff to leave the overhead lights on. A handful of karts still hummed in the garage, and the pit area echoed with laughter and music from someone’s speaker.

No lap times. No pressure. Just kids, sweat-soaked, barefoot in socks, eating chips straight from the bag, and stealing sips of soda.

She leaned against the fence, slushy in hand, standing beside Pierre and Lando.

“Ten euros says George wipes out on turn three again,” Pierre said, pointing at Max and George lining up for a friendly grudge race.

“Make it fifteen,” She grinned.

“You lot are evil,” Lando muttered, shaking his head through a laugh. “Max is right there.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “I’m just the bookie.”

They burst into laughter. Then a kart rolled up lazily.

Matteo.

He grinned, one hand slung over the steering wheel. “C’mon, nini. One more. You and me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You sure you want the smoke?”

“Bring it.”

She handed her slushy to Lando. “Don’t drink it.”

“I’ll guard it with my life.”

She jumped into the kart, tightening her gloves. “Let’s go, twin.” The others gathered at the fence, hooting and cheering. The two karts launched off. No rules. Just instinct. Just rhythm.

They chased each other like comets through the night, laughter echoing over the engine noise. She took the lead, and Matteo stole it back. On the final lap, she sent it—clean and aggressive—and crossed the line a nose ahead. When they skidded to a stop side-by-side, their grins said it all.

Later, the group collapsed in a circle on the grass, the karts abandoned, their socks dirty, and their eyes fixed on the stars.

George yawned. “So, are we allowed to say she's officially one of us now?”

“Mate,” Max F. said, still winded, “she won the race and took our money.”

“She’s been one of us,” Lando added, quieter, but sure.

She looked around—at Pierre, snorting over a joke; at Alex curled up with a bag of crisps; at George half-asleep; Max mock-pouting over his lost bet; and Lando sitting close enough to touch, legs stretched out, arms behind his head. Then she looked at Matteo. Her twin. Her rival. Her heart.

He was already looking at her.

He smiled, small and proud, and this time, without doubt, without fear, she smiled right back.

Acerbi Family Villa – Northern Italy, Late 2008 |

The Acerbi villa was quiet again. No more gear bags cluttering the hallway. No more engines revving in the garage. Just the soft sounds of autumn settling into the olive trees and the occasional clink of cutlery from the kitchen, where Iseul was preparing dinner with the help of Nonna Sofia.

The twins were slumped on a sun-warmed bench out on the garden patio, a half-played card game between them and a bowl of peeled mandarins. Their limbs still ached from last week, and the high of the season’s end hadn’t fully worn off—but so hadn’t the exhaustion.

Giovanni stepped out with a coffee in one hand, his tie loose, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked at the twins for a long moment, like he was memorizing the sight of them this way—quiet, calm, together.

“You two look like a pair of cats in the sun,” he said with a smile.

She blinked lazily. “Too tired to move.”

“Too full to think,” Matteo added, holding his stomach.

Giovanni chuckled and sat across from them, setting his coffee on the table. “You’ve earned it. You both had an incredible season.”

The twins exchanged a glance—small, secretive, proud.

“I’ve been thinking,” Giovanni began, observing them carefully. “The off-season’s coming up. You’ll have some time before school gets heavy again, and your bodies could use a break from race weeks.”

The twins perked up a little. Was he about to suggest a vacation? A beach trip? That sounded good.

“But…” Giovanni continued, “I heard about a karting camp. It’s in the south—one of the best ones in Europe. A lot of young drivers go there during the winter to sharpen skills, train off the grid, and meet new coaches.”

(Y/n) sat up straighter, intrigued. “Wait… like the one with ice karting and off-track simulations?”

Matteo’s eyes lit up. “The one where you train on old F1 telemetry data?”

Giovanni nodded, sipping his coffee. “That’s the one. I called in a few favors. They have spots available. They’re picky, but… let’s say the Acerbi name still carries some weight.”

The twins were suddenly wide awake.

Giovanni softened, his voice lower now. “I’m not saying you have to go. But I think it could be good for you both. A new environment. New challenges. A chance to grow—not just as drivers, but as young people, too.”

She stared down at the card table, chewing her bottom lip. “Would we go together?”

“Of course,” Giovanni said. “If you go, you go as a team.”

Matteo leaned forward, excitement flickering behind his eyes. “And… would there be kids from other countries?”

“Yes. Lots. From all over Europe. Maybe even some familiar faces from the grid.”

She looked at her father, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is this your way of tricking us into socializing?”

Giovanni laughed. “It’s my way of ensuring you don’t get too comfortable just winning here. You’ve proven yourselves in Italy. It’s time to see who else is out there.”

The twins slowly turned their heads to each other, exchanged a long look. As they often did, a full conversation passed between them in silence.

Then they turned to Giovanni, nodding slowly. “Okay. We’re in.”

Matteo grinned. “Do we get new gear?”

Giovanni raised a brow. “You’re impossible.”

“But?” Matteo pressed.

“But yes,” he said with a mock sigh, standing up and ruffling his son’s hair. “We’ll sort it all out this week. Your mother will want to be involved in every step.”

As Giovanni walked back inside, she nudged Matteo under the table. “We should start training again tomorrow.”

Matteo groaned. “We just finished a championship.”

She smirked. “Exactly. Now we train like champions.”

From the kitchen window, Giovanni paused, watching them—already plotting drills, schedules, gear setups. He smiled to himself, heart full.

They were still so young. But they were already chasing the world.

And he’d be there.—every step of the way.

Trackside Cafeteria – Late Afternoon

The sun hung low over the mountains, painting the sky with soft orange streaks. Most of the paddock had emptied by now, but a few kids still lingered around the track’s attached cafeteria—mostly the ones whose families hadn’t rushed home after the championship. She, Matteo, and Lando had taken over the corner booth by the window, surrounded by empty soda cans, a half-eaten basket of fries, and someone’s forgotten racing glove.

She sat across from Lando, spinning a straw between her fingers. Matteo was squished beside her, snacking absentmindedly as he scrolled through photos on an old digital camera.

Lando had just finished dramatically reenacting Max’s slide in turn 4 with a pile of ketchup packets when (Y/n) elbowed Matteo.

“Should we tell him?” she asked.

Matteo raised a brow. “Now?”

Lando blinked between them. “Tell me what? You’re both giving me faces. I know your ‘we’re hiding something’ faces.”

She grinned. “Okay, okay, chill. It’s not bad. It’s kind of… big.”

Lando leaned in with mock suspicion. “Are you finally admitting that Matteo cheated in that heat last month?”

“Hey!” Matteo scoffed. “That was a clever strategy. Not cheating.”

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand. “Not that. Something else. Our dad signed us up for this winter karting camp.”

Lando straightened up. “Wait—seriously?”

“Yeah,” Matteo said, dropping a fry back into the basket. “It’s that one in the south with the telemetry training, the F1 data stuff, the—”

“I know the one!” Lando cut in. “It’s insane. Max V. went last year. They do training on actual simulator rigs. Like, Formula Renault level.”

She smirked. “We’re going. Together.”

Lando’s face shifted, just slightly. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something heavier.

“Oh,” he said. “Cool.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look like it’s cool.”

“No, it is,” he said quickly. “It’s just… funny.”

Matteo tilted his head. “Funny how?”

Lando dropped his gaze for a second, then looked back up with a sheepish shrug. “I was gonna tell you tonight… I got invited too. I’m going.”

There was a beat of silence.

She blinked. “Wait—what?”

Matteo laughed. “You serious?”

Lando nodded. “My dad just told me yesterday. Said it’d be good to race with some of the international kids. Said the Acerbis might be there, too.” He gave them both a lopsided grin. “Guess he was right.”

She stared at him, then burst out laughing. “No way. You’re coming too?”

“This is gonna be so good,” Matteo said, leaning back and grinning. “All three of us. That camp won’t know what hit them.”

Lando looked genuinely happy now, some earlier hesitation melting away. “Imagine if they try to split us up on drills or something. You two are gonna cause so much trouble.”

“We’ll bribe the instructors,” She said casually.

“With what? Our leftover fries?” Lando shot back, reaching for one.

Matteo blocked him. “These are sacred. Acerbi fries. Not for bribery.”

Lando smirked. “Fine. Then I’m making you do all the simulator calibrations.”

She scoffed. “Please. You’ll just copy my brake data anyway.”

Lando wiggled his brows. “Only if it’s better than mine.” She threw a straw at him. They laughed, loud and easy, until the sun dipped behind the hills and the track lights started to flicker on. The last few kids packed up their bags, and a distant voice—probably someone’s dad—called from the parking lot.

Matteo stood and stretched. “Race you back to the hotel.”

Lando was already grabbing his bag. “You’re on.” She hesitated just a second, watching them run ahead—two boys, elbows flying, laughter echoing down the path. And then she bolted after them, her sneakers slapping against the pavement, a grin stretched wide across her face. Because this wasn’t just any cam, and she had a feeling the real story was just getting started.

------

Next Part

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f1-mcmuffin · 4 months ago

Note

GIRLL I LOVEE THE 5th MEMBER AU I HOPE U WILL MAKE IT INTO A SERIESS😆😆

I HAVE A IDEA MAYBE WHERE SHE WAS WITH LISA IN THE MIAMI GP

AND MAYBE WHERE LANDO AND THE OTHER DRIVERS AND WAGS WERE ATCHING THEIR CONCERT

Spotlight & Slipstream pt. 2

(Requested) Lando Norris x 5th Member of BLACKPINK Reader

I’ve never been to a BLACKPINK concert but I have been to an Ateez concert so I used my knowledge from that.

