gatsby-20

[gatsby-20]

I Know I Was Wrong

An end of season racing triumph is shattered when Lando learns of your critical condition. He holds vigil, grappling with uncertainty and the depth of his devotion while everyone waits for you to wake up.

Part 7: We'll Be A Fine Line

(a/n: Final part!! I did decide to write a little epilogue so that will be coming in a few days. I’m working on my next fic but it’ll probably be a bit before that’s out! Chapter title is from Fine Line by Harry Styles. Spotify playlist can be found here.)

Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Series Masterlist

Everyone in the Mclaren garage would have been celebrating if it weren’t for the fact that Lando Norris blasted right past them with all the grace of a brush fire. He sprinted through the hallways with a deadly expression on his face that flattened every person he passed. 

None of them had ever seen Lando Norris look like that before. Every single one of them knew that something was seriously wrong, though. 

“I don’t care, get me on a flight!” He barked out to the person on his right who was holding a tablet and running beside him. On his other side, his press secretary tried to cut in. 

“But Lando, if you don’t do press there will be a fine yo–” Sophie began, only to be swiftly and sharply cut off. 

“I’ll pay it, I don’t give a shit, just get me back to London,” he snapped as he flung the door to his driver room open with a bang.

He barely paid any mind to if the door was shut or not before he was stripping himself of his fireproofs. When his brother came in to say that their flight was in an hour and the car left in ten, Lando fought the urge to snap at him and instead jumped into the quickest shower of his life in a desperate bid to get the champagne out of his hair. 

Sepsis. 

Emergency surgery. 

Amputation is her best option for survival. 

Doctors are unsure of what went wrong. 

All of that, and he’s sitting here with champagne in his hair and the ghost of a trophy in his palm. It all feels so stupid now. Especially since he’d had no idea of what was going on. 

He’d allowed himself to relax. You were doing well. The season was almost over. He’d go home to you and spend the next few months helping you recover and spending every single second with you. 

Now he wasn’t even sure if you’d be alive when the plane landed in London. 

His mind reels with nothing but memories of the first time he’d lost you. How it had torn him apart from the inside out. And that wasn’t even permanent, just a blip. 

He’s heard of people dying of a broken heart. Not a medical diagnosis per se, but true nonetheless. And he’s a fit guy, healthier than most. But he can’t help but feel like that would be his fate, if everything well and truly fell apart. 

Clothes are thrown into a bag, and he barely has time to grab his wallet before he's running out of his room and into the car. His mother is still on the phone, Max sitting with a tight jaw as he looks out the window. Adam and his siblings are in another car as they screech toward the airport going well past the speed limit. 

Lando doesn’t care. He’ll pay them extra if they can get them there even faster. He wishes he were in his own car so he could drive as recklessly and quickly as he wanted to. 

He distantly hears his mother get off the phone, but she looks almost too shell shocked to speak. Lando isn’t sure he wants to hear what she has to say, anyways. It won’t change the fact that he’s not there. 

God, how could he have ever left? How could he have ever thought that it was more important to race than to be with you? 

His mind spins back to the last time when he saw you. He can’t remember the last thing you’d said to him. You had fallen asleep before he’d left, before he could tell you one final time that he loved you. 

You had to know that he loved you, right? 

Max interrupts his thoughts as he lets out a low sigh, shaking his head. Lando looks over at him, and finally really takes the time to look. 

The expression on his friend’s face is one of guilt, and suddenly he can begin to put the pieces together. He remembers their phone call earlier in the week, how Max had sounded so strange. 

“You didn’t have food poisoning, did you?” Lando questions softly, not accusatory. His voice is filled with exhaustion that wasn’t present just a few hours before, a heaviness that only came from intense concern. Max glances over at him as though he’s been caught red handed. Lando isn’t prepared for the way his best friend's head bows, or for the tears that he speaks through when he responds. 

“I stayed because she had a fever. She didn’t look right, wasn’t acting right. But they gave her antibiotics, and by the time I left she was feeling better. She told me to go and I…I saw that she was better. She was supposed to be better.” 

His voice cracks painfully over the last sentence, like it had cost him a year of his life to force out. He looks broken, like somehow this is all his fault. Like him leaving was the reason that she went downhill afterward. 

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps, barely even audible. 

Lando shut his eyes for a second tightly, trying to bring himself to find a hatred for your selflessness. You were so focused on the season end, on everyone getting to be with him, that you’d lost the support when perhaps you needed it most. His best friend looks him dead in the eyes, and he can see the pain and guilt there. He can’t fault Max for his decision at all. Lando put his hand on Max’s knee, squeezing it tightly. 

“If she told you to go, then you made the right decision. There is no way you could have known what would happen. Even if you were there, you couldn’t have done anything. It’s okay, Max,” he promises, even though it isn’t okay. 

Max knew that, and Lando knew it too. None of it was okay. 

But it was also true that Max being there wouldn’t have really done anything. There wasn’t a magic wand he could have waved in order for this to suddenly be better. And if you wanted him to go, he knows that you would have been devastated for him to miss out on this moment. 

“What did Oliver say?” He finally turns to address his mother, who looks over at him with hollow eyes. 

“She’s still in surgery. They don’t know much,” is all she says, her voice soft. Seeing Cisca like this scares Lando even further, edging him into fully fledged panic territory. 

Cisca was like the flight attendant you looked to when things got rough. She always had a smile on her face, a solution to be offered. She was the calm in the storm through everything. But now she sat there with a grim expression on her face, staring out of the window blankly. 

Lando had only seen her like this once before - when your mother had passed away. She had lost her best friend that day, and now she was potentially losing someone who had grown to become her fifth child. 

It felt like the universe was trying to test just how much it could make her hurt. She closes her eyes to keep the tears at bay, her conversation with Oliver swirling around in her mind. 

Lando turns away if for nothing other than the fact that he cannot stand to look at the emptiness in his mother’s expression. You’d always been like a daughter to her. Lando knows that as much as this was killing him, it would feel just as bad for her. 

Everyone boarded the plane with the urgency of people headed for asylum, and were up in the air promptly. Lando had no clue whose plane this was, or how it had been procured in record time. With the readiness of the crew he had to assume that their ride had been stolen from someone else. Planes can’t be chartered this quickly, this easily. 

But he didn’t care about that. 

He’d given up on trying to seem like he was okay. He wasn’t. 

Plain and simple, he was not okay. 

His leg bounced the whole flight, his hand hovering over a bag just in case his nausea actually produced anything. It felt like his throat was closing up on him, like he was seconds away from a panic attack that never fully actualized. 

Oliver sent him a message when they had just gotten up to the air. He read it off to the rest of the plane passengers, who hung onto every word he said with desperation. 

“She made it out of surgery okay. The amputation was clean, but they had to take more off than they were expecting. Still below the knee which is better for recovery. Her body struggled with the surgery on top of the infection. They’re going to keep her asleep to allow her body to heal.” 

His voice was monotonous, but there was a small exhale of relief from those around him. 

Lando had never been so glad that someone hadn’t died on the table of an operating theatre. 

If you survived this, he would give you anything and everything you’d ever wanted. He’d hand build an F1 car for you to drive if it meant he got to see you laugh again. 

Lando fights the urge to charge into the hospital demanding answers. He knows that part of his sheer amount of urgency is rooted in the fact that he is (what feels like) the least prepared of everyone. 

Almost as if everyone else had considered this possibility that he hadn’t allowed himself to believe - that you wouldn’t make it out of this. 

You had to be okay. That was the only answer here. That was the only possibility he allowed himself to believe out of all the options. 

Lando was the first in the door, followed closely by Max. The rest of the Norris family had let them off before they went to park the car. The driver spotted Oliver in the waiting room, and he turned on a dime and booked it over toward him. 

“How is she?” He asked breathlessly, and Oliver looked up at him weakly. The man looked like a shell of himself, eyes red rimmed and swollen as he sat awkwardly in the chair. Like he’d spent far too long trying to get comfortable and had eventually given up on trying. 

“She’s in post-op right now, we should be able to see her soon,” he reported flatly, and Lando fell heavily into the chair next to them. Max mumbled something that sounded vaguely like coffee, but his words were too tear filled for them to be able to tell fully. 

Neither Oliver nor Lando said anything as they sat there. 

Lando is reminded of something you told him once, earlier on. It had been just after the two of you had gotten back together, as you snuggled against him on the couch. Some old proverb or something, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the semantics to really care. But he remembered your words loud and clear. 

Joy shared is doubled, and grief shared is halved. 

If this is what half of the grief of the moment is, Lando doesn’t want to even imagine being here by himself. And selfishly, the physical manifestation of angst on your brother’s face that matches exactly how he feels on the inside makes Lando’s panic subside just slightly. 

True to his word, not fifteen minutes after his arrival do the doctors arrive to give all of you an update. At this point, his whole family alongside Max and Oliver are waiting for news from the doctor with baited breath. 

According to your surgical team, you struggled with low blood pressure and some excessive bleeding in the surgery, but it went well considering that it was emergency surgery. Only two people are allowed back to see you in the ICU, and both Oliver and himself step forward instantly. 

They follow the nurse back with bowed heads, both of them fighting tears. It feels strangely like a funeral procession, and Lando bit his lip hard enough to draw blood at the thought. 

People would joke sometimes about your size – calling you pocket sized or small statured. It was true, you were quite short. But you had always been so animated, so full of life that your height never seemed to matter. 

But now, with you unconscious in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes and wires, Lando’s heart is beating so quickly he’s concerned it might burst out of his chest. He can’t comprehend that the tiny body surrounded by medical machines is you. The love of his life. 

He wants to vomit, to run away from this room as fast as he could, to proclaim that this was too much. To wake up from whatever terrible, horrible nightmare this is.

But it’s you in there, and so he stumbles into the room with a pull stronger than the force of gravity. Oliver trails behind him, and the two of them take either side of your bedside. 

Lando looks down at the foot of the bed, at the bandage that covered what used to be your right leg, and is now just…an abrupt stop. He doesn’t focus on it, instead looking back up at you. He wants desperately to reach out and hold your hand, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. 

Oliver is staring at you with a heartbreaking reverence. Lando feels like he’s interrupting something by bearing witness to it, but he forces himself to turn away and look back at you. 

He finally reaches for your hand with his own, picking it up with trembling fingers. It’s warm but completely limp, and Lando feels both sick and relieved at having a piece of you tethered to him, even if it isn’t terribly life-like. 

It’s the beginning of a vigil he never prepared to make, but does all the same. 

Lando simply…never leaves. Oliver makes way for Cisca, who makes way for Max, who makes way for Adam, and then Oliver again. Your entire time in the ICU is just spent with everyone coming to see you and…Lando. 

Oliver cycles between having to be next to you and needing to leave, too nervous and fidgety to simply sit and stare at your unmoving figure. Lando doesn’t fault him for the manifestation of his extreme stress. When he shut down, Oliver seemed to light up. It was all coping, and it wasn’t exactly healthy but it was all they had right now. 

Cisca whispers to you in soothing Dutch, narrating everything that is going on as though you need to be kept in the loop. Your friends come in and read to you, or help to braid your hair back, or talk to your medical team. His siblings filter in and out, but he hardly even notices their presence next to him. 

Adam comes in and simply sits, staring at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything at all. Lando has no clue what is going through his Dad’s head, but he’s just grateful the man is there to give him a hug before he leaves. 

Max comes in and sits next to Lando, who is holding your hand. The driver’s best friend places one hand gently over your thigh, and takes Lando’s free hand in his own. The three of you had always been the three musketeers, the troublemakers, the trio. And while he and Max did plenty of stuff by themselves, hell they dealt with all the Quadrant stuff without you, there’s something hollow about the room. Almost as though the world is holding its breath, waiting to see if balance will be restored. 

He doesn’t sleep. Hardly eats or drinks. Only moves when physically necessary.

When the doctors come to speak about your progress, he hangs off their every word like they’re dictating the journey to heaven. Like if he just pays enough attention, that he can jump in and save you himself. 

He’d swap places with you in a heartbeat if he could. God, he wished he could. 

When you’re moved from the ICU to a step down unit, he trails after your hospital bed like he’s tethered to it. Everyone tries to get him to step away, but he flat out refuses. 

It’s on the fourth day they take you off the ventilation after you’ve shown signs of breathing on your own. But you still never wake up, body healing incredibly slowly from the infection. Lando sees it on the doctors faces, the nerves. How they are polite but withdrawn when discussing your care. 

He hates it. Hates it more than life itself. 

He hates when the doctors begin to suggest that they might need to prepare for the worst. That they might need to discuss the option that you don’t make it through this complication, that you won’t wake up. 

“No,” Lando snarls, his voice borderline vicious. It’s Max who spares him an uneasy glance, attempting to reason with his friend. 

“Lando–” he tries, but his best friend whirls toward him with a crazed expression in his eyes. He’s gone on three days now with basically no sleep, and it shows. 

“No, Max, no! This is her we’re talking about, not some hypothetical. We’re not discussing that option because it isn’t one,” he shot back, but his tone is caught somewhere between a forceful plea and a prayer. 

Like even if he’s the one saying it, he doesn’t quite believe himself. Because as the hours drag on, the thought of losing you looms larger and larger in his mind. 

It overwhelms him, clouding his judgement and every single emotion in his mind. It was never supposed to come to this. 

It’s on the fourth night that he finally decides to say something. He’s been told by the nurses that people can sometimes hear their loved ones in a situation like this. 

But he’s been hesitant to do so. 

It didn’t feel like talking to you. 

It felt like talking to a shell, and he didn’t really know what to make of that exactly. 

But he also refuses to believe that you’re not there. You’re going to be just fine, he tells himself over and over and over again. 

You have to be fine. 

He’s sat by your bedside for four days now without speaking or moving. He held your hand like it was a lifeline. His hands trembled around your own, but he refused to let go. 

God, how he wanted to reach out and just hold you. What he wouldn’t give to be able to climb into the bed with you and wrap himself around you. To feel the way your breath tickled the nape of his neck, the warmth of you seeping into him as your breathing evened out and you fell asleep. 

He would just do it, if it wasn’t for one thing. 

You get hot sometimes. 

At night. 

Sometimes when you sleep, you overheat. You ran cold every single day of the year, but sometimes once you fell asleep you would turn into a furnace, kicking off the covers and complaining that you woke up sweating. 

And…you can’t tell him if you’re hot or not right now. 

He can’t get in bed with you if you can’t do that. Not when you’re not there to communicate that with him. 

Oh god, what if you never complained about being too hot again at night? What if you never whined to him at three in the morning again to take off his hoodie? What if you never got to lay in bed with him again? 

The sheets had just been washed, so they didn’t smell like you. His heart plummets at the thought, his eyes filling with tears at the thought of having to sleep in that bed without you. 

He’d have to sell the flat here in London. The apartment in Monaco. 

But they’re also the last physical link he would have to you. They have your shoes on the rack, your clothes in the closet, your skincare in the bathroom.  

His mind goes to the bathroom in his flat, where two toothbrushes sit in a cup on the counter. He imagines having to pull one of them away, throwing it out in the bin. The thought makes his chest feel like it’s actually going to cave in. 

He’s speaking before he can spiral any further. 

“Uhm…hi,” he started weakly, trying to reassure himself. It’s nearing two in the morning, and he steels himself to continue, knowing that he needs to get this out there. 

“It’s me, Lando.” 

He felt dumb doing this, looked around as though he expected someone to come in and tell him off for speaking. 

“I um…well, I just wanted to say that I love you,” he paused for a second, feeling the pressure in his head explode as he forced the tears back. When he spoke, it was so soft that it was barely audible. If he spoke any louder, it would have turned into sobs. 

“I just wanted you to know that if you can’t do it, it’s okay. If you have to go, it’s okay. I don’t want you to be in pain if you can’t do it,” he rasped, tears streaming down his face of their own accord. He might have snapped at anyone who suggested it, but he knew there was a possibility that this was too much for you. For your body to be able to handle. 

God does the thought destroy him from the inside out, though. 

He takes a stuttering, choking breath before he’s able to continue. 

“But I know you’re strong enough to fight this. I know you can do it, I believe in you. Please, I need you to. I need you here with me. It’s selfish, I know it is, but I can’t do this without you, please. I’ll get you whatever you want,” he promised, and it’s more feverish begging than anything else. He doesn’t care. 

“I’ll buy you a flat. Or ten of them. I’ll buy you a horse or let you drive whatever car of mine you want, even if I swore I would never let you drive it. You can steal all of my hoodies and redecorate the Monaco apartment however the fuck you want. I’ll even let you press your ice cold feet–” 

He stopped, glancing down at your legs before he shook his head slightly. 

“I’ll let you press your ice cold foot against me whenever we’re in bed together and I won’t complain. I’ll be your human packhorse. I’ll quit racing and be a slave to you, twenty four seven. Whatever it is, Daisy, whatever you want. Just come back to me, please come back to me.” 

“I lost you once, and it made me realise how everything in my life is tied to you. My life is your life, and I don’t want it to be any other way. There is no me without you. To know me is to love you. You were never perfect, and I am certainly not perfect, but we are perfect for each other. That has to mean something,” he pleaded, as though he could convince your unconscious body of that very fact. As though someone were listening to the conversation and would decide your fate based on his words. 

“If there is one thing I am sure of, it’s that you have always belonged here with me. This, us, didn’t happen by accident. Love has always been a choice, and my choice has always been you. Will always be you. No matter what Daisy, it’s just you. In every single universe or reality, you were always meant to be mine and I was always meant to be yours.”

“You’re my best friend and the unequivocal love of my life. And as long as the sun sets and the moon rises, you’re the only one I will ever want,” he insisted, tears streaming down his cheeks with reckless abandon.  

“Just come back to me, please god come back to me. I love you too much to lose you again. I did it once and I can’t do it again. I can’t go one more day without hearing your laugh or seeing you smile. You’re the love of my life. You’re my person. I don’t…nothing else makes sense if you aren’t here to share it with me.” 

“Please Daisy, please,” he begged, sobs wracking his entire body. “I love you so much.” 

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the edge of your bedside. 

Sobs overtook him with a vicious edge, and he succumbed to sleep out of pure exhaustion. 

It was Max who staged the intervention, kindly telling Lando that he needed to “fuck off and go clean himself up for a minute” after he found his friend slumped against your hospital bed, asleep with eyes swollen from his persistent tears. 

Cisca and Adam might have used different words, but their advice was one and the same to their son. Oliver concurs, even if he understands where Lando’s mind is at. 

Lando’s too exhausted to put up too much of a fight. Every hour makes him more and more aware of the fact that he might have already lost you, and the fight is draining out of him faster than he can actually admit. 

He’s fatigued both mentally and physically, and so he allowed his parents to stay with you while he goes home to nap, take a shower, and then come back to the hospital to grab lunch. 

Oliver joins him in the canteen, and the two men sit down wordlessly to eat. The sandwiches they eat are somehow both dry and soggy from the tomatoes in them. When Oliver picks the onions out of his sandwich, Lando can’t help the tears that prickle in his eyes. 

You did the same exact thing when you ate a sandwich. 

When Oliver sees Lando start to cry, he can’t help but have tears begin to well up in his eyes as well. He doesn’t even know what the driver is thinking about exactly, but he understands it all the same. 

It’s a heartbreaking sight, but one the walls of these hospitals have seen before. Two grown men, crying about onions, wrestling with the true mortality of one of the people they loved the most. 

The closer they come to acceptance, the heavier the burden becomes. And really, would it ever truly be acceptance? 

Lando’s sure that he wouldn’t ever truly accept it, if you were gone. He can’t fathom what it would mean for him to never see you laugh again, to never wake up next to you again, to never walk beside you again. 

You’re buried so deep within his heart, he’s not sure he’d even survive it. Perhaps he would simply waste away, unable to understand how the person he loved the most could be taken from him. 

How was he ever supposed to just move on from that? He was sure everyone would try to push him through his grief. That they would insist that you would have wanted him to live his life, but he thinks that is a load of bullshit. 

You aren’t even gone yet, and the anticipatory grief is overwhelming. The thought of losing you is too much, but the actual act? Lando feels the threat of it pressing down on him with every passing hour, minute, second. 

The driver is trying to compose himself when he hears it. 

Footsteps. 

A flurry of footsteps. 

And they’re getting louder, as though they’re headed in his direction. 

He looked up just in time to see Max fly into the cafeteria, his expression open and halfway to relief. His best friend doesn’t even need to say anything before Oliver and Lando both are standing, running. 

Lando’s heart flies up into his throat with hope. He’s past Oliver, past Max, running like his life depends on it. He’s sure that someone in the hospital will scold them later, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

In reality, his life is sitting in a hospital bed, and if the look on Max’s face is any indication, he might be getting it back. 

He barely slows down when he’s at the door, practically sliding into the room and stumbling toward the bed as quietly as he can. 

His breath is held as Max and Oliver all but slam into him as they come in after him. The room is silent, as though the world is held at a pause whilst they look at you. 

You turn your face just slightly, your face pinching together as you slowly blink your eyes open. A fresh sob tumbles out of Lando’s lips as he staggers toward you, all but collapsing at your side. 

You turn toward the sound, and it takes you a second to blink before you can see clearly but suddenly your eyes are met with a forest green, and everything in Lando’s world stands still. 

“Hey you,” you rasp softly, and he wipes the tears from his eyes furiously, desperate to see you clearly. 

“Daisy,” he sobs, his head bowed to your own, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands come up to cradle your face gently, holding you with a reverence you didn’t realise was possible. 

You let your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, and you’re still groggy and in pain but you can hear the way Lando chants IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou like it’s a prayer, and it feels like it’s breathed life back into you. 

Your hand comes up to curl around his own, weak but there. 

Alive. Awake. Present. 

Oliver sits heavily in a chair to your right, and you open your eyes to look over at him. He gives you a watery smile, and you blink back at him in a silent moment of communication that means the world to you both. 

When Lando shifts back finally, he can feel you wince beneath him. His face is blotchy with red, tears continue to stream down his cheeks, and his eyes are swollen, but he instantly is reaching for the nurse call button. 

“Lost the leg?” You inquire, even if you already know the answer. Max nods tersely back at you, worried about your reaction. You shrug, at peace with the decision. 

“It’ll be character building,” you joke, and the three of them laugh so hard they’re crying all over again. 

“Sheesh, who knew all I had to do was lose a leg to make you all laugh at my jokes,” you deadpan, and the relief that is looking back at you gives you just the smallest indication as to the duress they’ve all been through. 

You press your head back into the hospital bed as you feel a roll of pain go through you. You squeeze Lando’s hand tightly, and he pitches toward you, brushing hair back from your forehead with a worried expression on his face. 

“Are you in pain?” Your brother asks as Lando holds your hand tightly in his. He looks over your face with the veracity of a man possessed, as though he’s just seeing you for the first time. 

“A little,” you admit quietly, but you squeeze Lando’s hand once reassuringly as you reach your other one out for your brother. “I’m just happy to be here with you three idiots.” 

“You have no idea,” Lando breaths out as he watches you, his eyes never once leaving you. 

Even when the nurses and doctors come in, and he’s forced to move back, his gaze never once leaves you. Through it all, you’ll look back at him and without fail he will be looking at you. Like he can’t even begin to think of looking away. 

It’s reassuring in a way you can’t explain, to have him there. To know that he won’t miss anything. 

The doctors are able to get a better handle on your pain management now that you’re awake. You take the news of the loss of your leg with stride. You always knew it was a possibility, and when you’d gone downhill you knew that the likelihood of it happening was high. 

When the doctors finally leave the room, you’re exhausted. Completely and utterly spent, though you try valiantly to keep your eyes awake to spend time with your family. 

“You can rest,” your brother suggests gently, seeing you fight sleep. You look over at Lando, who nods in agreement. 

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” You ask quietly, and Lando nods his head without breaking eye contact with you. 

“Yes,” he answers easily, and you finally let your body succumb to the rest it needs, Lando holding your hand tightly in his. 

It’s dark when you wake up again, and you look lazily over at the clock to see it’s nearing three in the morning. Your body aches, but there isn’t any sharp pain like there was this afternoon.

Oliver isn’t anywhere to be seen, but Lando still has his hand in your own. He sees the question in your eyes, and brings your hand up to his mouth to kiss gently before he answers. 

“Only one of us can stay overnight. He went home, he’ll be back in the morning,” he promises, and you nod once. Your eyes don’t leave his, and a smile tugs at your lips. 

“I think you’re supposed to be asleep as well,” you joke, and Lando smiles for a second. But it looks hollow, and your eyebrows furrowed together in concern. 

“Hey, talk to me,” you murmur, shifting toward him in bed. He bows his head for a moment, and you watch as his shoulders shake with quiet, gasping sobs. 

You can’t really move very well, but you place your hand under his chin, gently lifting his face so you can see him properly. His eyes shine, tears tracking down his cheeks. You’ve never seen him quite so devastated, and it takes your breath away. You’d do anything to fix it. 

“I almost lost you,” he rasps after a moment, and your expression softens in understanding. This was a problem that you could solve now that you were awake. 

“I was so scared, so scared,” he admits, and you nod in understanding. If the roles were reversed, you would have been terrified. You tilt further toward him still, trying to move despite the stiffness in your body. You’d do anything to assure him that you’re alright, that you’re here with him. 