Sorry, it took me so long to come up with this. I'm trying to work on my other Lando story and keep up with some requests I’ve been receiving

Later in the Day (Barcelona) — Late Afternoon

The golden-hour sun spilled like honey over the cobbled streets of El Born, casting long, lazy shadows over the terrace café. The scent of grilled prawns, espresso, and sunscreen drifted through the air, mingling with the slow rhythm of Catalan conversations and the clink of cutlery. Under a striped umbrella, Lando sat with his chair tipped back, sipping lemonade through a straw as the condensation dripped down the glass.

Across from him, she looked sun-kissed and effortlessly cool — oversized vintage tee knotted at the waist, ripped baggy jeans, Landos’ gold chain glinting against her collarbone. Her sunglasses were pushed into her hair, and she was focused on the last few fries on his plate, stealing them one by one with lazy precision.

“I swear,” she mumbled with a dramatic sigh, “if I eat one more backstage cheese platter, I might lose my mind. Like — why is it always brie? What did cheddar ever do to deserve this slander?”

Lando chuckled around a mouthful of his sandwich. “Guess that’s the glamorous popstar life.”

she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, scrolling through texts from the girls. Her screen lit up with messages from her members.

She looked up suddenly. “Hey,” she said casually, as if it had just occurred to her, “you’ve never actually seen me perform, have you?”

He blinked, wiping chip crumbs off his lip. “What?”

“You’ve never been to a BLACKPINK show,” she repeated, leveling him with a look. “Not even one.”

Lando shrugged defensively. “I’ve seen videos.”

“Not the same.” She made a face. “That’s like me saying I’ve experienced F1 because I played Mario Kart once. Doesn’t count.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Okay, first of all, Mario Kart is elite—”

She cut him off with a smirk. “Second of all, we’ve got a show in Paris next weekend. It’s sold out. Obviously.” She popped a fry in her mouth and spoke around it. “And I already checked the race calendar. You’re free.”

He tilted his head, skeptical. “You checked my calendar?”

“I checked your calendar,” she repeated. “And I saved space backstage for you, the drivers, the WAGs.”

He raised a brow. “You’re inviting the entire grid to a BLACKPINK concert?”

She shrugged, lips curling at the corner. “They owe me. I sat through seventy-eight laps of engine noise and everyone smelling like brake dust. Time to return the favor.”

Lando leaned forward on his elbows, taking her hand and brushing his thumb over her knuckles before bringing it to his lips. “You sure the world’s ready for that crossover?”

she grinned, eyes sparkling. “Ready or not, they’re getting it.”

Twitter/X;

Yourusername tweeted “Guess who’s coming to next week's concert?🙈”

@speedgirlie if lando shows up at a blackpink concert in a pink hoodie i’m gonna pass out

@blackpinksbrainrot SHE INVITED THE F1 GRID TO PARIS 😭 She is INSANE for this. iconic. queen behavior.

@itsjustjord imagine carmen, kika, and lily in the BLACKPINK VIP section losing their minds to ‘Shut Down’ and then pierre filming it 😭

@grandprixtea you just know carlos and charles are gonna try to look cool until ‘Kill This Love’ hits and it’s over

@notyourengineer the crossover we didn’t know we needed — BLACKPINK IN YOUR PIT LANE

@lanprincess if she performs 'Tally' while looking Lando dead in the eyes… we riot in the streets respectfully

Paris — Bercy Arena, One Week Later

Lando just added to their story

The stadium pulsed like a living organism, humming with neon energy and adrenaline. Pink lights danced along every surface, illuminating the packed sea of fans — thousands of blinking lightsticks swaying in unison like fireflies.

The BORN PINK logo flashed on the screens overhead, looping iconic BLACKPINK videos that the crowd screamed along to with full-volume precision. The bass was deep enough to vibrate through ribcages.

In the VIP pit, directly at the front of the stage, a cluster of very confused Formula 1 drivers looked like they’d accidentally wandered into an alien dimension.

Lando stood front and center, his black hoodie pulled low and a "(Y/N) IS MY BIAS" headband shoved on his curls — courtesy of Kika, who had cackled while strapping it to him in the hotel. His cheeks were already stickered with tiny pastel hearts. He tugged on the sleeves and glanced around, mildly dazed.

“This is… intense,” he muttered, watching fans crying before the show even began.

Carlos leaned toward George, eyes wide. “Why are people already crying? Did we miss something?”

Kika, sitting beside him in a rhinestone-covered jacket, just smirked. “Because this isn’t a concert. It’s a religion.”

Alexandra nodded in solemn agreement. “It’s like Ferrari and the Tifosi.”

Carlos blinked, gears turning. “Ohhh…” he said, visibly connecting the dots as he scanned the arena. “That explains the screaming.”

Behind them, Charles wore a glittery “Pretty Savage” sash over his Prada shirt and held a Jisoo fan in one hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. George was juggling a tray of mochi and a limited-edition lightstick, eyes wide with amusement. “Mate, we’re in the middle of a K-pop rave.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Carmen grinned, looping her arm around his and tugging him closer. She wore a Lisa tee and matching cat ears — totally unbothered and thriving. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the matching skirt.”

Pierre, in a BLACKPINK bomber jacket he insisted was “borrowed,” bobbed his head in time with Boombayah. Kika was beside him, animatedly teaching him the hand choreo.

“No, no, babe — boom bah YAH, not boom bah yeahhhh,” she shouted over the music. “There’s a difference!”

Meanwhile, Lando was holding up a handful of photocards like poker chips. “Okay, wait—who’s trading?” he said, scanning the group of teenage girls beside them. “I’ve got three Rosés, I want my girlfriend.”

A girl in a pink bucket hat gasped. “I’ll trade you for a Rosé!” She paused, her jaw dropping. “Wait—you’re Lando Norris, right?!”

Lando grinned. “Guilty. And I’m officially a BLINK now.”

Around him, the chaos only grew louder. Charles and Carlos were comparing their photocard pulls like kids in a schoolyard. George was handing out mochi like snacks at a birthday party. Rebecca and Alexandra were having their own photoshoot with the stage glowing pink behind them.

Carmen handed Lando another sticker sheet. “Put this on your cheek. You’re not fully committed yet.”

He groaned but obediently stuck a tiny sparkly heart on his face. “If the McLaren media team sees this, I’m blaming all of you.”

And then — everything changed.

The stadium lights dipped into sudden darkness. A wave of shrieking thundered through the arena, instant and deafening. On the giant screen, BLACKPINK’s latest MV burst to life, and the audience erupted, chanting every line, stomping in time, waving their lightsticks in perfect sync.

Even Carlos, startled by the sheer sound, clapped his hands over his ears. “This is louder than Monza!”

Lando couldn’t look away — the lights, the fans, the way the girls beside him were lit up like teenagers again, dancing with no care for who was watching.

He turned to Pierre, who was still holding his lightstick high like a torch. “We’ve been to Grands Prix around the world, but this—this might be the loudest crowd I’ve ever seen.”

Pierre just smirked and leaned in. “Welcome to the pink side.”

And when the lights dropped, the floor practically shook.

Lando didn’t think. He lifted his lightstick, let out a shout, and joined the storm. Tonight wasn’t about engines or trophies. It was about letting go. About dancing until your voice cracked. About watching the girl he loved rule an arena with a mic in her hand and stars in her eyes and for once, he wasn’t the one being cheered for — and he was totally okay with that.

“BLAAACKPINK”

BANG.

The arena shook as the opening beat detonated through the air like a cannon blast. LED walls erupted in pink lightning, strobes firing off in every direction. Backup dancers stormed the runway in slick, powerful formations, hips hitting each beat like war drums as they stalked toward the main stage. The audience screamed as if the roof was being torn off. Then came the synths—dark, cinematic, venomous. “Pink Venom.”

Lando practically jumped out of his skin. “Oh sh—!” he blurted, flinching as columns of fire exploded from the stage, perfectly timed to the bass.

They appeared—stepping into formation like goddesses summoned from myth, all dressed in varying shades of pure white, glowing under the pink neon floodlights.

She took center stage, her corset catching the light like diamonds. White Givenchy boots, shorts hugging her hips, every inch of her radiating danger and allure. It was elegant. It was lethal. Lando’s jaw was somewhere on the floor.

“BLAAACKPINK”

They leaned their heads back in sync then strutted to their spots on stage, hair tossed, eyes locked with the crowd, bodies clicking into place like living weapons.

“Kick in the door, waving the coco!” Jennie’s voice slashed through the stadium. The crowd erupted again. Alexandra physically clutched Charles’s arm. “OH MY GOD.”

Carlos gave a low whistle. “Okay, that’s how you start a concert.”

She moved with a kind of power that didn’t feel learned. It was primal. Her hips hit the beat like they were casting spells. Her face was sharp, magnetic, playful, untouchable.

“This that pink venom, this that pink venom…”

“Straight to ya dome like—whoa, whoa, whoa…”

“Taste that pink venom…”

It wasn’t just her singing. It was the way she devoured the stage, all precision and confidence. When she stepped forward, the earth practically tilted. Charles elbowed Lando, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell us she was like this.”

Lando didn’t blink. “She’s insane,” There was something surreal about seeing her under stadium lights, thousands screaming her name, Onstage, she threw him a wink mid-step like it was nothing, and Lando forgot how to breathe. He leaned closer to Charles, still not looking away.

“She’s different when she’s up there.” Charles just nodded, face slack. He got it.