“I’m right here, I promise. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere without you,” you promise him, trying your best to imbue him with the confidence you feel. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joke, a smile tugging at your lips. He nods, his breath leaving him in a rush that almost sounds like a laugh. Almost as though he realised that this was real, that you were here. You were going to be okay. His expression begins to lighten, and he runs his thumb over your knuckles soothingly. 

He watches you for a moment, and he speaks before he can really think it through. 

“Marry me,” he says, somewhere between a statement and a plea. Your eyes widen comically, and you shake your head slightly. You think that the pain medication might be making you hear things. 

“What?” You ask, pitching your head forward as you wondered if you were hallucinating. You and Lando had sort of talked about marriage, in a very vague sense. Neither of you were particularly rushed to make anything happen. You’d always joked that you both needed for your prefrontal cortexes to develop before you’re making that kind of decision. 

“I don’t want to live without you anymore. I spent the whole time you were here terrified I was going to lose you, and it just affirmed for me that there is no life for me without you in it. Be mine, please. You have my whole entire heart, and I want to have yours too, if you’ll let me,” he states, and you just blink back at him in awe. 

“I want you next to me in bed every morning. I want to pull stupid pranks with you in the paddock. I want to come home to you. I want your shoes crammed in with mine at the doorway and your coats hanging next to mine. I want all the weird biscuits you keep in the cupboard because you always want to try new ones. I want your toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom, and your hair products overrunning the shower.” 

“I want you to redecorate the Monaco apartment however you want because I want it to be your home too. I want us to have a home together, not separate places. I want to buy you a horse, and throw you a birthday party every year that’s more lavish than the last. I’ll do whatever I can in my power to see you happy, because when you're happy I am too. I love every last thing about you, and I never want to wake up without the knowledge that you’re there,” he continues, his voice hopeful and getting softer with every single word. He pauses for a moment, his whole body solemn. 

“I thought I lost you, and it nearly killed a part of me. So please, say you’ll be mine. I could spend a hundred lifetimes with you and I don’t think it would ever be enough. All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you,” he admits, and your chest heaves with the effort of holding your tears back. 

“Marry me, please,” he asks you finally, and you bite your lip for a moment, simply watching. 

“Even without a leg?” You joke finally, but there’s joy and relief so clearly twinged within your words that Lando already knows your true answer. 

“Especially without a leg,” he laughs, and you nod your head insistently. 

“Yes, yes I will marry you,” you agree, and Lando can’t contain himself from standing up and leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. 

He can feel the way you smile into it, and he pulls back with a grin so wide it practically splits his face into two. 

You begin to scoot over in bed, patting the place next to you. With an exhale full of relief, he slips into the space next to you. You press into him with reckless abandon, ignoring the flare of pain in your leg when you curl into him. 

He holds you with a quiet reverence that is reserved just for you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head, drunk off the feeling of having you in his arms. 

“You know you’re gonna have to get me a ring right?” You whisper as you curl into him. Your breath tickles his throat, and Lando is pretty sure that this is what heaven feels like. You can feel the chuckle he lets out, how it rumbles deep in his chest.

“I’ll buy you ten rings, a hundred of them. Whatever you want,” he promises, dead serious. You fist the material of his shirt in your hand, smiling so hard it made your face hurt. 

“Alright spender, lets relax. I think one will do,” you tease, and he just holds you a little bit tighter.

“Anything for you,” he says with finality, his voice soft with affection.  

It was the moment he realised that everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t perfect. You still didn’t have a leg. But you were going to make it, and he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure that you would never regret it. 

To you, as much as it pained you, it was a reminder of the fact that you would always, always come back to him. Because when he said that there was no him without you, he meant it. 

Forever might never be enough, but he was never ever giving up on this. Never giving up on his life with you.

(Taglist: @leclercdream @henna006 @nickie-amore @hescrush @frankiejo04 @azuramicah @koalalafications @lavande3 @isar8tsyyy @jaydensluv @lillygwenstacy @sk3tchb00ks @tpwkstiles @i-need-to-be-put-down @avengersgirllorianna )

[gatsby-20]

If My Wishes Came True, It Would Have Been You

A hidden truth shattered Oscar's world right as his career took off, leaving him devastated and without answers about your painful breakup. When he discovers the truth years later, is it too late to turn back the clock to what once was?

(a/n: I promise I write more than just second chance romance stories I stg...but I had this idea rattling around in my brain and I literally could not help myself! Plus Oscar is just so much fun to write. Work title is from 1 by T Swizzle :)

Masterlist

Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted? 

No, but I once got very close. 

“What about you Osc? You seeing anyone?” 

Oscar’s heart never got used to Lando calling him that. 

Osc. 

For a long time, you were the only person who called him that. You’d given him that nickname when the two of you had first met when he moved to the UK. You had been in the same year of school as him, assigned to show him around the campus of your school. 

He had come in the middle of the year, and you were the official welcome committee. Oscar had liked you instantly, charmed by your quick wit and quiet disposition. You were kind and empathetic without being patronizing, listening with intent and asking questions that made him truly think before answering. 

You were soft spoken, but when you did speak, everyone around you listened. 

Oscar found himself gravitating toward you, even after time had passed and you were no longer required to help him out. There were only so many times he could feign being lost in the hallways before he seemed completely idiotic. 

You were a boarding student as well, and Oscar could often find you on the grounds of campus surrounded by a pile of books. Always history books. 

He’d ask if he could sit and work on homework with you, and you would always agree with a simple nod of your head. And then he’d ask the question you had come to love so much. 

“What are you reading about today?” 

The first time he asked you that, you had looked up at him in surprise. You were well liked in school, with no shortage of friends. But nobody in school, not even your friends, cared that much about history. Not in the way you did. You craved the knowledge, the strength and understanding it gave you. 

Not that there was anything wrong with other books. You read your fair share of romance, fantasy, mystery. 

But it always came back to these books. 

And now here was the new boy, who somehow seemed to care about them as well. 

“The Treaty of Kiel,” you’d replied evenly, keeping your excitement well contained. You expected Oscar to nod before returning to his work. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned toward you, some of his hair falling into his face as he leaned next to you to peer down at your book. 

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest as he tilted his head to look up at you, his big, honey brown eyes filled with curiosity, a genuine interest in knowing about what you were reading. 

And so you told him, right there on the lawn of your boarding school. For someone who was often quiet, you just talked and talked and talked. Explained the history of Denmark and Norway, the impact of the Napoleonic wars, what the fallout of the treaty meant for Scandinavia. 

Oscar listened with unmatched patience and intrigue, asking all the right questions. When you couldn’t come up with an answer the two of you would consult your book together, digging for the truth. 

It became a rhythm after that. 

You both had your own group of friends, your own academic and social pursuits. But it was as though the two of you were tethered together, brought together again and again and again. 

Oscar knew he loved you when he was fifteen. He had caught you reading, walked up behind you wordlessly. You were sitting with your back against a tree, the branches and leaves providing shade from the rare British sunshine. 

“What are you reading about today?” He asked, and you all but jumped up into the air in surprise. You looked as though you’d been caught in the act, your cheeks painted with flush. You held the closed book in your lap, unable to meet his gaze. 

“Nothing,” you suggested, your words unsteady. 

You’d never been able to lie right to someone's face. It was both a blessing and a curse, your specific brand of candor. Oscar raised his eyebrow, in no way buying your story. 

He reached down, unencumbered as you let the book slip from your grasp. He flipped it over, unable to hide the surprise that lifted his expression. 

“Senna versus Prost by Folley?” He mused, and you shrugged noncommittally, though you looked over at him as he sat down next to you. 

“Got it from the library when you were gone,” you explained simply, taking the book back from him. He’d been gone for a karting competition, one that he had won. 

“Missed me?” He asked, a hint of teasing in his tone that masked his nerves. He had missed you. 

He had missed seeing you in between his lessons, eating lunch together, hearing about whatever book you were reading that week. He had missed your teasing, how you never expected him to be anything but himself. You two were always on the same wavelength, calm and collected but not withdrawn. 

“I did,” you admitted quietly, and Oscar lifted his gaze to meet your own. You were honest, almost achingly so, as though it had cost you something to say the words. As though you were holding your heart in the palm of your hand out toward him, waiting to see how he would react. 

He felt a part of himself settle when he realized that perhaps he meant as much to you as you had grown to mean to him. And maybe at fifteen he didn’t fully understand all these emotions, but he did understand that you were something special to him. 

“I missed you too,” he affirmed, watching as you settled slightly, your nerves showing only in the way you fussed over returning to the page of your book. Your fingertips shook slightly as the book settled into your lap, and Oscar leaned his shoulder into your own to soothe you in the only way he knew how. 

And just like that, you were his and he was yours. 

The two of you grew up together, and you grew with each other. 

Oscar was popular at school, always playing some sport when he wasn’t jetting off to compete in whatever motorsport event he was working toward. He worked his way up through the ranks steadily, from Formula Four to Renault 2.0. 

You were the first person to help him catch up on his lessons, making sure he never fell too far behind the rest of the school body. And while you missed him, you had your own life. You played tennis and were a member of the debate society. 

You weren’t sure exactly when you and Oscar had gone from friends to something more, but you were unbothered with such specifics. All you knew was that he was yours and yours alone. It was shockingly uncomplicated when you considered how busy the two of you were, but something about it just worked. 

When others teased Oscar for lacking emotions, you had learned to memorize the slightest twitch of his brows. You knew that he could talk for hours about tyre degradation as though it were the most fascinating concept in the whole entire world. 

You knew that he grew especially soft and cuddly when he had just come home from a trip, oftentimes pulling you into bed with him and wrapping his whole body around you. 

You knew that he held the ability to quiet every single thought in your mind just by pressing his lips to your own. How he held your face in his hands with the reverence of someone who was holding something holy. 

You knew that you loved him with everything in you. And you knew especially that he loved you just as much, with a quiet ferocity that you’d long begun to associate with him. 

Just because he was calm didn’t mean he wasn’t ruthless on the track. And just because he was calm didn’t mean he couldn’t love someone with intensity. 

When the two of you had graduated, you had decided that you wanted to study law in university. Oscar was off, into Formula Three and Formula Two. He’d become a reserve driver for Alpine in 2022, his dreams of being in Formula One so close he could taste it. 

And you were right there, supporting him in his pursuit with the same quiet confidence you had always held in him. You challenged him, loved him, bettered him. He’d been hopelessly yours since he was fifteen years old. 

Which was why he didn’t understand when you’d broken up with him in May of that year. 

You were crying even before you did it, as though it pained you to do it. You were in the airport, the two of you were supposed to be flying out together for Oscar to complete more private testing with Alpine. 

But you’d halted before you could even get to security. Broken down in tears and told him that you couldn’t go with him. He’d thought it had just been the trip, offered to drive you home if you weren’t feeling well or something. He didn’t mind being late to the testing if there was something really wrong with you. 

When you told him that the two of you needed to break up, it was like an arrow had been shot into his chest. You were crying so hard you could barely breathe, and Oscar could barely see you past the tears that gathered in his eyes. You refused to look him in the eyes, and Oscar knew that something was wrong. But you refused to tell him, your lips sealed tightly shut about whatever it was that had caused this all to fall apart. 

He’d begged you to reconsider, to talk to him. He would have taken anything, would have taken the hurt or frustration or resentment or vexation. But you had no explanation, no words to offer him other than that the two of you were done, and that was it. 

You’d walked away from him in the Heathrow airport, leaving him standing there as though it didn’t feel like his life was crumbling down around him. You quieted the sobs that wracked you with a hand over your mouth as you’d run away, and he had watched you go. Stood there for too long watching the door you had exited out of, as though he expected for you to come back. 

As though he expected for you to come back through the doors and explain that it had all been a terrible mistake. 

“Oscar?” 

It was Lando’s voice that broke through the Australian driver's thoughts, and he shook his head slightly before turning to the Brit. Lando was looking at him with an open confusion, his head cocked like he was a golden retriever puppy waiting for Oscar to throw him his ball. 

“No, I haven’t been dating anyone recently,” Oscar replied, his voice coming out flat and yet soft in a way he was unable to shake even years later. 

It was the start of the 2024 season, the day after the Saudi Arabia Grand Prix, and the two McLaren drivers were on their way back to Woking for more testing before they left for Australia. 

Apparently, multiple hours on a plane together meant that Oscar was reduced to playing twenty questions with Lando. Not that he really minded, all things considered he really quite liked his teammate. 

“Still?”

Though at times, Lando could be quite nosy. 

Oscar cringed as the word came out of the British driver's mouth, and he chanced a glance out of his window. They were nearing London, he could see it looming towards them in the window. 

He knew it was pathetic, perhaps, that he was still in love with you. 

But just because he couldn’t have you didn’t mean that he couldn’t keep loving you. Lord knows that he tried stopping, he really did. It was a useless pursuit, he had quickly discovered, so he didn’t so much as spare a glance at another woman in the year and a half since he’d lost you. None of them ever even began to compare. 

“Yes, still,” he replied evenly, gritting his teeth together to fight the grimace that wished to work its way onto his expression. 

Lando nodded several times, the bob of his head slow and even. 

“I’m sorry Otmar was such a meddler. I never met her, but I’m sure that had to be hard on both of you to deal with,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet and thoughtful. 

Oscar was almost so unfocused that he missed what Lando was saying entirely. 

“Yeah…” he trailed off, before his mind caught up with him. 

Meddler? 

What did Lando mean by that? 

What did the Alpine team principal have to do with this? 

“Wait, what?” Oscar turned more fully toward his teammate, suddenly feeling incredibly alert. Lando looked up from his phone, his brows furrowed together. “What do you mean, Otmar was such a meddler?” 

The old Alpine team principal had left in 2023, and Oscar knew that the whole fiasco the year before that with his contract negotiations and eventual exit hadn’t helped anything. 

But he had no clue what role Otmar had in his relationship with you, or why Lando was bringing him into the conversation. 

“You know, the conversation that the two of them had together? I was looking for Alonso and I heard them from where I was in the hallway. The door was left cracked open,” he explained simply, as though he was answering about the weather and not cracking Oscar’s whole world open. Oscar felt as though his focus was tunneling all at once, suddenly and completely focused on the words slipping past Lando’s lips. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar whispered after a second, his voice small. “What conversation? Between her and Otmar?” 

Lando’s eyes widened suddenly, and Oscar felt his heart drop into his stomach. The surprise on his teammate's face was enough for him to know that Lando genuinely had no idea that Oscar didn’t know. 

A year and a half, and still he had no explanation. No understanding of why you had left so suddenly. No words to placate the wound that had been permanently carved into the cavity of his chest. 

“It was…we were in Miami,” Lando began suddenly, as though he understood why Oscar was suddenly so focused. His words stuttered, and it was clear he was pulling at a memory that was somehow sharp and hazy all at the same time. 

“I was going to find Alonso to ask him something, I can’t remember what. I heard Otmar as I turned the corner, and he sounded mad. The door to his office was cracked open, not enough to see but I could hear him talking to her. He was…he was talking about how it was important that you stayed focused, that the hope was that you would be offered a contract soon. How it was critical that nothing stood in your way to do that.” 

“He said that it was of the most importance that nothing, or nobody, stood in your way. How you couldn’t afford to be distracted by unimportant things when your career would be on the line. He said it would be a shame if something like that were to impair you from racing at the highest level.” 

“I remember…he made her repeat it. Asked it like it was a question, but it didn’t really sound like one, you know? He asked her if she knew what she needed to do, and she said yes. I left after that, didn’t want either of them to come into the hallway and find me,” Lando explained in a rush, and Oscar felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him. 

“Lando, are you sure that is what you heard?” Oscar’s voice was low, dangerous even. But when his teammate nodded insistently, it felt like a firecracker of pain burst within him. 

Suddenly, everything made sense. How you’d tried to go with him, how you’d stopped before you even made it through security. 

You were scared. You’d been intimidated into believing, somehow, that you were a distraction. 

“You didn’t…you didn’t know?” Lando asked, swallowing roughly. Oscar shook his head, the devastation clear as day on his face. 

“Oh my god,” he murmured, shifting to look out the window as his grip tightened on his arm rests. You hadn’t done this because you didn’t love him. It had been something else entirely. 

It was seven in the evening. The last Oscar had known, you lived in London. You still lived in that little apartment he helped you move into, the one just a few blocks from LSE. Edie had told him a few months ago, off handedly, and he pretended like he hadn’t clung to the information as though it were a lifeline. 

The break had been clean, civil. You’d never had much of a need to contact one another afterward, though often Oscar ached at the thought of texting you. At how much he wanted to do it, even if he knew he shouldn’t. 

“She lives in London, right?” Lando asked, sitting on the edge of his seat despite the way his seatbelt tugged at him. They were descending soon, nearly there. Oscar nodded just once, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

“Dude, you have to go over there! Go talk to her!” Lando’s voice was resolute, encouraging. Oscar shot him a pained expression, fear gripping at the inner most parts of his heart. 

“Lando, it’s been more than a year. What if she’s moved on, what if she wants nothing to do with me?” He practically begged, desperate for what exactly, he was unsure. 

“What if she hasn’t moved on? What if she’s been waiting for you this whole time?” Lando challenged, his brow quirked. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and soothing, so unlike how he usually was. “I know you still love her. Maybe you never stopped. And maybe she did move on, or she doesn’t feel the same way anymore. But you’re going to kill yourself if you never find out. If you lose out on the chance of being with her again because you were too scared to say anything.” 

Oscar looked up at his teammate, realizing with a startling clarity that everything Lando said was exactly correct. 

“Do you um…” he cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “I don’t suppose I could borrow the car we were supposed to drive back in?” 

The laugh Lando let out was loud and approving, just as he was. 

It was late, nearing nine in the evening on that fateful Monday when someone knocked on your door. 

You’d been studying all afternoon for an exam you had later in the week on tort law. You were lucky that you only had classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You’d settled into your little one bedroom apartment with the goal of studying well into the night. 

You hadn’t expected anyone to come over tonight, though you supposed it could be one of the neighbors. It seemed that it was once a week that your sweet old neighbor Thomas came over to ask if you’d seen his cat. 

So that’s exactly whom you expected to be at the door now. 

There was literally no portion of your mind that was expecting to see Oscar Piastri at your door. 

Oscar, your Oscar, looking at you with a swirling mixture of devastation and hope. 

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought, at the silly and reckless thought that perhaps he had come back for you. You shut the door on that feeling as quickly as it breathed life into you. It was a downright ridiculous thought, to wish for such a thing. 

You’d given up any say you’d had in his life, in your love, when you walked away in the airport. 

When Otmar had first spoken with you, you’d been filled with anger. You couldn’t imagine someone being allowed to speak to you in that way, in a manner in which you were certain was not appropriate. 

You had planned to tell Oscar about it, at first. But when you saw him the next time, you kept your mouth firmly shut. You weren’t sure what compelled you, but you never said anything. It began to eat at you, the man's words in your ear. 

You were intelligent enough to know that you weren’t a distraction to Oscar. But you were also smart enough to know a threat when one was presented, and you weren’t about to screw something up for Oscar that he’d been working toward his whole life. Even if it meant letting him go when you really, really didn’t want to. 

You especially hadn’t planned to break up with him in the airport, of all places. You thought you were strong, that you could still go with him, but the fear that gripped you as soon as you stepped in Heathrow was unlike anything you had ever experienced. 

You knew it was an extra shitty place to break up, but you literally couldn’t take a step further. The thought of getting on that plane, seeing that man, and messing up everything that Oscar had worked so hard for gripped you with terror. 

You couldn’t do that to him, you wouldn’t do that to him. 

So, you left. You gave him no explanation, walked away as though it was something you wanted and not a mistake you’d agonized over every day since. As though it were simply a choice you had made, and not everything. 

A year and a half later and you still loved him just as much as the day you lost him. 

You had tried not to follow his career. Tried to convince yourself that you didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But the truth of it was that you did care. You cared more than you ever would admit to anyone. 

For who else would you have ripped your heart out of your chest at the chance to let him accomplish his brightest dream? 

You tried to make your peace with the fact that he was no longer in your life, that the chapter of it that included Oscar was closed. But it never stopped hurting, like a cut that could never quite seem to stop bleeding. 

You still had some of his jumpers in your closet, and his favorite protein bars in the kitchen. You listened to playlists that he had made for you, and rewatched the movies he loved from time to time. You subscribed to watch his races, and kept an orange t-shirt with his number on it in your drawers. 

You told yourself that even if you didn’t have him anymore, that you had played a small part in helping him accomplish his dreams. It was the only way to soothe the ache, to rationalize the decision that felt like it had split your life apart. 

And still, despite all of this, you had absolutely no words when you opened the door to reveal the very person you had pined for, all this time. You gripped the doorframe, your knuckles turning white as you forced yourself to stay upright. 

Normally you were so composed, unflappable and centered. But the earth felt like it was tilting, as though suddenly you realized for the first time that it was an object in motion. You were practically woozy, and your heart rate shot up instantly. 

Oscar looked exactly the same as the last time you’d seen him, if not a bit more filled out. He was broader than he was before, but his hair still swooped down in the same way, and he still wore scuffed trainers despite the fact that you knew he made more money than you’d probably see in your lifetime.

“Oscar,” you finally forced out, hating how weak and aching your words were. His eyes roved over you as though he couldn’t quite believe that you were real, standing there in your pyjamas in front of him. 

He opened and closed his mouth several times, as though he didn’t know exactly what to say. 

“You left me in an airport,” was what he settled on, and you flinched as though he’d struck you. You turned your head, closing your eyes for a moment. 

“Yes,” you said finally, because it was the truth. 

“Why?” Oscar asked you, and it was the softness in his voice that had you turning back toward him. 

“Oscar, you need to go,” you insisted, glancing down the hallway and towards the exit. But he didn’t so much as flick his eyes away from you. He was staring at you, as though he couldn’t believe you were real and standing right there in front of him. 

It wasn’t judgement in his eyes, not one single bit. He looked like a man that wanted the truth. It was the same expression he used when he asked you about the novel you were reading, and the familiarity of it had you opening your mouth to obey before you even thought of the consequences. 

“So that you could drive the car, so that you would get the seat. So that you weren’t distracted in doing so,” you replied automatically, as though you’d told yourself the same thing over and over and over again. 

You had – a mantra to drown out the sadness in your tears. To rationalize a decision you had never wanted to make. You cringed when you said the words, how weak and stupid they sounded out loud. 

“Is that really what you thought you were to me? A distraction?” Oscar pressed further, and you took a step back at the softness in his words. He was standing at your doorstep looking at you as though he still loved you, and the thought was enough to destroy your heart in one go.

It was too much softness, he was. It wasn’t something you deserved, not after how you had handled this. You didn’t get the nice things in life like a second chance with the love of your life. 

Did you?  

“Why are you here Oscar?” You questioned instead, searching desperately for a deflection. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”  

“Answer the question,” Oscar replied instead, and you pulled back a step as you forced your expression to remain neutral, uncaring. You’d worked too hard and too long to build a house of cards that allowed you to keep going. 

The thought of him coming in here and destroying it all just to leave you again wrecked every other rational thought in your head. Tears were filling in your eyes despite yourself, and Oscar stepped toward you as though you were a frightened animal he was trying to soothe. 

“I never saw you as a distraction. I saw you as someone who helped me be better, someone who made me laugh and kept my ego in check. I saw someone who was always so supportive, who was always in my corner rooting for me,” his words were light, soft, and yet held with them the weight of the world. 

“I saw someone who was forced into an impossible decision, who made the choice that they thought was best for me,” he continued, and your head snapped toward him in a second. 

Was it possible? 

How had he ever found out? 

“I see someone who did everything in her power to let me live my dream, even if it meant that I left her behind. I see someone who I still love, even if maybe it’s silly of me to still say. I see someone I never stopped loving, not even for a second.” 

He was standing in front of you now, looking down at you as though he wanted to reach for you but had stopped himself. 

You looked up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“Even after all this time?” You whispered, your voice equal parts raw and wrecked. This didn’t feel real, almost as though it were a dream. You yearned to reach out and touch him, but stopped yourself until he said the word you needed.  

“Yes,” he breathed out, and you reached for him desperately as though a dam had broken within you. 

He met you in equal measure, pulling you into his chest as you wrapped your arms around him. He was solid and warm and still smelled the same as when you’d last hugged him, standing in the airport. 

Your chest stuttered as you let out a sob, and Oscar simply cradled the back of your head. You sagged into him, practically delirious with how relieved you were. 

You whispered the words into his chest with what little oxygen you were intaking, over and over and over again. 

Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry 

He shushed you gently, rocking you back and forth just slightly. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I love you, I love you,” he insisted, meeting your fervent words with a calm security. 

When you finally managed to pull back, he had tears of his own streaming down his cheeks. You reached a shaky hand up, using your thumb to brush them away from his cheek. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“How did you…how did you know?” You croaked out, shaking your head just slightly as Oscar finally shut the door behind himself. 

“Lando overheard you talking to Otmar,” he explained as he placed his bag down and toed his shoes off. “He had no clue that I didn’t know about the conversation.”

You turned away from him for a moment, suddenly self conscious. Would he be mad that you hadn’t talked to him? Where was all the anger that you were sure he held toward you. 

But he simply stepped forward, using his fingers to gently reach out and pull your chin toward him, allowing your eyes to meet. His eyes roved over your entire face, as though he was memorizing every curve and juncture of your expression. You were sure you looked gross, swollen and red, but he looked at you with such an earnest expression that you were helpless but to stare right back at him. 