Then came the outro:

“I BRING THE PAIN LIKE…”

DA-RA-TA-TA, DA-RA-TA-TA-TA—

Fire exploded behind her like a war cry. Carlos jumped six inches off his seat. “She’s LETHAL!” he gasped.

Lando flinched again, instinctively shielding his face from the heat. “Okay, damn,” he muttered. His voice was soft. Reverent. Eyes wide.

Lando turned to George, awestruck. “Why do I feel like I’m falling in love again?” George wheezed. “YOU’RE DOWN BAD, BRO.”

Pierre, mouth open, barely blinked. “That’s her? Your Girlfriend?”

Lando didn’t even answer. He couldn’t look away from the way she rolled her shoulders into a body wave that somehow made the LED screen look too small. Couldn’t believe this was the same girl who wore his hoodie and fell asleep on his chest during movie nights. This was a storm in stilettos.

Fans in the VIP section were unhinged — screaming lyrics, waving lightsticks in choreographed perfection, crying, filming, dancing like it was salvation. A girl beside George was sobbing while holding a her photocard to her chest like a relic.

The song ended. Lights cut to black. Smoke blanketed the stage.

The drivers stood there like they’d just made it through a typhoon.

“That was just one song?” Carlos blinked.

The lights came back, all five girls standing in line, eyes gleaming.

“Hana, dul, set—”

“Annyeonghaseyo, Beullaegpingkeu-ibnida!” they chorused, bowing 90 degrees. Fans went feral. They began introducing themselves one by one, voices warm, laughing, tossing casual hellos in English and broken French. She stepped forward, grinning.

“So…” Her voice curled around the mic like honey. “I have some very special guests here tonight.” The crowd went into immediate buzz-mode.

Some already knew. They’d spotted the lanky silhouettes in the VIP section, the lightsticks trembling near them. The ones trying to blend in but failing spectacularly.

“Let’s give a huge PARIS welcome to the Formula 1 drivers and the WAGS!”

BOOM SPOTLIGHT.

Right onto Lando, Charles, Pierre, George, Oscar, Carlos, Carmen, Kika, Alexandra, Lily, and Rebecca. The camera feed hit the jumbotron. The audience went nuts. They all looked like they'd just been caught sneaking into a girl’s sleepover.

“Please,” she teased, glancing their way. “Don’t be shy. Say hi!”

Charles gave the world's most awkward wave. George gave a deep, exaggerated bow like a theatre kid. Pierre threw double finger hearts, grinning. Lando? Lando shook his head, hiding his face in his hoodie. Bright red.

“Oh, come on,” Lisa pouted, hands on hips. “Landooo.”

The girls start a chant, then the crowd joins in and starts chanting his name. “LAN-DO! LAN-DO! LAN-DO!” It built fast. Unstoppable. The entire arena chanting his name.

Defeated, he stood up, raised both hands like he was being arrested, and gave a sheepish wave.

she laughed into her mic. “Don’t let him fool you. He did try to learn the choreo to ‘Pink Venom.’ I have proof.”

“You said you deleted that video!” He yelled, his hands going to cover his face.

Jennie mock-whispered into her mic, “He was actually really good though…”

The other girls giggled behind her. Lando shook his head in embarrassment.

she smiled, stepping back into formation. “And to all the F1 fans in the crowd tonight — thank you for being part of this world with me. And to my amazing, chaotic, wonderful boyfriend…” She sent him another wink.

Then the music cut in—DUN DUN DUN, DUN DUN DUN-DUN—

Her voice echoed, electric:

“Paris, are you ready for tonight? Let me hear you fucking scream!”

The crowd answered with a wall of noise. A roar that hit like a tidal wave. The night had only just begun.

Kika had both arms raised high, lightstick in one hand, belting out every word like she was part of the lineup. Her energy matched the crowd’s fever pitch — sweat, glitter, and absolute chaos.

On stage, the girls lined up like soldiers — eyes locked, chins tilted, legs set — as the arena held its breath. Then the beat dropped.

“Ha, how you like that?”

“You gon' like that, that-that-that, that, that-that-that, that—”

The crowd detonated. The floor of the stadium shook. Thousands jumped as one, lightsticks pulsing like a galaxy, the sound of the crowd almost louder than the music itself. The choreography was nothing short of assault. Explosive stomps, razor-sharp arm swings, lethal hair tosses — every move landing with sniper precision. It wasn’t dancing. It was domination.

She was a force. Every line she hit, she hit like it owed her something — her face fierce, eyes gleaming, completely locked in. Her ponytail cracked through the air like a whip, her crystal-studded harness catching every flash of light. The energy rolling off her could melt concrete. She spun, hair flying, stomping with every ounce of power she had. The second drop hit.

“Now, look at you, now look at me (uh)Look at you, now look at me (uh)Look at you, now look at me, How you like that?!”

BOOM — fire exploded from the stage in towering flames, illuminating the entire arena. The heat was real. The VIP section flinched in unison. Confetti burst into the air like a cannon, showering down like stardust. Fans were shrieking, sobbing, waving signs and lightsticks like they were trying to fly. A girl next to Charles literally fainted into her friend’s arms — completely out cold. Security was radioing medics, and no one even noticed.

Lando’s mouth was open, unmoving. His eyes wide, glitter reflecting off them. He couldn’t process what he was seeing.

On stage, she hit her final move, twisting with a full body spin, hair flying, legs stomping with raw force. The lights flared behind her, then snapped to black. In that moment, just before full darkness fell, she turned her head, smirked, tossed her ponytail over her shoulder like it weighed nothing, and strutted off the stage.

A delayed, collective scream from the crowd that shattered the air. The drivers just sat there, stunned into silence. Carlos blinked and turned slowly to Charles, eyes wide, “…I get it now.” The stadium lights cut to black.

Then – the bassline of “Pretty Savage” dropped like a cannon blast, vibrating through the floor, the walls, every chest in the arena. The rumble was so deep it felt like it shook bones loose.

Fans screamed like it was Judgment Day. Pink and white strobes sliced through the darkness, pulsing to the beat like the heartbeat of something dangerous. The giant LED screen lit up, flashing in bold chrome letters:

“You better run, run, run.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, uh huh.”

she appeared on the big screen, strutting in slow motion, lips curled into a deadly smirk. “Purrr.” Each syllable hit with surgical confidence, mirrored perfectly by the rest of the girls as they emerged one by one from the shadows, owning it like they had claws out.

"BLACKPINK IN YOUR AREA."

The place exploded. When she stepped forward for her line, the whole crowd leaned in like she’d cast a spell:

“All my diamonds, they yellow or bright white…”

“Got 'em blind, can't find me, bitch I’m outta sight…”

The camera snapped to her face, full zoom on the jumbotron — she smirked, eyes glinting like danger.

“If you mad, stay mad — we not alike.”

That line punched through the air, dripping with venom and power and the crowd loved it. A fresh wave of screams hit like a tsunami. You could hear girls screaming the lyrics and guys yelling like they were in a mosh pit. Someone threw a boa into the air. Security guards were full-on dancing.

The backup dancers peeled away like a tide parting, and the girls strutted forward, claiming the front of the stage like it belonged to them — because it did. She stepped back into the spotlight. She flipped her ponytail like a whip, eyes blazing. The lights hit just right, casting fire across her crystal harness as she dropped into the chorus choreography like she was forged in it. Every move was violent poetry — sharp, surgical, explosive. Even the tiniest motions were precise. The WAGs? Screaming. Dancing. Spilling drinks. Phones out. Fully obsessed. Kika was jumping like she was at a rave. Lily had slight tears in her eyes. Carmen was shouting every word.

When the chorus hit again — harder, louder, a wall of synchronized power — the girls dropped into their final formation, silhouettes outlined by a wall of blazing lights behind them.

Final pose. Lights out. The arena erupted. You’d think someone won a world championship. People were screaming. Crying. Collapsing into their friends. Charles had a hand over his mouth. Lando looked shell-shocked. Pierre just mouthed “holy shit.” Carlos turned, still stunned, to no one in particular. “…They don’t make them like that in Spain.”

The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd. A soft pink glow bathed the stadium, delicate as a sunrise. Like the calm before a storm.

“Lovesick girls, lovesick girls…”

Lightsticks lit up like constellations, painting the arena in shimmering pink. Fans screamed every member’s name in a chaotic chorus of devotion. Phones flew into the air to capture the moment.

Their silhouettes appeared.

Like queens descending onto their throne.

As the first beat dropped, smoke curled around their boots, catching the light like magic mist. Spotlights chased their every move — soft and ethereal, like chasing ghosts made of starlight.

Her vocals broke through the air like a velvet ribbon unfurling. Silky. Haunting. Bare.

“yeongwonhan bam changmun eoptneun bange uril gadun love (love)” Endless night, love trapped us in a windowless room (love)

“What can we say? maebeon apado oechineun love (love)” What can we say? Long for love even though it hurts every time (love)

She stood alone at the edge of the stage, framed in silver light, the smoke swirling around her like a secret. Her voice echoed — not just through the arena, but into people. You could feel it.

From the VIP section, Lando leaned toward George, his eyes wide. “Her voice is unreal.” George just nodded, too stunned to respond.

The chorus kicked in, and the stadium shook with unity. Everyone was singing along:

“We are the lovesick girls…”

It wasn’t just singing — it was a tidal wave of voices, thousands of people screaming the lyrics like a prayer. Like a wound.

She reached the edge of the catwalk, twirled with practiced grace, and joined Jennie and Jisoo center stage for the pre-chorus.

“But we were born to be alone, yeah we were born to be alone…”

The beat dropped again — and suddenly it was all movement. Flashing lights, glitter cannons exploding, arms slicing the air. The five of them danced with the precision of soldiers, the softness of ballerinas, the power of a revolution.