“I understand what happened. I’m not mad. I was confused, and I wanted you back in my life, but I didn’t understand why you left. I do now, and I would give anything to be yours again. Please?” His words were barely above a whisper, a beg whispered in the space between the two of you. 

You scrunched your face up in disbelief, but you were helpless to his pull. To the love you still felt for him. 

“Yes, of course you can,” you insisted in a second, reaching to wrap your arms around him. The hug this time is more intentional, less frantic, and you feel rather than see the deep breath that Oscar lets out when he hears your answer. 

The two of you stay in that embrace for a moment, simply reacquainting yourselves with the press of your bodies together. When you step back, you reach for one of Oscar’s hands. You place it right over your chest, right above your heart. 

“This was always yours,” you admit, and a smile dances across his lips as he nods, curt and clearly trying to keep all of his emotions in check. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, and you lead him back towards your bedroom. He stands there as you fish out pyjamas for him, and if he’s surprised that you still own some of his clothes, he doesn’t show it. 

“Stay?” You ask as you offer them to him, and he nodded quickly before going to change. 

When he comes back you’re already under the covers, and he slips to join you. He’s barely laid down before he’s reaching for you, curling his body around your own. 

You’re turned toward him, your head tucked into the space between his neck and chest, his arm securely around your waist as your legs tangle below you. Your body relaxes almost of its own accord, warm and sleepy and suddenly exhausted. 

“I missed you,” you said after a moment, and you tense as though somehow admitting that was a mistake. As though you don’t have a right to say such things because you were the one who left. 

But Oscar just holds you tighter, not allowing for you to pull away. He let it happen once, and he knows deep down that he won’t let it happen again. 

“I missed you too, so much,” he echoes, and his voice cracks just slightly with his honesty. 

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” You ask, as though somehow this is all a dream. As though he would go anywhere but stay right here, with you. As though he wouldn’t follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to. 

“Yes,” he answered honestly, pulling you in tighter and cuddling into you. “I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

How could I love you less now that I know you more? 

[gatsby-20]

Masterlist

Requests are open! 🩵

LN4

I Know I Was Wrong Masterlist (8 Part Series - Ongoing)

Market Value (Coming Soon)

OP81

If My Wishes Came True, It Would Have Been You

[gatsby-20]

Hi! I just read your series I know i Was wrong and im in tears 😭🤍 I loved it!!! Pls do tell and I HOPE they get a happy ending that she gets to live! Cant wait for the final part.

Thank you so so much!! It seemed like for a minute people weren’t really into the work as much - which is fine ofc but it’s nice to know people are enjoying it!

I started writing a part 8 - kind of like an epilogue/continuation of sorts? I’m not sure exactly if that’s something people would be interested in but I’m so down if people want it!

And don’t worry, regardless we are nothing but happy endings on this page! Thank you so much for the ask, I really appreciate it 🩵

[gatsby-20]

I Know I Was Wrong

After several months of preparation, you finally have your surgery. You begin the first steps toward healing as the season winds to a close for Lando.

Part 6: I Don't Know What I'm Supposed To Do

(a/n: One more chapter to go (plus an epilogue but still)! Chapter title is from The Night We Met by Lord Huron. Spotify playlist can be found here.)

Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Series Masterlist

By the time Lando lands in London, he’s not quite sure what time zone his body is in. The Vegas Grand Prix was fun, it always was, even with a P6 result that wasn’t exactly something to write home about. 

He spends far too much of his time focused on you and the impending surgery. Not that he needs to be concerned, it seems. In the scheme of everything going on, you’re being exceptionally level headed about the whole thing. 

Sure, there are nerves, but you make sure to voice them. It feels like you relinquish some of the power of your concerns by getting them out there into the open. Your confidence fuels the confidence of the people you’re around. The chemotherapy has worked well, you’re feeling well and prepared. You’re going to be fine. 

It’s not a wish but rather an inevitability. The surgery is routine. Lando hardly has any time to worry because he’s so entrenched in your belief that it will all be fine. 

Cisca, Max, and your friends make schedules to make sure you’re never alone as the surgery looms closer, distracting you and preparing you for what's to come next. You stock your poor boyfriend's flat with all of your favorite foods, drinks, supplies to prep you for post surgery recovery. 

He hardly even bats an eye, instead coming home one day with a bag of his own. You thought you couldn’t love him any more than you already do, but your heart nearly bursts when you see that he bought you some things on his own that he thought you would enjoy - fluffy pyjamas, slippers, a few books he knew you’d been eyeing. You pull a pyjama shirt with a racecar on it out of the bag, your eyebrow already raised as you look over at him. 

“To remind you of me,” he replied matter of factly, and you dissolved into giggles as you shoved at his chest playfully. He simply caught both of your arms as he pulled you into him and peppered kisses all over your face. 

He flies in on Monday afternoon, and spends the whole day fussing over you. You pretend to be bothered by it, but deep down you’re just relieved that he’s here. He can tell. Your brother Oliver had arrived on Sunday, and he hovered near you while Lando helped you around with a practiced ease. 

You barely sleep that night. Lando has you pulled fully into his body, wrapping himself around you until you really can’t tell where one of you ends and the other begins. He murmurs soft, comforting things in your ear when your body tenses against his. It’s not like you’re preparing to die in this surgery, but there’s always a chance that things go wrong. Lando holds you tightly enough that you’re halfway convinced he would keep you on this earth out of sheer spite if anything were to happen. 

The surgery is ridiculously early on Tuesday, and it's Lando and your brother who take you in. Cisca and Max are both on standby, not wanting to overwhelm you by coming to the hospital but anxious nonetheless. 

You’re almost too exhausted to be nervous about what’s to come. Your brother is a solid support, but the way his hands tremble just slightly tell you that he is nervous. You might live on a different continent, but the two of you were still close, and seeing you like this scared him. 

If there is anyone who is an absolute rock, it’s Lando. 

The average person would not look at Lando Norris and expect him to be the responsible, dependable one in times of need. In fact, they would probably think he was exactly the opposite. 

And perhaps it was the fact that he had spent years under high pressure in F1, but he is the calm within the storm. He holds your eye contact with reassurance, answers the nurses questions with practiced ease, and never once gives off any indication to his own nerves. 

Well…almost. 

You notice the slight crease in his forehead as he gets everything ready, helping you into your hospital gown and getting the little bag you’d brought with you unpacked. 

Oliver steps out to get some coffee when you finally lay down, Lando taking a seat beside you. You scootch over to the edge of the bed toward him, reaching forward so that way you could smooth the crease under your fingertips. 

Lando’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling, and he leans into your hand almost imperceptibly. 

“Everything is going to be fine,” you promise, though you aren’t sure if you were saying that for him, yourself, or some combination of the two. 

“Everything is going to be fine,” he affirms, pulling the blanket up over you as you settle back into bed. He never even allowed himself to think of any other outcome but that one. 

Oliver came in with coffee for Lando and himself as your surgeon came in for one final check. She goes over the plan with all three of you, and you nod along easily. It isn’t any new information for you, and you know that you are ready. 

Or, as ready as you could possibly be. 

“I love you both,” you murmur to Lando and Oliver as they wheel you back to the OR, receiving a peck on the lips and a quick kiss to the forehead, respectively. 

“I love you. We’ll see you soon,” Lando promises as he squeezes your hand before letting go. 

You kept repeating it to yourself over and over again, even as they put you under. 

I’ll see them soon. I’ll see them soon. I’ll see them so…

Groggy. 

You felt groggy. That was the first thought you had when you woke up.

The second was that you were really quite parched. Magically, a straw appeared in front of you. It took you a minute to connect that it was one you could drink out of, and you clumsily reached for it before having your hand batted gently away. 

“Here sweetie, it’s okay.” 

It was a nurse, you realised. You blinked heavily, slowly, and she started to turn from a human shaped blob into an actual person. 

“Hey…” you drawled, the syllable long and low. You could hear the nurse laugh just slightly. 

“You did great, everything went well. You’re in recovery right now but we’ll wheel you back to your room soon, okay?” 

You nodded after about fifteen seconds, your reactions incredibly delayed. 

“Can ‘ou tell my…” you trailed off, struggling to conjure the correct words to ask them to let Lando and Oliver know you were okay. 

“Yes, your family are being informed as we speak,” the nurse promised you quickly, and you relaxed back into the bed. 

In the room you would eventually be wheeled back to, Oliver was standing pacing while Lando was seated on the couch. 

Your brother wasn’t quite sure how your boyfriend was so calm, but he didn’t mention it. 

He felt like a nervous wreck compared to the driver. He’d tried to read his book earlier, but once he went over the same sentence four times without retaining anything, he knew to give it a rest. Lando just sat there, the picture of calm and composure. 

It was so different from the Lando that Oliver remembered when they were kids, who had always been fidgety and easily stressed. But this version of Lando was steady and composed. Occasionally he would bounce his leg, the only tell to his extreme stress.  

The surgery had taken longer than initially planned, but not by much. The time passed by agonizingly slowly, not that either of them were really expecting anything different. It was always going to be worrisome for them, having you go under. It was just reaching the six hour mark when the surgeon knocked on the door, and that had Lando on his feet in a second. 

“Hello to you two,” she began, a warm, relaxed smile on her face. “She’s in recovery right now, and I’m told she should be back here shortly. Surgery went well – it was a little bit more complicated than we initially planned when resecting the tumor, but I am confident we were able to get everything. Margins are clean, but we’ll do more scans in the coming weeks just to be certain.”

Lando stepped forward, holding the surgeon's hand just a hair too tightly as he chuckled with relief. 

“Thank you so much Dr. Ramirez, we really appreciate it,” he said, a sentiment that was quickly echoed by Oliver. After making sure that they both were aware of what the next steps were, your surgeon excused herself. 

It felt like a weight had been lifted off the room, and suddenly Lando could breathe again. He sat down heavily on the couch, letting his eyes drift shut as he bowed his head for a moment. 

She’s okay. She’s going to be alright. She made it through. 

He needed a minute to just feel it. When he looked up, OIiver was sitting down next to him. He placed his hand on the driver's knee – not saying anything to him, but an unspoken understanding passed between the two of them. 

Oliver was four years older than you, but he had still grown up with you and Lando. He knew that Lando was just as relieved as he was, that he felt the fear and anxiety as deeply as he himself did. 

It was nice to have someone to shoulder the burden with. 

Just a few minutes later you were rolled back into the room, and you came in with all the excitement of someone who thought the ice cream truck had just arrived. 

“Lando! Oliver!” You cheered, your words clunky and slow but filled with joy nonetheless. The two men shared a look of amusement as they stood, waiting until the nurse had parked your hospital bed before they flanked either side of it. 

“Hi,” you tilted your head to either side to greet both of them, letting out a little giggle. 

“Oh, they got you on the good stuff, don’t they Daisy,” Lando joked, and you shook your head despite the mischievous smile on your face. 

“Lan, pssst, I have a secret,” you whisper screamed, using your hand to gesture your boyfriend closer. He abided, humoring you as he leaned closer to you. 

“I think ‘m ready to drive ‘ur car,” you said conspiratorially. Lando took one look at the seriousness on your face and nearly choked with how hard it was to hold his laughter in. 

“You think so?” He asked, unable to look up at Oliver. Your brother had a fist thrown over his mouth, his shoulders shaking silently as he fought his own laughter valiantly. 

“Yeah, look!” You explained, holding your hands up as though they were on the wheel of his car. “See this,” you continued, and after about a ten second delay you jerked your hands to the left, mimicking a turn. 

“Yeah, I think you’re ready, you look good,” Lando decided, his face nothing but business as he watched you light up at his praise. It was a running joke between the two of you, that you wanted to drive his F1 car. You knew it would never happen, obviously, but you loved to joke about it and tease him about how you would beat him on track. 

Oliver pulled up a chair as Lando took one of your hands in his own. He brought it up to his mouth to press a light kiss to it. The time in which he needed to leave for the airport was rapidly approaching, and with it he felt his own panic surging. He didn’t want to leave you, not like this. 

He knew it was always going to be hard, but he hadn’t realised how hard it would be until he was sitting beside your bedside. 

But he ignored the feeling, favoring sitting on the edge of your bed and carding his fingers through your hair. You hummed lightly, relaxing at the feeling. 

By the time he needed to leave, you’d fallen back asleep. Oliver looked at his watch, then at the forlorn expression on the driver's face. 

“She’ll be okay,” he promised, and Lando looked over at him. It wasn’t relief on his face exactly, but there was a fraction more of appreciation than there had been the last time he’d made eye contact with Oliver. He believed your brother, and he was grateful for the encouragement even if it didn’t change how hard this was on him. 

Lando fought the intense urge to wake you up to say goodbye, knowing that you needed the sleep. Instead, he kissed your forehead gently and told you that he loved you. 

It took everything in him to leave that hospital room.

He knew he needed to go, that it would kill you if he didn’t go. 

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

You had worried the most about the recovery period, but you were surprised to find that it wasn’t quite as bad as you had feared. 

It was by no means easy, not at all, but it was manageable. You were sure you would be singing a different tune when you were off the pain meds and out of the hospital, but for now it was going okay. 

You had someone with you at all times, whether that be Oliver, Kayla, Cisca, Max, or another of your friends. Between all the visitors and the doctors coming in and out constantly, you were kept quite busy. You never really had time to feel overly bad, not when everyone seemed to be attuned to your every mood. 

It also helped that Lando seemed to text or call you about every five minutes. 

On the third day of recovery, you, Oliver, and Cisca set the TV to watch qualifying. You set your phone down for a moment, knowing that there was absolutely no way he would text you right now. 

And yet, just ten minutes later your phone buzzed. You chanced a glance at it, expecting it to be a text from one of your other friends. You figured that you would set it to silent so that you could watch qualifying without interruption. 

Nope. 

You did a double take, if for the sole fact that you were literally watching Lando on the screen right now. He was sitting in the car, waiting for the session to start. 

And yet, on your phone there was a text from the man himself. 

Lando Norris: Hey 

Lando Norris: This is Sophie 

Lando Norris: He gave me his phone and told me to text you every fifteen to check in. Said he wanted to know how you were doing and make sure everything was okay

You rolled your eyes, barking out a laugh as you shook your head. Cisca looked over at you with a confused expression on his face, and you just turned your phone around so she could read the texts. She smiled as she read them, echoing you as she shook her head as well. 

You: Hi Sophie

You: I am doing fine, thank you for checking. You can tell Lando that I’ll shoot a fax over his way if anything goes wrong. 

Lando Norris: If there is one thing that man stands on business about, it’s you haha  

Lando Norris: Glad to hear recovery has been going well

Lando Norris: Well, I suppose I’ll talk to you in ten minutes when I text you again. 

You: You know that you don’t have to do that? I can have Cisca text if anything magically goes wrong in the next hour. 

Lando Norris: Oh no, I think Lando would kill me. I think I’d be fired. 

You: Nah, I’d yell at him until you were rehired

You: But okay, okay. I’ll talk to you in ten minutes. 

Qatar is a bit of a disaster driving wise, and you can only watch half the race on account of the physical therapist coming in to work with you. 

By the start of the next week, you feel confident enough to ask Cisca and Max to come into the room to talk with you. 

“I just want to start by saying thank you,” you expressed, clasping your hands together as you sat up. “I want you to both go to Abu Dhabi. They’re going to win the constructors, it’s going to be a good race. You guys should be there for him. It’s an incredible achievement, and I want him to be celebrated. Oliver will stay here with me,” you decided.

They were both hesitant. Your physical therapy hadn’t been going the best for the last two days, and you’d seemed to plateau a little bit in your recovery. Your range of motion in your foot wasn’t exactly where they wanted it to be, which could have some consequences on your balance and mobility long term. 

You caught their concern, and you waved your hand in the air to dismiss it easily.  

“Unless either of you are my surgeon, there isn’t anything you can do by being here to help me recover. Go be with Lando, celebrate a little bit! Everything here won’t implode if you leave,” you tried once more, and while neither of them seemed thrilled about it, they relented just slightly. 

“You’re sure? We’re happy to stay,” Max asked gently, and you nodded with complete confidence. You loved them, and you wanted them to enjoy themselves. You owed them a lot, and you wanted them to have this moment with Lando. There really wasn’t anything they could do here, and you had Oliver and your own friends to look after you. 

“Go, enjoy yourselves. I can’t have fun but that doesn’t mean we all have to live out of this hospital room,” you replied with a teasing smile. 

“What about me?” Oliver pouted from his spot across the room, but you could see the mirthful look in his eyes. 

“You are stuck with me,” you deadpanned, but it broke in about three seconds as you let out a chuckle at your brother's antics. 

Cisca flew out on Tuesday night with Adam and the other Norris children to join Lando in Abu Dhabi. Max decided to stop by the hospital on Wednesday morning before his flight with the rest of the Quadrant team. 

Alarm bells screamed in his head the moment he stepped into the room, despite there not exactly being anything visibly wrong. But you didn’t perk up when he walked in the room like you had for the last week. For anyone else, it might not have been enough. But when it came to you, Max knew you too well. 

He just knew. 

You looked pale, and your face shone with a thin amount of sweat despite the chill within the hospital. 

“You okay?” He asked in lieu of a greeting, and you smiled brightly at him. It was borderline fake, and only made him more suspicious. 

“Yes, I am. Bit of a fever running, but they just gave me some paracetamol to help,” you were quick to explain, and Max nodded his head slowly. He peered over at Oliver, who looked less sure than he had just twenty four hours earlier. 

Max sat with you for a few minutes, and it was plain as day that you were not feeling as well as you had just yesterday. Your movements were more stiff and labored. Sweat beaded at your brow whilst you did your physical therapy. The look on the therapists face wasn’t one of confidence, but rather one of quiet concern. 

Your wound site looked worse too, angry and inflamed where it had once appeared clean and calm. 

Max deliberated in his head for a few minutes before he excused himself, picking up his phone as he exited your hospital room. 

“Hey mate, what's up?” Lando asked as Max stepped out of the room. He put on his best sick sounding voice, coughing once before speaking. 

“I’m sorry dude, but I think I have a bit of food poisoning. I’m not going to make my flight, I’m really sorry. I’m going to rebook for later in the week,” he stated weakly, and Lando couldn’t have been more understanding about the whole thing. He seemed to buy Max's excuse, completely oblivious to his friend's true reasoning for missing his flight.

Max hung up the phone after he promised to keep Lando updated, a wash of relief coming over him now that he knew he had bought himself a little more time. 

When he walked back into the room, you asked what was going on. 

“My flight was cancelled. They rescheduled us for tomorrow,” he lied easily, but the knowing look in Oliver's eyes was enough for your brother to know the real truth. 

The doctors come in on Wednesday evening, and after taking a good look at your vital signs and surgical site, decide to put you on a course of antibiotics. They remained optimistic that it would clear everything up. 

When they leave, you look Max and Oliver dead in the eyes, and if looks could kill in that moment they both would have been six feet under. 

“Neither of you will tell Lando about this,” you declared, and Oliver’s eyes widened as Max swallowed thickly. They both peered at one another, equally apprehensive about your words. 

“Uh…I don’t think that's a good idea?” Max chanced, but it came out as more of a suggestion than a command. The look you gave him in response could have killed. You raised a single eyebrow, glancing between the two of them with surgical precision despite your own pain.

“He needs to be focused. The doctors said everything should be cleared up in 48 hours, so he’ll never know. He needs to focus on driving, and if he’s distracted by me having a little fever then he could put himself in danger. Just wait until the race finishes, then tell him. Promise me?” You looked at both of them with intensity, and despite their hesitations, your words did hold logic in them. 

So they promised. 

Oh, how they wished they didn’t make that promise. 

You’re feeling better by Thursday midday, enough so that Max is confident enough to take the next flight out to Abu Dhabi. 

On Thursday evening your fever breaks. Your brother is able to go home, sleep for a bit, get the flat settled and ready for you to come home. The doctors were hoping that they could discharge you by the end of the weekend. 

You have Oliver help you film different videos before he leaves so you’ll have the perfect one to send to Lando on Sunday. One for if it goes poorly, one if it goes okay, one if it goes really well. You’re smiling, alert and animated as you speak into the camera. You wanted to be prepared to send them to him right after he got out of the car, but you were excited to watch the race live. 

You’d never make it to that point. As Thursday crests into Friday, your fever creeps back up. You toss and turn in bed, struggling to keep any foods or liquids down. 

By Friday evening, you’re starting to tank despite the measures the doctors are making. By the time Saturday rolls around, your temperature isn’t responding to medication, your heart rate is high and your blood pressure is low. 

The doctors decide to try a more aggressive round of antibiotics and give it 24 hours to kick in, but nothing works. 

“Don’t tell Lando,” you wheezed out to Oliver and Kayla from where they’re sitting right next to your bed. It’s Sunday morning, the race is in just a few hours. “Not when it’s so close to the race.”

Your brother is wholly unconvinced on that one, but he promises you he’ll wait until after the race. 

It’s in the mid morning of Sunday that everything goes from bad to worse. You’re barely coherent, raging and delirious with a fever when the doctors finally diagnose you with sepsis. 

Your medical team looked your brother dead in the eyes and told him the honest truth. 

“I think that an amputation is the best choice. If we go back in and try to salvage more, it’s going to get messy, and the chance of the infection spreading even further is high.” 

Oliver has never been more certain of a decision in his life. He knew that losing a leg would be hard for you, it would be for anyone. But he’d rather you be here with him and mad at this decision than have you six feet below him. That was a burden he would happily carry with him if it kept you here. He knew that any one of your family members would make the same decision if they were in his position. 

It’s barely a quarter of an hour to race time when they wheel you back for surgery, moving with precision but an urgency Oliver hasn’t ever seen from medical staff beforehand. And true to his word, he says nothing. He doesn’t really know what it would do to contact everyone right now, other than make everyone panic. 

Lando still needed to drive. Hell, he was already in the car and getting ready for lights out. Nobody could do anything to get here before the surgery ended. Calling Cisca and Adam would just worry them. Oliver wasn’t sure if you’d be dead or alive by the time this race ended, but he knew the fallout would be disastrous either way. 

Lando had no clue. Nobody had said a word to him, by your request. Your brother knew that it was going to completely blind side your boyfriend. There was no scenario in him being told that Lando would be level headed about this, and you couldn’t blame him for that. 

Oliver felt every minute crawl by with an agonizing slowness, and yet as if he were suspended in time all at once. The hospital waiting room became his chapel as he prayed to whomever might listen for you to be okay. 

Sure, you’d been sick. But you had always been so confident that you were going to be okay that he’d hardly stopped to consider a scenario in which you were just…gone. 

You had been his best friend ever since you were born when he was four years old. He’d always been your older brother, your protector, your confidant. 

And now he sat alone in the hospital waiting room with nothing in his hand but memories of you that felt like they were slipping through his fingers like sand. He was completely powerless to do anything in this situation but pray that you would make it out. You had to make it out of this okay. 

When he looks at his phone and realises that the race has ended, he picks up his phone and makes exactly one singular phone call.

Cisca was over the moon as she watched Lando pass the checkered flag. It was his fourth race win, how could she not be thrilled? 

She had just finished hugging her husband when she felt her phone begin to buzz within her pockets. She fished it out quickly, and planned to silence it but decided that she should at least check the caller display. 

She felt her heart sink as she saw who it was. Call it mothers intuition or whatever you want, but something didn’t feel right with her. The whole race she had felt uneasy. She thought that it was about Lando, but when he made it out of the car unscathed, she thought maybe that she was just overreacting. 

She knew in her heart that something was wrong. She took one look at Adam, who seemed confused at his wife’s sudden turn in mood, before she pushed her way out of the crowd to accept the phone call. 

Meanwhile, Lando had just finished parking in parc ferme, throwing his fists up into the air in victory. He might not have won the championship, but he had given them something, and it was the right note to go out of the season on. 

His whole team was thrilled, even more so because they had won the constructors championship. Lando made sure to take the time to hug Oscar and thank all of his team in between weigh-in, media, and heading back to the driver’s room before the podium

And while he was thrilled to take the trophy as he stood on the top step, he realised with startling clarity that he only saw his father and siblings down below. He thought for a second maybe it was just a mistake, that his mother was standing elsewhere, or had to use the restroom. 

But the look on his Dad’s face, the look on his siblings face felt forced, their smiles more performative than anything else as they whispered to one another. 

Lando popped his champagne, sprayed it over his colleagues, smiled for the cameras. But as soon as he was allowed, he was jogging back to the Mclaren garage. He didn’t stop to talk to a single person, providing a polite and apologetic smile that he hoped would mask his surging worry. 

He had just turned a corner when he saw her. His mother was at the end of the hallway, and at the sound of footsteps she looked up. The phone was still pressed to her ear, her hand held to her mouth as tears shone in her eyes. 

Lando felt his heart plummet to the ground as his whole body froze. It was like ice water had been poured over him, shocking him into a stillness that was rigid and terrified. He knew instantly who his mother was talking to, and what it was about. He didn’t know why, or how, or what it was exactly. 

But he knew something was seriously wrong. 

His mind went to only one place, thinking the absolute worst. 

Oh god, no. 

Please no. 

Not her. 

Please, take me instead. 

Anything, anyone but her.

(Taglist: @leclercdream @henna006 @nickie-amore @hescrush @frankiejo04 @azuramicah @koalalafications @lavande3 @isar8tsyyy @jaydensluv )

[gatsby-20]

I Know I Was Wrong

Lando frets as your surgery date draws nearer with every day, and you make your long awaited return to the paddock

Part 5: You're Gonna Be Fine

(a/n: Chapter title is from just breathe by jeremy zucker and chelsea cutler. Spotify playlist can be found here.)

Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Series Masterlist

The week after your little Monaco getaway is the start of the second half of the season. 

Lando frets endlessly, putting off packing for so long that it’s you who has to drag his suitcase out and begin packing it. 

“Lando, this isn’t a problem you’ll escape by pushing it off,” you scold, folding one of his shirts and placing it into his luggage. 

“I don’t want to leave,” he asserts for about the fiftieth time in the last two hours. 

You let out a big, exhausted sigh, and that quickly gets his attention. 

“I know you don’t,” you begin, rubbing at your forehead. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you have a job to do. A job you love and are very passionate about. I never wanted you to lose that just because I am sick.”

You sit down on the end of the bed, trying to balance his unease with your own feelings of sadness that come every time he leaves for work. You look like you are genuinely struggling with this, and Lando finally let a long, slow breath out. He sits down next to you on the bed, taking your hand in his. 

“I know. I know that you want me to go, and I know that I need to go. But I can’t help this…worry that I feel. Like if I leave, everything is going to go wrong. Or I’ll never see you again. Or–” 

You cut him off by leaning into his side, your hand that isn’t tangled with his coming to rest on his bicep. You understand where his head is at, because it’s what you feel every time he leaves. 

You knew he did his best to be safe in the car. But the risk was always there. 

“I know what you mean. I understand that you’re scared, but I’m not going anywhere. Not anywhere that isn’t right here, with you,” you promise softly. It’s not about physical location, you both know that. Just the inexplicable understanding that neither of you were leaving the other without something to say about it.

He closes his eyes as you move your hand up and brush the backs of your fingertips against the skin of his cheek. He turns his face, opening his eyes as he presses a kiss to the palm of your hand.

“I feel this way when you leave every time,” you admit, and he cocks his head to the side in confusion for just a moment before realisation dawns on his expression. 

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. 

“I didn’t realise how heavy it is until now,” he replies, as though he hadn’t thought about his own safety when he was in the car. You shrug, honest in a way you can’t fake. 

“It’s the price you pay to be with someone you love,” you assert, and he nods his head in agreement. “I want you to go out there and live your life, to do what you love. Not spend every second worried that something might happen to me.” 

“Alright,” he says after a moment, squeezing your hand once more before he finally stands up and begins packing in earnest. 

“But I’m allowed to worry still a little bit!” He decides as he starts to cram socks into his bag, and you roll your eyes but relent regardless. 

“Yes Mum,” you tease, and he swats a shirt at you with a cheeky smile as you stand, giggling as you exit the room. 

“You’re sleeping?” 

“Yes, I’m sleeping.” 

“And you’re eating?”

“Yes, I am also eating.” 

“And you’re making sure to get some gentle exercise in?”

“Would it make you feel better if I reported back to you on whether I am breathing or not?” You joked, the phone on speakerphone and held in your lap. 

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” Lando grunted in response, but Cisca laughed from her spot across the room from you. 

“I do!” She cheered, and you heard Lando audibly groan. 

“Mum!” He whined, and you found yourself laughing easily. 

“Yes Lando, your mum and I have had a few nice walks. I promise, everything here is going fine,” you insisted, your voice reassuring. “How was practice?” 

“It was good actually, the car felt solid. I’m feeling ready for the weekend,” he explained as you smiled. You and Cisca had watched on the television, but it still felt nice to hear his perspective. 

When you told Cisca you felt bad that you were keeping her from going to the Grand Prix, she waved you off with a scoff, claiming that time spent with you was much more worthwhile than watching her son drive in circles for two hours.

You knew that wasn’t quite true exactly, but the warmth that bloomed in your chest at her confirmation that she wanted to spend time with you was still strong regardless. 

“Good! If you need a pick me up or something exciting happens, feel free to call me whenever,” you replied, happy to hear him report back that he was well. This was just what you wanted for him - to keep his life moving, to keep doing what he loves. 

“I will. I miss you,” he admitted after a beat, and your heart twinged in your chest. 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you soon though,” you smiled as you spoke, your voice gentle with the reminder. Your doctor had given you the go ahead to attend the Italian Grand Prix. Your immune system would have had enough time to recover from your last round of chemotherapy, as long as you still made the appropriate precautions. 

“Thank god for that. Alright, I have to go, I love you,” he insisted as you echoed the sentiment before ending the call. 

It was an adjustment for the two of you as he went back to work, but not exactly an unwelcome one. As much as you would prefer him here with you, you were still lucky that his schedule was flexible enough for him to call often. 

You really did enjoy hearing about how the car was doing, about all the work that had been put into it. 

And Lando, despite having not had a holiday in the traditional sense, felt that he was refreshed and relaxed going into the second half of the season. 

Having you there, even if it was in spirit and not in person, settled him immensely. Stepping out of a stressful meeting and being able to call you and hear your voice was a luxury he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed until you were there again. 

And while he worried about you, he was lucky enough that his mom or sisters could stay with you to make sure that you were okay.

Everything that had occurred had given him a completely new perspective. 

It wasn’t that it had made racing less important, per se, but more that it helped him to reframe it in his mind. 

It was a part of him, but it wasn’t everything. Before, it felt like every little mistake was the end of the world. He obsessed over it with a veracity of someone who was determined to tear themselves down. 

Now, it just felt like a piece of the whole picture. He could step away from it and remind himself that he held importance outside of who he was as a driver. 

It was something to learn from, but at the end of the day he was still safe, his life would continue, he still had you. 

Your encouragement and belief in him gave him strength, and the space he’d taken from racing this summer allowed him to feel excited about getting in the car without overthinking it too much. It gave him a perspective that perhaps he needed but had been lacking in previous years. He took for granted his strong relationships with those in his family for granted. He didn’t realise what it meant to be upheld and uplifted until it had been pulled out from under him. 

You brought that quiet grace and determination for him back with you when you came back into his life. 

Clearly, it helped him as he went on to win the Dutch Grand Prix. 

It was just as much an excitement for him as it was a relief for you. The whole week you had spent nervously faffing around, praying to whatever was holy that your reintroduction into Lando’s life wouldn’t distract him. 

You wanted him to focus, to do what he was passionate about. You loved him, and you loved how much he loved you. But you still wanted him to have this piece of his life, to chase his dreams. 

The race win was just the thing you needed to be absolutely sure that he could have both. 

You and driving. 

Those two things could coexist. 

And when he called you, soaked in champagne and smiling so wide it practically split his face in two, you felt a small part of yourself settle into place.

Lando had tried to warn you. 

Tried to explain how fiercely the paddock had missed you, how everywhere he went people seemed to be looking for you. 

All you did was roll your eyes and call him dramatic. You were one person, so unimportant in the grand scheme of things that his claim seemed downright preposterous. 

You’d chosen an oversized t-shirt that you tied at the waist and a loose, flowing skirt for your first day back in the paddock with Lando. It was still warm in Italy as August bled into September, and you wore a mask on your face for an added layer of protection for your immune system. 

“They’re going to talk,” you worried as you paced the hotel room, Lando sitting on the bed as he watched you with an expression that was far too calm. 

“Let them,” he replied smoothly, and you scowled fiercely at him. 

“Maybe I should just stay here,” you declared, turning toward him. It was probably unrealistic for you to hide in the hotel room all weekend, but neither of you commented on that. 

“If they talk, let them. I don’t care,” he decided, and you fought the urge to let out a frustrated groan. 

“It’s more complicated than that!” You cried, and it was at this sight of distress that Lando finally relented, as he shook his head as he pitched forward to catch your hands in his own. 

“I’m serious. I don’t care what anyone says if you’re there with me. And we have a whole team of PR people who I will gladly pay bonuses too if I have to,” he reassured softly, and you finally felt yourself begin to relax slightly. You let your forehead tip forward and fall to his chest, feeling the steady rise of his chest with each breath he took. He felt solid and secure, clearly so unbothered by what everyone thought of him.

It was a complete swap from how you two usually were, with him feeling insecure compared to your confidence. But something in him had settled the last few weeks, as though he had come to understand what really mattered. As though it finally cracked through to his mind that it was all just noise, and not important feedback.

You took a few deep breaths, trying really hard to just trust his word. Trust that he was unbothered by what everyone would have to say about your reappearance in the paddock. Because you knew there would be whispers, the rumor mill never ending.

“Face value,” he murmured, referencing the mantra you told yourself to just believe what he says at face value. Don’t overthink it. Just listen and believe him. 

You had gotten yourself into this pickle because you spent too much time overthinking. Lando wasn’t about to let you make the same mistake now, the reminder gentle but still holding weight. 

“Okay, face value,” you acquiesced after a moment, and you reached for your bag so the two of you could finally leave. 

And sure, Lando had tried to warn you. But even he was completely unprepared for the sheer delight at your return. 

You hadn’t even made it into the paddock, and already there was excitement. The girls working security lit up like it was Christmas morning when they spotted you and Lando hand in hand. They cheered, greeting you with so much enthusiasm when you smiled at them warmly. 

Lando squeezed your hand gently, and you bumped your shoulder with his. It felt natural, normal to be here. You scanned your paddock pass and walked in, slipping the mask over your face before taking Lando’s hand once again. 

Mechanics seemed to appear out of nowhere with gleeful greetings for you, and made sure to stop and say hello to each and every one. Reporters did a double take when they saw you, walking over to you and Lando to say hello. 

It was plain as day to everyone that this was why Lando had come back from the break with such a big smile on his face. He watched as Natalie laughed at a story you told her, smiling with his entire face as you waved your arms around animatedly. 

You wore the mask on your face, and yet still recognition followed you everywhere. 

As you walked past different hospitalities, drivers and their partners alike turned to say hello. Team principles came over to you and asked how you were doing. They never asked directly what was going on, but they understood you weren’t completely well. Every executive said the same thing - that if you needed help, you could always find it in their garage. 

Didn’t matter the team. Even Christian Horner, whom you really didn’t like, echoed the sentiment. 

You were all but dragged into the Ferrari hospitality as Rebecca, Alex, and Kika caught sight of you. They didn’t demand an explanation, exactly, but they still asked hopefully if you would be back in the paddock. You told them that you wouldn’t be there as often, but you were back and would be around. The collective sigh of relief from all of them made you smile just slightly under your mask. 

It felt nice to be missed.

Engineers poked their heads out of telemetry data and tyre analysis just to wave at you. You sent greetings to those who were still stuck inside, and they cheered at the realisation you were back. 

Even the coffee girl in the hospitality seemed thrilled to see you, already preparing your drink before you could even make your way to the counter with Lando. 

He joked that she was more excited to see you than she was to see him. You rolled your eyes, but you could tell he was being dead serious. 

It was overwhelming in the best way possible. You let yourself just enjoy it, basking in the realisation that maybe you were more important to people than you’d initially thought. 

Nobody specifically asked you what was wrong. The mask on your face was signal enough that you were sick. People didn’t let their delight superimpose on the boundary of personal space you kept. Everyone was terribly polite, even if you could see an undercurrent of confusion on their faces. 

It also helped that Lando stood by your side like a guard dog. 

Not that he was very imposing when he was smiling so brightly at the feeling of your hand in his under the Italian sun. 

When you finally managed to get out of the garage after greeting what felt like each individual mechanic and engineer, the two of you made your way to Lando’s driver room. 

“You weren’t kidding about people missing me,” you said simply, surprise clear on your expression, and Lando smiled fondly at you as he began to prepare himself for practice. 

“Told you I wasn’t,” he shot back, far too smug in his assessment. You fought the urge to roll your eyes for the seventieth time today, choosing instead to stand and wrap your arms around him from behind. You let your forehead fall to the expanse of skin in between his shoulder blades as he wound his arms to fit over yours. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. You weren’t entirely sure what exactly you were thanking him for - his safety, his positivity, his faith in the fact that everyone still loved you. 

But he doesn’t ask, and frankly he doesn’t care. 

“Always,” is what he simply says in return, and you believe him.  

The weekend is a blur of excitement and exhaustion. You’d forgotten how chaotic race weekends can be, and your stamina isn’t what it was just a few months ago. 

You’d used to be Lando’s biggest support - always there with a protein bar or reminding him to drink water before he gave himself a migraine. 

Now, it seems that the tables have turned just slightly. Everywhere you go there seems to be a seat reserved for you that had never been there before, or a room full of people inexplicably wearing masks despite the fact that you haven’t asked for them to. 

Lando appears with water, or a banana, or sunscreen that he slathers on you like you’re a child. It’s a little endless, but it’s also endearing, so you let him do it. 

Even a member of the communications team - once an intern who thought your name was Daisy, turned a member of the full time staff - pops her head into his drivers room after Q3 with a bag containing lunch. 