“But why are we still looking for love?”

By the final chorus, the lights softened like a sunset. The crowd was swaying now, arms in the air, tears in their eyes. The girls slowed, movements fluid, voices layered in perfect harmony, floating over the crowd like a hymn. She stepped forward for her final line. The others faded behind her. The spotlight narrowed.

“But we’re still looking for love…”

She said it like it hurt but she smiled — a tired, soft, knowing smile because there was something beautiful about that kind of pain.

Silence. One beat. Screams. Applause. Sobbing. Chants. One guy in the pit just screamed into the sky.

She gave a tiny bow, cheeks flushed pink under the lights. She found Lando in the crowd, hands above his head, clapping with everything he had. His eyes were locked on her like nothing else existed, not the music, not the noise, just her.

In the VIP box — Lily, Carmen, Kika, and the rest of the WAGs were frozen. Slack-jawed. Shimmer-eyed. Their boyfriends? Stunned. Like they’d just seen the northern lights for the first time.

George broke it with a yell: “RUN IT BACK!”

Then came that trumpet.

DUN—DUN DUN DUN DUN.

The lights pulsed crimson. The screams were instant. Deafening.

Lando sat forward in his seat as fire cannons exploded in time with the beat. Pierre’s jaw dropped. Kika clutched his arm, eyes wide with shock and delight. Lily was already on her feet, screaming along to the instrumental intro. From the VIP row, even Charles looked stunned.

From the center of the stage, five shadows emerged through a thick wall of smoke, stomping in perfect sync. Black boots. All leather. Heavy belts. Fingerless gloves. High ponytails and sharp eyeliner. Each one looked like a cinematic villainess who could kill you and look flawless doing it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“BLACKPINK IN YOUR AREA”

Jennie exploded into the spotlight first, fierce and flawless, her presence larger than life as she delivered the iconic opening line. Her voice sliced through the air, chin high, eyes untamed and wild.

“Cheonsa gateun ‘hi’ kkeuten akma gateun ‘bye’...”

Lily’s voice cracked in disbelief. “She’s not real. She’s not even human.”

Lisa stormed forward next, flowing through the verse like water over a blade. The Korean-English rap twisted through the arena, every line delivered with laser precision.

“Here I come kick in the door!”

She strutted to the edge of the stage, one hand on her hip, the other tossing a middle finger to gravity. The crowd went feral.

Jisoo stepped into the light. Elegant. Deadly. Her vocals were rich and emotional, haunting in contrast to the savage beat. She sang like a goddess of revenge, arm raised toward the sky as if she could rewrite fate itself.

Rosé was next. Her voice soft but dangerous, golden and aching as the chorus approached.

She took center again, tossed her hair, let it fall like silk down her back, and gave a single, knowing smirk to the crowd before launching into the line that detonated the arena:

“LET’S KILL THIS LOVE!”

The drop hit like a meteor.

“YEAH-YEAH-YEAH-YEAH-YEAH”

The beat exploded like an earthquake, and the five of them stomped forward, falling into the explosive choreography — each hit choreographed to perfection. Loud. Fierce. Like a war anthem.

RUM PUM PUM PUM PUM PUM

The choreography was thunderous — they stomped in unison, every beat of the bass a war cry. Lights strobed. Pyro flared. The crowd screamed the lyrics back with unholy energy. She stepped into the center. The shift was instant, like gravity bent around her. She moved like a queen who owned the world — the glint of her black-and-gold outfit catching every flash of light as she turned her gaze to the sea of fans.

“Feelin’ like a sinner, it’s so fire with him, I go boo hoo,” she rapped, locking into step beside Lisa.

“He said, ‘You look crazy,’ thank you, baby. I owe it all to you.” Lisa rapped

Her body was a weapon — slick with sweat, her neck gleaming as she tossed her hair back, spun, and delivered her next line with a hit to the chest:

“Got me all messed up, his love is my favorite...” She sang with a strong passion while grinding on Lisa.

“But you plus me sadly can be dangerous.” Lisa finished

The final chorus slammed in, and they moved like an army of five. Choreography razor-clean. Faces fierce. The final formation hit like thunder.

“LET’S KILL THIS LOVE!”

The beat dropped one last time, and the stage exploded with flames behind them — five silhouettes framed in fire, standing wide-legged, defiant, unstoppable. The stadium lost its mind. Kika and Lily screamed louder than the girls in the front row. Pierre leaned toward Lando, breathless. “You’re not coming back from that.” Lando didn’t take his eyes off the stage, jaw slack, chest heaving. “I don’t want to.” But he didn’t know what was coming next.

The lights dipped again. Smoke rolled back over the stage like a tide. A hush swept through the crowd — anticipation so thick it felt like thunder waiting to crack. Then came that slow, hypnotic whistle. A crimson spotlight swept across the stage like a hunter’s eye. BLACKPINK re-emerged like phantoms in the dark.

Lisa strutted out first — hips rolling, eyes sharp. Jennie followed, her walk slower, more deliberate, like she was stalking prey. Jisoo’s smirk was laced with poison, and Rosé’s blonde hair flicked like a whip. She stepped out last, wrapped in black lace and crimson mesh. Her thigh-high boots glinted under the strobes, her hair straight and luscious. She didn’t walk — she prowled. Then came the line.

“I’ve been known to kiss and tell…” Her voice was molten. Deadly. “Send girls to wishing wells. If you’re my man, I want you to myself.” She didn’t just sing it — she owned it. Her eyes scanned the crowd like she was choosing a target. “I know I’ll have enemies, as long as you’re into me. But I don’t care—’cause I got what I need.”

Jisoo and Rosé took the pre-chorus, their voices featherlight but dangerous, the calm before a storm. She moved to center as the beat climbed.

“I went crazy over you~~ (ah ah) over you, only you (ah ah)!”

The choreography locked into place — hips snapping, arms slicing, bodies moving with devastating precision. Lightsticks rippled like a sea of neon.

Lisa’s solo verse. The scream from the crowd nearly shattered the sound barrier. She rapped with sensual venom: “Feels wrong, but it’s right, right / Blacked out, no night light…” She stalked the edge of the stage, hair flying, her body a sinuous line of motion. At one point she grabbed her waist and tugged her top slightly down, just enough to make the entire stadium gasp. Jennie’s verse came next — sultry, sharp as glass.

“Boy, by the time I’m done / I won’t be the only one…” She leaned into the camera and grinned like a devil in lipstick. The entire screen behind her turned red.

Rosé’s voice soared over the final chorus. Lisa threw her head back mid-verse. Jisoo winked with lethal charm. She blew a kiss. Right at the VIP box. Straight at Lando.

It was surgical. She twirled, dropped low, and came back up into perfect formation as the final chorus hit like a heartbeat.

The screen behind them shimmered with glitching red florals and black static as they moved into the final dance break — a flurry of hips, precision steps, flowing arms, and rolling shoulders, a seduction in every breath.

Charles leaned forward. “Did she just—?”

“She winked at you last song too,” George added. Lando didn’t blink.

“I know.”

The final beat struck. The lights went out. Lando was still staring at the stage. Grinning, breathless, proud, stunned, and utterly hers.

The lights dimmed again, plunging the stadium into a sea of flickering crimson. A hush swept over the crowd like a tide pulling back, anticipation thrumming through every chest like the moment before a storm breaks. A single piano note echoed then another, flames erupted along the edges of the stage, curling upward like the breath of a dragon. The intro to “Playing With Fire” slithered through the speakers — slow, sultry, dangerous.

Jennie stepped forward, emerging from the shadows like a queen drenched in war paint. Her red leather corset gleamed under the spotlight, high ponytail swinging with calculated precision. She didn’t just sing — she declared.

"Uri eomman mael naege malhaesseo." Her voice sliced through the air like a blade. Controlled. Untouchable. Her hair pulled back into a high pony, red leather corset gleaming under the spotlight. Her voice sliced through the air like a warning.

Then Jisoo moved in beside her — fluid, graceful, her deep voice the kind that haunted and lingered. “Eomma mari kkok majeuljjido molla.” Her every step was poetry with an edge, her eyes locked on the camera like she was telling a secret.

Rosé followed, her blonde hair catching every flicker of the flames. Her voice — all silk and smoke — curled around the next line like it hurt to sing it. “Meomchul su eomneun i tteollimeun, on and on and on.”

Then the beat shifted. Lisa strutted into frame, swagger oozing from every move. She rapped her verse like she owned the planet “Look at me, look at me now, ireoke neon nalaetaeugo.” like the floor belonged to her alone. Lisa pointed into the crowd, smirked, and half the stadium swore she picked them.

“Uri sarangeun buljangnan (oh, oh, oh) my love is on fire (ooh)”

Her voice cut like a blade and soothed like honey, a raw blend of rasp and control that made the air feel heavier. She spun with Lisa, their backs touching as they circled the center of the stage like lions — every move precise, magnetic. In the VIP box, chaos was in full bloom.

George looked like he’d just seen God. “Lando. Is that normal? Like... does she always move like that?”

Pierre didn’t even blink. “I think I stopped breathing.” Kika screamed into her hands. Lily just stood there whispering, “She’s not real,” over and over like a mantra. But Lando? He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.

He was frozen — elbows on his knees, jaw slack, chest rising fast. Eyes locked on her. It wasn’t just an attraction. It was awe. A punch to the gut and a pull to the chest all at once. Every sway of her hips, every hair toss, every time her hand carved the air like she was painting fire — it all struck him somewhere deep. Somewhere dangerous. That body roll. She smirked straight at him, lips curled, eyes dark with mischief. She hit the move like she’d been waiting for him to look, and he was definitely looking. Lando exhaled like he’d been sucker punched.

The girls dropped into formation. Five silhouettes cloaked in smoke and fire.

"My love is on fire..."

The beat dropped, and they hit the floor hard — one leg bent and the other extended, hair whipping forward like whips. Heels slammed the stage. The impact of their synchronized pose rippled through the entire stadium.

Kika screamed, “OH MY GOD!”

Lando didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His pulse was in his throat. His hands were gripping the edge of his seat. His mouth was open slightly, breath caught mid-air. She was absolutely in her element. Firelight flickered across her skin as she leaned into the final chorus, eyes wild, dancing like she was made of flame herself. She caught his eye again. Just for a second, and winked. He swore the entire world tilted.

The final chorus roared through the stadium. She sang with her whole chest, dancing like it was the last stage she'd ever see. Flames licked at her heels. Sweat shimmered on her skin. Every line she delivered struck Lando in the ribs.

The girls snapped into their ending pose. She stood front and center, arm outstretched like she’d just dropped a match on gasoline. Her expression was unreadable — somewhere between fierce and feral. Her lips parted like she was still catching her breath.

The lights cut.

The crowd screamed. In the darkness, all you could hear were breaths, cheers, and the rapid beating of thousands of hearts, including Lando’s. He leaned back slowly, trying to exhale but failing.

“Mate…” George whispered, half-laughing, half-terrified. “You’re in so much trouble.”

But Lando just grinned, wide and dazed, eyes still on the darkened stage.

“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. “I really fucking know.”

And the stage began to light again — this time with a single spotlight. The solos were starting.

But Lando? He was still sitting there like he'd been struck by lightning. He was already waiting for her to come back.

“Flower”

The stadium lights softened to a pale violet glow, washing over the crowd like moonlight over still water. A gentle breeze, almost imagined, seemed to drift through the air as delicate cherry blossom petals floated across the LED screens — swirling, slow, dreamlike.

Soft, weightless — they drifted across the massive LED screens and fell from above, holographic projections that shimmered like falling stars. The silence was reverent. Sacred. Jisoo emerged alone from the side of the stage.

Her outfit was a breathtaking fusion — a modern reinterpretation of a Hanbok, lilac and silver silk catching the light with every slow, intentional step. Silver hairpins glinted in her dark, flowing hair, which spilled down her back in effortless waves. A sheer train followed behind her, delicate as morning mist.

The first haunting notes of “Flower” played — the unmistakable, delicate “eh-eh, eh, eh” The crowd fell silent. Not out of boredom, but reverence. Kika gasped and gripped Alex’s arm, whispering like she didn’t want to break the spell, “She looks like a literal princess.”

Jisoo began to move — slow, controlled, almost fragile — her hands tracing invisible lines through the air as if scattering petals with every motion. Each flick of her wrist was purposeful. Every step a story. She twirled. The lights flared softly around her like a blooming flower. The crowd, thousands of voices strong, sang along gently — almost respectfully — not daring to overpower her voice but needing to be part of the moment.

From the VIP box, Charles leaned forward, eyes narrowed in focus. “Is this the one with the flower move?” he murmured, a touch of awe in his tone. Then it came — the iconic point dance.

Jisoo raised her hands in that now-famous flourish, wrists twirling delicately in front of her face, her expression caught somewhere between heartache and poise. Graceful. Hypnotic. Her body swayed like a stem in the wind. Each move was intentional, soft but weighted. A woman letting go without ever fully breaking. Pierre, who hadn't looked away once, muttered under his breath, “No wonder TikTok lost its mind.”

As the final chorus rang out, Jisoo knelt in the center of the stage, fingers gently pinching the air like she was holding the last petal of a wilted rose. She let it fall. The lights faded to dusk. The crowd, again, screamed but it was a different kind of scream it was softer, emotional, like they’d all just been let in on something private. Charles, who rarely said much during performances, simply nodded. “She made heartbreak look like art.”

“On The Ground” / “Gone”

The stage dipped into moody twilight, hues of midnight blue and soft gray bleeding into the crowd. A single spotlight glowed like a distant moon, focused on a raised circular platform center-stage. There sat Rosé. Alone, cross-legged, a white electric guitar resting in her lap like an old friend. Dressed in a sleek black and white two-piece — tailored and minimal, but gleaming with subtle rhinestones — she looked like the personification of heartbreak itself. Glittering trails were painted beneath her eyes like tears caught in the spotlight.

The first lonely chords of “Gone” echoed through the arena, and her voice followed — fragile, aching, painfully raw. Like an open letter no one was supposed to read aloud.

Every word felt like a confession.

In the VIP box, Carlos blinked slowly, visibly hit. “Okay… this one’s hitting my soul.”

Rosé closed her eyes as she sang the chorus, her head tilted slightly back. Her voice cracked — not out of weakness, but because it was real. Like she'd lived every word.

Lando turned to Lily, who stood frozen with both hands clasped to her chest, already mouthing every lyric. “She’s your favorite?” he asked gently.

Lily nodded without looking away. “She always will be.”

The song faded into silence, like a sigh. The platform began to lower slowly, fog spilling around its base. The stage pulsed with a heartbeat-like thrum. The crowd stirred.

Rosé reappeared downstage, the guitar now slung across her back. The lights behind her flared white-hot and golden, like spotlights on a runway. She walked forward with slow, deliberate confidence — like someone who had broken, and then learned how to carry every shard.

“Everything I need is on the ground…”

Fans raised their phones, thousands of lights blinking in sync. Rosé’s voice soared, full of longing and clarity, as she poured herself into the bridge. George was swaying with his phone flashlight on, looking completely unironically emotional.

As the final chorus swelled, Rosé made her way to the edge of the stage, kneeling down with one hand outstretched. Fans in the front row reached for her like she was something divine, something rare — and she smiled through her tears, fingers brushing theirs gently. Even Charles, previously the most neutral observer, just shook his head and said, “I get it now. I get the hype.” Lando glanced at Lily again, who had wiped a tear without shame.

“Wasn’t expecting to cry tonight,” he muttered. She smiled through watery eyes. “That’s Rosé for you.” The final note rang out — soft, lingering, bittersweet.

Rosé stood in the haze, bowed once with both hands over her heart, then walked offstage slowly, guitar still strapped to her back.

The lights dimmed. The crowd roared. And somewhere in the noise, everyone realized: they’d just witnessed a masterclass in quiet devastation.

“Money” / “Lalisa”

The stadium blacked out. Not a single light, not a single sound. Just pure silence. A bass drop like a thunderclap. Red strobe lights exploded across the stage like a warning alarm. The iconic beat of “Money” shook the floor, rattling through every ribcage in the building.

Lisa strutted onto the stage like a storm made flesh. Black leather crop top, matching shorts with chrome chains swinging at her hips, knee-high boots that clicked with every step. Sunglasses on. Braids slicked and sharp. She wasn’t just performing — she was declaring war.

“It’s the end of the month and the weekend…”

The crowd detonated and so did the VIP box. Pierre literally stood up like he’d just seen God. “SHE’S INSANE.” Kika, dancing full-body in her chair, screamed, “GO OFF, LISA!!”

Lisa moved like the laws of physics didn’t apply to her — every step precise, every hair flip calculated, every smirk weaponized. She snapped her hips to the beat, crowd wrapped around her finger. Then came the sunglasses moment — ripped off and tossed into the pit as she slid into a perfect split. George clutched his chest. She rose from the floor like a phoenix, hair flying, eyes gleaming, and just as the beat seemed to slow—

“LALISA” dropped. Seamless transition. No mercy.

The visuals on the screen turned gold, flames licked the edges of the stage, and Lisa grinned — a real grin — the kind that meant trouble.

“Lalisa, love me, Lalisa, love me.” She switched to Thai mid-verse and the crowd went ballistic. Flags waved. Fandoms collided. Lisa tore through the choreo like she was born to set fires.

Carlos turned to Charles, voice barely audible over the noise. “I’m scared and obsessed.”

Lisa didn’t miss a single beat. From body rolls to hair whips, from center stage to the edge, she owned it. Total domination. By the time the bridge hit, she’d pulled off a mic drop moment without even touching the mic. One last spin. A wink. A kiss blown to the rafters. She twirled offstage with a strut that could’ve shut down traffic. Her smirk should’ve been classified as a weapon. The crowd lost its mind.

In the VIP box, Lando was blinking like he’d just come out of a trance. He leaned toward Oscar, completely dazed. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Oscar just snorted and shook his head. “And you think I’m intense?”

Kika leaned across George, grinning. “Lisa does not come to play.”

Backstage, she could already hear the faint thrum of the final solo building… and the screams weren’t stopping anytime soon.

"You & Me” (Coachella Version)

The lights melted into a soft, smoky hazy blue as fog curled low over the stage floor like a rising tide. A crescent moon appeared, suspended above, glowing silver against the midnight sky backdrop. The arena held its breath.

Jennie.

Dressed in a glittering, crystal-studded mini dress that shimmered like moonlight on water, her hair slicked back in perfect waves, her heels silent as she stepped forward — like she was floating. A dream in motion. A fevered vision no one could look away from.

“I love you and me, dancing in the moonlight…” Her voice was soft, seductive, delicate but deadly — like lace draped over a dagger. Jennie moved like water — smooth, fluid, yet sharp when she wanted to be. Every movement intentional. Every flick of her wrist, every slow roll of her hips, was magnetic. She didn’t need to try.

The crowd began chanting her name between verses like a spell.

“JENNIE! JENNIE! JENNIE!”

She tossed her hair, smirked into the camera, and sang the next line like she was letting someone in on a secret.

The beat dropped and Jennie snapped into full power. Lights pulsed to the rhythm. Backup dancers emerged like shadows circling her, but no one could touch her spotlight. She was pure command — hitting every step, every glide, every shoulder roll with the poise of someone who knew the world watched… and liked it that way.

Lily gasped “This is—this is ART.”

Jennie did a slow spin, dropped into a low dip, and when she rose — lips parted, eyes lidded, breathing heavy — the crowd screamed like it was the end of the world.

Kika, unable to look away, eyes wide with a grin. “Everyone wants to be her. Period.” She had an effect — a silent, slow burn that kept getting hotter the longer you watched.

As the last chorus melted into the bridge, Jennie walked forward — alone again — under the moonlight. The audience swayed with her. She ended with a slow, teasing bow, one hand to her chest, the other extended like she was offering her heart — or maybe daring someone to take it. The lights dimmed. The screams erupted.

Pierre, stunned, barely able to find words, just said, “She scares me. In the best way.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah. That wasn’t a performance. That was possession.”

The stage reset began. Everyone knew who was coming next.

“Thunder” / “Seoul City”

The stadium lights shattered into flickering diamonds — strobes pulsing like a heartbeat. Then the spotlight hit.

She stepped out wearing a rhinestone-studded mini dress that caught every glint of light, silver platform boots that stomped like authority, and hair flowing free behind her, she looked like a Y2K pop goddess summoned from a fever dream. Her mic shimmered under the spotlights — so did she. A row of dancers flanked her like a glam squad of It-girls, and the first beat dropped.

“Got that uh-huh, that uh-huh, Big big uh-huh”

The crowd exploded. Banners waved. Fans shrieked. She didn’t just command attention — she demanded it. She strutted down the catwalk with a smirk that could end wars, flipping her hair, winking straight into the steadicam like the stage was hers — because it was. Her choreography was pure fire: sharp, sexy, playful — the kind of movement that screamed effortlessness while still being precision-cut. She didn’t just move with the music; she was the music.

“Somethin’ a little like thunder, got that make you wonder…”

Every sway of her hips, every body roll, every sly smile left the crowd breathless. She sang live — her voice powerful and sultry, flipping from airy high notes to confident rap bars without breaking a sweat.

“No, you said I’ll never get by. Now look at me I’m so high." Lando jolted in his seat like he’d been struck. Face flushed, lips parted, eyes wide. Pierre elbowed him but got no reaction.

“You wanna know what it feel’s like…”

“It’s like, Got the uh-huh, that uh-huh” The beat morphed, pulsing smoother, darker — and the crowd collectively screamed as "Seoul City" began.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh…”

Lights went soft, pink and violet. Her silhouette curved as she leaned into her mic, slow and seductive. She walked with lazy grace, like a panther. Her voice melted over the beat.

“Give me hug, need your love, touch my thigh, tell me what puts you in that mind” Lando sat frozen, jaw clenched, chest visibly rising and falling.

“I could be, be your prize, pick me up. Flying high, paradise… in Seoul City.” The dancers fell away. The lights tightened.

She was alone again. A single spotlight. And she knelt — on her knees at the very end of the stage. Looking directly at him.

“Would you make me your boss, pretty please? Pretty please, let me ease your mind…” Lando’s hand curled tightly around his thigh.

She sang only to him: “Look at me, can you breathe?” “Ah…” (inhale)

And she leaned her head back, her neck glistening with sweat, the rhinestones of her dress catching like stars. The crowd screamed so loud it rattled the floor. She stayed there — a beat of silence, eyes closed. Lando’s lips parted like he’d forgotten he had them.

“Ah…” (exhale)

She smirked at the crowd. At him. “I could give you life.”

She rose like a queen ascending.

Dance break. Spins. Hair flips. Body rolls sharp enough to kill. Smoke jets burst. Strobe lights went wild. She ended center stage, arms out, head tilted. The screen behind her pulsed once more — then blackout, the entire stadium ROARED. Kika screamed into Pierre’s jacket. Charles and Alex looked shell-shocked. Even stoic Oscar had to sit down. Carmen and Lily shaking their hammerbongs like crazy. And Lando? Lando was gone. Mouth open, heart pounding. Wrecked.

George leaned in, eyes wide. “Mate… you need air?”

Lando blinked once and covered his face. “I need a priest.”

Vivaldi’s “La Campanella” rang through the stadium, its sharp strings plucking ominously, slow and deliberate—like a warning. The crowd roared in recognition, screams piercing through the hush that followed. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then the bass dropped.

The stage exploded in pulsing white strobes and swirling smoke. Trap beats thundered through the arena, shaking the floor. The screen came to life with glitching chrome graphics, and through the haze, five silhouettes emerged.

“Keombaegi anya tteonan joek eopseunikka—” Jennie’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

The five of them stalked forward in a clean, synchronized line, their steps heavy and deliberate. Final boss energy. The crowd lost it — banners shaking, fans crying, phones in the air.

Lando was frozen. His jaw clenched, eyes tracking only one person on that stage.. She didn’t even look at him, not yet but she knew he was watching.

“Stay in your own lane cause im bout to swerve. Catch me when you hear my McLaren go vroom, vroom, vroom” She changed the lyric and the staduim heard it. Lando’s jaw actually dropped. A full beat of silence before he caught himself and tried to play it off, swallowing a grin. Carlos slapped his chest.

She smirked into the camera, sweat glistening on her temple, eyes locked in, spinning into another sharp move like she hadn’t just turned a stadium into rubble. Fans screamed. Carlos slapped Lando's arm as Lando tried to play it cool. “She just said McLaren, Mate.”

“She’s ridiculous,” he whispered. Lando was already leaning forward. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip, eyes fixed on her like he’d been hit by a damn spell. She was locked in — sweat glistening at her hairline, muscles flexing as she spun, popped, dropped. A goddess with a vengeance.

“When we pull up you know it’s a shutdown…” Lisa exploded into her verse, her ponytail snapping like a whip. Jennie strutted to the side, gun-loaded in leather and rhinestones. Jisoo followed, eyes cool, moving with icy precision. Rosé twirled into a glow, her voice soaring.

“Whip it, whip it, whip it, whip it…”

Jisoo came in next, her vocals ethereal but cool as ice. She twirled and landed into formation like it was effortless. Her eyes flicked over the crowd as if to say, Bow down.

Rosé’s voice rang out crystal-clear, fingers gliding through her wavy hair as she hit a spin and sent the mic up to the sky. Then all five of them lined up.The chorus dropped.

“Shut it down, BLACKPINK in your area…shut it down BLACKPINK in your area”

The chorus slammed in like a hammer. Hips snapped, arms sliced, boots thundered across the stage. They were choreo monsters — no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just raw, weaponized artistry.

“Keep talkin’, we shut you down.”

The lights cut. A flicker of flame — dollar signs scrolling across the screen, slow pink fire curling from the corners. The bassline growled like a beast waking up.

A spotlight cracked open. “Typa Girl.”

Rosé emerged first, her chrome corset throwing reflections across the crowd like shattered glass. She prowled forward, her gaze slicing through the fans. Every syllable had bite.

“Typa girl that’s gonna make you wanna dream…”

Lisa took over next, hair sleek and straight, dressed in an elegant deconstructed blazer with diamond-cut slits at the waist and boots that clicked with power. Her delivery was chill and sly, a smirk curving her lips as she sang,

“Typa girl that come straight up off the screen…”

The dancers moved around them in clean, sharp patterns, letting each girl have their moment while matching their tempo. Lights flashed red and gold in rhythm with the beat.

Jennie stepped into the spotlight next, loose waves flowing, a glittering fringe top catching every bit of light. Her voice rang out clear and strong.

“Typa girl you wanna ice up, make me freeze…”

Jisoo took her verse next, dressed in black leather and rhinestones, moving like she owned the entire universe. Her delivery was fierce, unapologetic, her voice snapping over the beat.

“You the typa girl you wanna wife up, sign the pre…”

She stepped forward.

Hair up in a high, sleek ponytail. Wearing a custom hot pink crop jacket over a bustier, chains dripping from her belt, and heeled boots laced with silver. She smirked before her mic even touched her lips — she knew what she was about to do.

“I bring money to the table, not your dinner. Both my body and my bank account, good figure…” She popped a hip, flicked her hair, The crowd lost it. And so did lando

She rapped and sang effortlessly, snapping her fingers with the beat, hips rolling, eyes flicking toward the VIP section with a wink. Lando didn’t even try to play it cool — he was already clapping above his head, yelling something completely inaudible.

“I’m the typa girl that make you forget that you got a type— Typa make you love me when the only thing you’ve done is like…”

Fireworks exploded from the stage. A wall of smoke and pink lights flashed behind them. Fans were screaming, singing along, sobbing — all at once.

Carmen was yelling in pure joy, arm around Lily, both of them mimicking the choreo with near-perfect accuracy. Kika was recording on her phone with her other hand, spinning in a circle and shrieking. “THIS IS A WORKOUT,” Carmen yelled.

Lando had a big, goofy, lovesick smile smeared across his face like he’d just seen the divine.

As the song came to its end, each girl hit their final pose — She at the front, winking over her shoulder, her breath heavy but her grin wide. The crowd erupted. She flipped a lock of hair out of her face, panting slightly, and looked directly at the VIP row. Lando, still clapping like an idiot, smiled at her like she’d just invented the sun.

The stage turned dark.

Then—

A sharp flicker of neon pink and deep crimson, followed by a BOOM that echoed through the stadium like a detonation. The LED screens blazed alive—swirling diamonds, liquid fire, and smoke curling with menace. The bass dropped like a threat.

“BLACKPINK!”

The girls appeared like a storm.

Lisa emerged first, stalking across the stage in glittering chrome and black buckled boots. Her high ponytail whipped behind her like a weapon. She pointed at the crowd with a smirk, turned, and strutted—power incarnate.

Jennie followed, swathed in a sharp corset two-piece with long gloves and a mini-cape slicing the air behind her. Her eyes were locked forward, cold, confident, carved from pure fire.

Jisoo shimmered next, draped in deep blood-red, her slit dress revealing just enough to tease, chains dancing at her hip with each movement. She was elegance dipped in danger.

Rosé flowed in like a melody—her glittery mesh set catching the lights like stardust, blonde waves bouncing, gaze playful. She winked at the crowd, a gentle promise of incoming chaos.

And finally, she emerged in a custom jet-black bodysuit with hot pink embroidery cutting down her sides, sharp cutouts at the waist, and thigh-high boots that owned the floor. Her long hair was down, slick and wild, and her eyes—those eyes—scanned the arena like she was hunting.

The crowd screamed so loud it shook the stadium.

“Hit you with that ddu-du ddu-du du,”

All five snapped into formation. The choreo was deadly — sharp angles, full control, like a weapon honed for war. Up in the VIP section, Lando’s jaw actually dropped. Carlos leaned over. “You okay?” Lando didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to the stage, and more specifically. She moved like thunder and silk. The way her hips hit each beat, the whip of her hair, the sheer command—he wasn’t watching his girlfriend perform. He was watching a goddamn phenomenon. Then the second verse hit. Lights shifted. The bass curled low and heavy, seductive.

Lily leaned toward Lando, yelling over the music, “YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS ABOUT TO GO OFF!”

Lando turned, confused—until she stepped forward.

“I’m getting money by the hundreds. All my GQ’s spread like hummus. Bullshit for the birds that are coming. I’ma say that shit again — I’m the mail, I run it. Drop that like you got a hot track, so you wanna knock that, got another banger. Real talk, I’ma let the Os talk. You can see the billions, better call a banker.”

The way she hit her lines faster than the backtrack — every word dripping with venom and velvet — had even the security guards vibing. She shot a quick smirk to the VIP section mid-verse, eyes finding Lando.

Lando forgot how to breathe. Carlos swore under his breath. “Mate,” Carlos muttered, “I think you just blacked out.”

When the song ended, they struck their final pose — five icons, backlit in flame and glitter, breathless and proud.

People screaming, phones up, WAGs dancing like backup dancers, Carmen and Lily losing their minds, Kika shouting along like she was on stage herself. Fans sobbed, jumped, chanted. The floor shook.

He was still staring at her. his hands mid-clap, lips parted in awe. A man was completely ruined in real-time.

She flipped a lock of hair out of her face, chest heaving slightly as she turned her head toward him again. She knew.

In that moment, there was no denying it: BLACKPINK had just obliterated the stage.

Then came the opening chords of “Tally.” The crowd roared in recognition — slower, sultrier, unapologetically defiant. Smoke curled across the stage floor. The lights dimmed into a moody violet haze, shifting to deep pinks and blues. The girls moved in closer, their silhouettes bold and sharp.

She stepped forward. Eyes locked on Lando. Her voice dropped smooth, velvet, and venom:

“I say F it when I feel it, ‘Cause no one’s keeping tally. I do what I want with who I like—”

She dragged her gaze across the crowd, then right back to Lando — holding it this time, firm and unblinking.

“I ain't gon' conceal it. While you talking all that shit, I’ll be gettin’ mine, gettin’ mine.”

She didn’t just sing the line. She delivered it like a dagger wrapped in silk, her mouth curling into a smirk, that wicked glint in her eye daring him to flinch. Lando’s breath hitched. For a moment, he forgot there were 50,000 people between them. It felt like she was singing to no one else.

Next to him, Carlos snorted. “She’s really letting you have it, bro.”

Lily was already filming him. “I need your reaction for the group chat,” she whispered, gleeful. She pivoted out of frame as Lisa slid forward, eyes cool, smile sharp.

“Don’t apologize for my behavior— If you’re offended, I don’t care.”

The crowd screamed the next line before she even hit it, thousands of voices yelling in sync, vibrating through the air like gospel. The girls weren’t just performing — they were testifying. As the track faded into its final echo, the beat of “Boombayah” dropped like a lightning bolt and chaos reigned. Lights strobed gold and fuchsia. Pyro exploded at the sides of the stage. A wild party anthem reborn — the ultimate encore.

BLACKPINK went off.

They danced with pure, uninhibited joy, hair whipping, outfits shimmering, owning the stage like queens at the end of a world tour. Backup dancers flooded in. Confetti blasted into the air. The jumbotron spun wild shots of the crowd losing their absolute minds.

She grabbed Jennie’s hand and twirled her with a laugh, then bumped hips with Rosé. Jisoo grinned as she leaned into Lisa, who hit a final freestyle pop move that made the dancers lose it. The energy was electric — all five of them glowing like they’d just stolen the sun.

Lando was grinning without realizing it, eyes glued to She the whole time. She was laughing, sweat shining on her brow, eyes alive. She looked… free.

Not the composed, mysterious icon the press usually showed — but a girl on fire, dancing with her sisters, with no care in the world except the moment she was in.

As the final chorus roared out —

“LET’S GO, LET’S GO” they struck their last pose. Fireworks detonated behind them in a rainbow of sparks. The crowd went feral. She bowed low, one arm sweeping with flair, then popped up with a wink to the crowd — and one last glance toward Lando. He clapped slowly, arms crossed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

“She told you,” Carlos said, nudging him.

“She performed it at me,” Lando muttered, lips twitching.

Lily was still filming. “How do you feel about being the muse for BLACKPINK’s soft diss track era?”

Lando said, grinning now. “Turned on and in shock.”

“You looked like you were about to propose mid-verse,” Carlos teased. Lando rubbed a hand over his face, watching her on the jumbotron as she waved to fans and blew kisses. His chest felt tight with something he couldn’t explain — pride, awe, a little bit of fear. That woman on stage? She was a force of nature. And she was his.

As BLACKPINK made their final waves and bowed one last time, the lights dimmed, the confetti still raining, and the crowd chanted their names like a prayer. Lando didn’t move until they were fully off stage and even then, he was still staring, heart hammering.

BACKSTAGE – MOMENTS AFTER THE SHOW

The moment BLACKPINK disappeared behind the curtain, the chaos flipped — stage thunder swapped for backstage electricity.

Hair stylists ran forward with towels and water bottles, managers called out instructions, and camera crews scrambled to capture the afterglow. But the girls? They were buzzing. Sweaty, glowing, laughing — still riding the high.

She tore off her mic pack, tossing her hair back as Lisa grabbed her by the waist and spun her in a half-circle.

“We ATE,” Lisa shrieked and jumped up and down.

“Obliterated.” Rosé was breathless, hugging Jisoo as they both burst into giggles.

The dressing room doors flew open.

“THAT WAS INSANE,” Kika yelled first, practically charging in with Lily right behind him.

Rosé was mid-sip of coconut water when she froze, eyes lighting up. “Wait— are those the drivers?!” Jennie turned first, arms up like a champ. “Where’s my trophy?!?”

“Yo!” Lisa spun around in her chair, glowing with post-show adrenaline, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Charles. “You’re the Ferrari guy. I watched Drive to Survive.” Alexandra laughed.

Charles did a dramatic little bow. “And you’re Lisa. I watched you end lives on stage just now.”

It was a collision of worlds, and it was glorious.

Jennie, regal even with a towel over her shoulders, raised an eyebrow and looked up at George. “Which team are you?”

“Mercedes,” he said smoothly, offering a hand. “Big fan. Huge.”

Jisoo giggled, “You guys all look like you came from a Bond movie.”

“Right back at you,” Pierre murmured, half in awe, half definitely already crushing.

Lisa, eyeing Carlos, tilted her head. “And you’re the funny one.”

“I knew she’d like me,” Carlos whispered behind his hand to Lando.

Meanwhile, she was slipping out from a side corridor, fresh from a quick change into loose black sweatpants, a cropped tee, and her hair still damp at the ends. She hadn’t even seen Lando yet—until she turned the corner and froze. He was already watching her. She looked tired but alive, radiant in that post-performance glow. Their eyes locked.

For a moment, everything else blurred. Sh walked up, quiet, smiling. Lando didn’t say anything. He just opened his arms and she walked right in.

No words needed — he wrapped his arms around her, tucked his face into her neck, and breathed. She smelled like vanilla, sweat, and stage fog. She was laughing softly against his collar. “I destroyed you a little bit out there,” she murmured.

He pulled back just enough to grin at her. “Yeah. But like, in a hot way.”

She rolled her eyes, kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re such a fanboy.”

“You’re my favorite member.”

“You’re just saying that because I looked straight at you during Tally.”

“You gutted me during Tally.”

They laughed, and just like that, the storm of cameras and cheers and chaos faded around them.

LATER – POST-CONCERT DINNER

A private restaurant in downtown Paris.

The kind of place tucked between cobblestone alleys and centuries-old shutters — where the windows glowed gold, the wine list had no prices, and the laughter could be heard from the street.

They’d taken over the back room, of course — one long wooden table under warm hanging lights, plates of charred bread and creamy burrata, glasses filled with deep red wine and sparkling water. The afterglow of the concert still hung in the air like perfume. Makeup a little smudged, heels half-kicked off, voices soft and easy now.

BLACKPINK x F1. It felt surreal, like a crossover episode no one saw coming.

Lisa was mid-rant, waving her fork like a conductor. “Okay, but LA traffic is not just bad. It’s psychotic. I had one guy try to side-eye merge through me—”

George held up a calming hand. “Alright. Clearly, you need proper driving lessons.” Lisa narrowed her eyes. “Are you offering? On a track?”

“You know what?” George shrugged with a grin. “Yeah. I am.”

Lisa leaned back, smirking. “Bet.”

Jennie, in a silky black dress and an oversized blazer that somehow made her look even more intimidatingly cool, was leaned in close to Lily, snorting with laughter as they compared their most ridiculous airport looks. “No, no, wait,” Jennie said between giggles, scrolling through her camera roll. “This one. It was 5 AM and I wore pajama pants with heels. The customs guy looked like he wanted to cry.”

“Iconic,” Lily grinned, stealing a fry from Oscar’s plate.

Rosé and Charles were at the end of the table, completely absorbed in a heated debate over sad girl anthems.

“Phoebe Bridgers,” Rosé said, swirling her wine.

“Lana Del Rey,” Charles argued. “Pure emotional devastation.”

“She’s depression in a dress, sure,” Rosé conceded, “but Phoebe is like a heartbreak stabbing you slowly with a glittery spoon.”

Carlos stood up suddenly, half-drunk on red wine and vibes. He raised his glass with a flourish.

“To BLACKPINK — legends, icons, heartbreakers." he turned dramatically toward the middle of the table, "Thank you for making our dear Lando spiral in real time on camera." He motioned to her.

The table erupted. Kika almost spit up her drink. Pierre nearly choked. Lisa was pounding the table in laughter.

Lando just launched a cloth napkin at Carlos’ head. She just smiled, glowing, cheeks flushed with warmth and wine. She leaned back in her chair, elbow resting lightly on Lando’s. “He’ll recover,” she said airily, taking a slow sip of her wine, “eventually.”

Lando leaned closer, voice low just for her. “Barely.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass, eyes dancing. “Still not over Seoul City, huh?”

“You aimed that whole verse at me, don’t even lie.” She smirked. “I’m not even mad about it.”

“I know,” she said softly, gaze drifting down to his lips for half a second. “That’s why it worked.”

Their knees brushed under the table again. Neither of them moved away.

When the bill came, there was a brief, chaotic moment where the girls protested, reaching for clutches and tapping phones. But the drivers were already ten steps ahead.

Pierre and Kika took care of Jisoo, who tried to argue once before Kika waved her off with a, “Don’t even try, babe.”

Carlos and Rebecca cover Lisa, who raised a brow. “Look at you, all gentleman-y.”

Charles and Alexandra handled Jennie’s, despite her muttering something about “highway robbery” for a round of oysters.

George and Carmen waved Rosé’s card away, George bowing dramatically. “Artists should be spoiled. It’s in the Geneva Convention.”

Lando picked up the bill, card already in the folder, before she noticed.

She turned toward him, brows raised. “You didn’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said, voice low and sincere.

She laughed under her breath, nudging his knee again. “I love you”

“I love you, too” he said, eyes soft now, his hand brushing hers under the table — a touch so quiet no one else noticed and in the low hum of the room — wine buzzed and heart-light — She looked at him like she finally saw it. This boy, who always laughed the loudest and looked like sunshine, was also the one who looked at her like she hung the stars.

Paris after midnight was made for secrets and softness.

The streets had emptied, the night warm with the kind of breeze that lifted curls and carried perfume. They walked side by side, just the two of them now, drifting slowly through the city like they had nowhere else to be.

He held her hand — not tight, not possessive. Just a gentle, open-threaded kind of touch. Like he was afraid if he let go, the moment would disappear. She didn’t pull away. They turned a corner near the Seine, the river glittering like spilled starlight beneath the bridges.

“You were something else tonight,” Lando said, voice quiet. “Completely irresistible”

She smiled slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only about you,” he murmured.

They stopped at the edge of the bridge, the kind with cast iron rails and lovers’ locks from years past. Paris spread out before them like a painting. The air was sweet with lilacs from a nearby florist’s cart, abandoned now for the night. His hand rested lightly on her waist. The city hummed around them, but it felt like they were wrapped in something quieter — something just for them.

She leaned in slowly, the space between them collapsing like it was always meant to. Her lips brushed his — barely at first. A whisper of a kiss, then deeper, warmer. His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, the kiss slow, reverent. There was no rush. No need to perform. Just the quiet, aching honesty of two people choosing each other.

When they pulled back, her eyes were glassy with starlight.

“Wanna head back to the hotel?” he asked, voice thick with something he didn’t have a name for yet. She nodded, her fingers finding his again. Under the watchful moon, with the cobblestones clicking beneath their steps, they walked — slow and tangled, not quite ready to let the night go. It wasn’t just Paris that was beautiful. It was them — in the softest version of forever, unfolding one heartbeat at a time.

They had just stepped into their hotel suite, the door clicking shut behind them with a soft thud. Lando’s jacket was off and tossed on the back of a chair. She was already reaching up to untwist her hair, letting it fall like silk down her back. Neither said a word at first. There was no rush. No need to fill the quiet. Not after tonight.

Lando just leaned against the wall for a second, watching her. The makeup was smudged at the corners of her eyes now, her lips a little faded, and she was still the most electric thing he’d ever seen. The echo of her voice — her presence — still vibrated somewhere inside him.

“You okay?” she asked softly, catching his gaze.

He let out a slow breath, as if finally exhaling everything he’d held in since the first second she stepped on that stage.

“No,” he said honestly. “You wrecked me.”

She smiled, walking over and setting her shoes by the door. “Lando—”

“You don’t get it,” he cut in, pushing off the wall. “I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you tired. I’ve seen you in sweats at home.. I’ve seen you fight for what you want, disappear when things get too loud, light up when you're in your element…” He stepped closer. “But I’ve never seen you like that. On stage. You were—” he shook his head, almost frustrated. “You were magic.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that. Not all of it. He gently took her hand and laced their fingers together. “Come here,” he said, voice low, pulling her toward the balcony.

Outside, the air was cool, a light breeze fluttering the sheer curtains. The city sparkled like it was wearing diamonds. The streets had quieted now, and it felt like they were floating above the world.

She leaned on the railing, arms crossed gently, and Lando came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. They stood like that for a while — skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat — the kind of silence that felt full rather than empty. She turned her head just slightly, and their cheeks brushed.

“You know,” she whispered, “I was nervous.”

Lando’s arms tightened a little around her. “Why?”

“It was your first time seeing me like that. On stage. I didn’t want you to feel like I was… someone else.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You weren’t someone else,” he said, quiet but certain. “You were more of you. All the fire and steel and softness. I just… got to see all of it at once.” She blinked slowly, heart suddenly thudding in a new way.

“You talk like you’re in love with me,” she murmured.

“I am,” he said, no hesitation. “Kinda feel like I have been for a while.”

She turned fully now, her hands resting gently on his chest, his thumbs brushing soft circles against her waist.

There was no dramatic music. No fireworks. Just the city, and their breath, and the way he looked at her like she was it. The whole answer.

“Lando…” she started, but he kissed her before she could finish — slow, tender, like a secret passed between them. When they finally pulled back, her hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, she smiled softly.

“I think I’m in love with you too.”

He rested his forehead against hers, laughing under his breath, full of disbelief and something deeper. “You think?”

She grinned, lips brushing his. “Pretty sure. Might need another kiss to confirm.”so he kissed her again — longer this time, hands cradling her face like she was something holy.

They didn’t go back inside for a while. Just stayed there, wrapped in each other, the city below and stars above, suspended in the quiet that only love can hold.

Lando just made a post

@/Lando

❤️ 7.9M 💬 25.1k ➤ 394k

Lando First time seeing her on stage, still trying to recover

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc bro we told you not to fall in love with a pop star 😭 good luck

@/Landohitsdiff she looked at you ONCE during “Tally” and you handed over your soul AND your credit card

@/jennierubyjane 👀😎

@/lisafromthetrack "still trying to recover" and she hasn't even posted HER pics yet. Rookie mistake

@/BLACKPINKgoesvroom she bobied the stage, bodied you, and still looked good going it 💅 icon

@/(y/n)updates he's whipped. we won

@/formulaladsdaily it's giving "she steps on me and I say thank you" we support it

@/User 1 not this F1 man turning into a groupie 💀 sit down lando

@/landoismyhusbandlol you know what? I ship it. painfully. aggressively. With my whole chest.

@/georgerussell63 Still recovering? Mate, you haven’t spoken in full sentences since her second verse 💀

@/f1-mcmuffin I’ve seen ships with less chemistry get full novels. WHERE IS OUR FANFIC 👀

@/thegridshipper I was here for pole positions, now I’m here for soul positions. They’re ENDGAME.

@/Landofangirl444 she's mid, y'all just like her cause she's dating him. no stage presence, just snarky attitude

@/randomrbrfan69 another driver distracted by a pop girl 🙄 focus on the car maybe?

@/mimisleftboot she stomped in those thigh-highs and we all felt it. lando included 😌

@/jisooforpresident he’s living every fanfic writer’s dream and I’m just here eating cereal

@/Rosescreens nah but you looked in love. like…eye-twitching, stomach-flipping love.

@/landoisours we lost him to the sparkle boots and villain eyeliner 💔

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Hope y'all enjoyed, now I can sleep stress free 😭💕

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