“From Lando,” she sings, and you snort with laughter as she bows before giving you the bag. You swat at her shoulder but accept it all the same, shaking your head as you thank her. 

Lando has a good weekend - not a win but still a podium finish, which he’ll take. You weren’t there for the podium itself, but he wasn’t surprised at all considering how big of a crowd it is. Not exactly a good scene for you right now when your immune system isn’t a hundred percent.  

He finds you later, when he’s soaked in champagne and giddy not from the win but because he gets to go back home to you. He looks for you in the garage and in hospitality, but he can’t find you. He asks around, but nobody has seen you since the race, it seems. 

When he’s finally starting to get worried, he decides to check his driver's room. He reaches for the handle, stepping swiftly inside and freezing when he sees the scene in front of him. 

It’s a déjà vu moment for him. 

Suddenly the two of you are nineteen years old again, and you’d exhausted yourself in the Singapore sun. He’d told you to lay down on his massage table, where you promptly fell asleep.

He had a picture of it in his camera roll. The photograph was years old now, but still just as treasured. For a long time, it had been the background screen of his phone. 

And now here the two of you are - five years later and what feels like a million miles away from that moment. But you’re curled up on his massage table once again, fast asleep and breathing evenly. 

Lando reaches for his phone, quietly taking a photograph before he tosses it on the couch. 

He moves to sit next to you, not on the table but rather just on the floor next to you. He moves slowly, like a quick movement on his part will somehow wake you up. Lando Norris isn’t exactly known for being gentle or quiet, but you bring out a side in him that not many others do. 

Oscar will find him like that later, quickly pull out his phone to take a picture of what he finds to send to you. 

You’re curled up on your side, asleep and unmoving on the massage table. And beside you, sitting on the floor with crossed legs is Lando, doing nothing but watching you sleep. Looking at you as though you hold the answers to the universe. 

It’s a quiet devotion you’re still unsure what you did to deserve. 

But you know if you told Lando this, he’d kiss you and tell you that you never needed to do anything to be worthy of it. 

You just were. 

So yeah…you let people talk. You let them speculate on why you were gone, or why you’ve returned now with a mask on your face. You’d happily let them gossip about you or slander your name, let them whisper as you walked past. 

Because there really wasn’t much more that you needed than the boy who sat beside you as you slept like you were the sun he orbited around. 

The meeting had been set for mid-September, sitting down with your doctor to discuss the limb salvage surgery. After your first rounds of chemotherapy, the doctors on your team were really pleased with the results they had achieved. 

Which led you to here, and news that you weren’t really prepared for. 

“The surgery will be scheduled for November 26th.” 

You felt your heart plummet into your stomach as you spared a glance at Cisca. Her expression echoed back the discontempt that you felt. 

That date was two weeks before the end of the season. Right before the Qatar Grand Prix, which was followed the week after with the Abu Dhabi race. There was no way Lando could make it work to be there. Especially not with a championship and constructors still on the line. 

“Is there any way we could push it back?” You asked weakly, already feeling a little faint. 

You were lucky with the location of the tumor that it shouldn’t be all that complex of a surgery. It would take them around five hours, you had been told, and they would be using a cadaver bone instead of a prosthetic on account of the location. 

Still, it was a major surgery. You’d be in the hospital for at least a week, and the recovery was going to take several months. It was daunting even with all the support of loved ones around you. 

“Unfortunately no. We have you on a very specific schedule right now. Your second round of chemotherapy will be from September twelfth through the twenty sixth. You’ll have another three weeks off to recover from that before going in for your last round from October seventeenth to thirty first. You’ll get just over three weeks' break from that to prepare for surgery. If we wait anymore, we run the risk of regrowth, which can make the surgery more complex,” Dr. Ramirez explained to you with a tone that was polite but not unkind. 

You felt yourself deflate like a balloon, letting out a low sigh. 

“Okay, yes, I understand. Thank you so much,” you offered as politely as you could. 

Cisca was quick to whisk you out of the office and into the car after that, driving you toward home. Not your apartment, not anymore, but Lando’s flat. 

You’d given up almost entirely on going back to your own apartment. You liked staying in Lando’s house. It was a lot quieter than your own apartment, and considering you were still away from work, you had no need to be in downtown London. 

Cisca dropped you off at home, and you thanked her for coming with you before heading inside. You slipped off your shoes and walked into the living room, sitting down heavily on the couch. 

You knew it would be fine, but the circumstances were anything but ideal. Your brother was going to fly over from the US to be with you for the surgery, and you knew that your friends would be there to support you. 

But it wasn’t the same, you knew that. You also knew that you wanted Lando’s friends and family to be there with him at the end of the season. The chances of him catching up to Max on points for the championship was low, if not impossible, you knew that. It was still a historic season for him though, for all of Mclaren really. It wasn’t exactly an opportune time for you to be sick. Not that it ever had been, but still. 

You wished naively that those two things could coexist more than it felt like they were right now. 

You could tell just from the sound of his voice that Lando was smiling when he picked up the phone, but when your greeting fell flat he was quick to ask what was wrong. It was a few hours ahead in Azerbaijan, so he was done with work for the day. You could hear the low rustle of the paddock in the background behind, closing up shop for the afternoon. 

“I got a surgery date,” you offered lightly, but it was a weak excuse at seeming okay. 

“It’s on November 26th.”

The line was silent for a moment, and you imagined what he would look like as he processed that information. 

“It’s a Tuesday, right?” He inquired after a second, and you nodded before remembering that he couldn’t see you. 

“Yeah, it is,” you affirmed. You were confused by how unperturbed he sounded given the fact that this wasn’t the news you hoped for. 

“I’ll be there,” he said, his voice carrying a finality that positively dared you to argue with him. 

“Lando, I don’t think that’s the best idea,” you replied, your voice careful. You knew that regardless of what the season looked like at that point, he still needed to be focused. 

“Don’t care. Everyone can deal with it. I’ll fly out on Tuesday night and be in Qatar by Wednesday morning. The team will understand,” he insisted, and you allowed yourself to grow quiet, thinking for just a moment. 

You wanted to argue. Or at least, you knew you should want to argue. But honestly? You didn’t actually want to argue. You wanted Lando there when you woke up, holding your hand and saying you did it! 

You closed your eyes tightly for a second, gripping the phone harder than necessary in your palm. 

“Okay,” you acknowledged with absolutely no argument to follow. Lando’s relief was palpable, even over the phone. 

In the weeks and months that followed, the two of you created a careful balancing act. He worked, you tried not to die of boredom and nausea when you went in for chemotherapy. You went to the occasional grand prix when you could, though you grew more weary as your treatment progressed. Everyone in the paddock grew more concerned every time they saw you, and they took note of how Lando treated you so gently. 

There was never any confirmation on what exactly was wrong with you, but it didn’t take the media long to put the pieces together. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You didn’t have much to hide, but you hoped it wouldn’t impact Lando too much. 

He didn’t care about the headlines, didn’t even bother to read them. Didn’t give time of day to the people who rudely assumed that you being sick would detract from his performance. They didn’t see the way he smiled at you when your name lit up on his phone. They didn’t see the relief on his face when he arrived home to you. 

When he had breaks from work and could come home, he took you out on long drives. You’d wind around the city and countryside, listening to music or the sound of his voice as he told you stories from work. 

One day when you were feeling particularly well he drove you out to the stables, sitting you on his Mum’s quietest horse and walking you around the trails for a bit. 

He didn’t exactly love horses, but he loved you. 

It wasn’t perfect. You struggled to communicate what you needed, trying not to step on Lando’s toes. It frustrated him, especially when he couldn’t look you in the eyes to ask how you were doing when he was away. 

He tried really hard to be positive for your benefit, and there were times when it annoyed you. You didn’t need him to be the general of the spoon platoon of positivity – you just needed him to be real. 

But both of you were committed to making it work, and you did. You knew that you were prepared for the surgery, especially once Lando told the team that he would be gone on the Tuesday before Qatar and everyone had agreed upon the scheduling. 

And so as the surgery date loomed near, you reminded yourself again and again and again even when the anxiety hit you full force. 

You can do this.

(Taglist: @leclercdream @henna006 @nickie-amore @hescrush @frankiejo04 @azuramicah @koalalafications @lavande3 @isar8tsyyy )

[gatsby-20]

I Know I Was Wrong

Lando is back in your life, and it's like you can breath again. Within your newfound vulnerability, you find that strength blooms where you least expected it to.

Part 4: Every Touch Is A Redefining Phrase

(a/n: This one is a little long, and I have absolutely no regrets! Chapter title is from Turning Page by Sydney Rose. Spotify playlist can be found here.)

Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Series Masterlist

You were woken up not by an alarm or any sort of noise, but rather by a pesky stream of light that seemed to escape the curtains. You blinked heavily, tucking your head back into the covers. 

You and Lando had shifted in the night, and instead of facing him and being pressed into his chest you were on your side, his arm wound around your stomach and pulling you back into his body. His hand laid protectively around your waist, secure and warm and solid. 

You preened just slightly, basking in the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his chest against your own. It was a kind of tranquility you had missed so deeply that it seemed to ache from within the deepest parts of you. 

As hard as Lando’s life had been these last four months, yours had felt like an avalanche had completely bowled over it. Your diagnosis had been met with so much uncertainty and fear. 

What did this mean for the rest of your life? For your career? For everything? 

You felt a certain sense of helplessness at all of it, stripped of any power or say in your own life choices. Work had placed you on sick leave, and suddenly your life revolved around medications, chemo schedules, and a rapidly weakened body. You had a million decisions to make, each one more draining than the last. 

You’d do several sessions of chemotherapy followed by a period of rest to recuperate. The plan was to shrink the tumor enough so that limb salvage surgery could be performed successfully. Doctors had been optimistic about their course of action. 

But as the weeks dragged on, none of the scans showed improvement after the chemo. Referrals to specialists had been made to consider something more aggressive or experimental, but delays in the system left you floundering with no answers. 

Still, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest in the last twenty four hours. You weren’t alone. You didn’t have to fight it all by yourself. 

You had help. 

You had never known a world without Lando in it, or the rest of the Norris’ for that matter. The relief you felt when you realised that you had that back was palpable. 

You carefully slid out from under Lando’s hold, standing up out of bed easily. You were always a little shaky directly after a chemo transfusion, but by the next day you typically felt more solid. It could be a little touch and go, but after how much sleep you’d had last night, you were feeling better. 

You headed toward the kitchen, intent on getting a glass of water and seeing what food Lando had in the fridge. It didn’t take you long to realise that the fridge was completely empty apart from some questionable looking apples. With a fond roll of your eyes you began to place a grocery order on your phone. 

It was early afternoon, and though part of you twitched with the urge to wake Lando up, to ask if there was somewhere he needed to be, you refrained. He would have set an alarm if he had somewhere he needed to be. 

You had to trust him on that. 

You heard him get up before you saw him, considering that you were still in the kitchen when he finally did wake up. You heard the hurried footsteps, the way the door hinges creaked as they flew open faster than they were used to, and suddenly he was at the doorway to the kitchen. His eyes were panicked and alarmed, and your own eyes widened in surprise at his appearance. 

His eyes raked over you as though he were checking you for any injuries or harm that had occurred since you had fallen asleep. 

He looked at you as though he were expecting you to be gone, and suddenly you felt horrible for having ever moved from the bed. 

You were beginning to realise more and more that maybe your absence had hit him just as hard as it had hit you. 

“You’re still here,” he breathed out in a rush, and you noticed instantly the voice wavered. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you affirmed, and he let out a big, almost tearful breath. His whole body physically relaxed at your words as he stepped into the kitchen and gathered you into his arms. 

“I love you,” you whispered softly, his body melting around yours with sheer relief. 

He was still warm from sleep, and you smiled despite yourself as you crammed yourself against his chest, letting the hug last longer than socially acceptable. Even when you tried to pull back just a little, he held onto you tighter. You felt the way his heart jumped when you tried to pull away, so instead you crushed yourself further into his arms. 

“Just need to hold you for a minute,” he whispered, and you had no interest in arguing. You closed your eyes, settling your head against his chest. His heartbeat slowed the longer you two remained wound together, physical proof of the panic that was subsiding within him.  

The two of you were just beginning to separate naturally when the doorbell rang. 

“That'll be the groceries I ordered,” you acknowledged, squeezing Lando’s arm fondly before you moved toward the front door swiftly. You pulled the door open expecting to see a few bags of food to last you until you could get out to shop for real. 

Instead, you came face to face with one of your childhood best friends, who happened to be so out of breath and sweaty he looked as though he’d just run all the way from Heathrow, if the luggage in his hand was any indication of his last location. 

“You’re alive,” he blurted out, and you scowled fiercely as you looked back over your shoulder at Lando. The latter looked as though he was a deer caught in the headlights, unmoving. 

“What, did you tell him I was halfway in the grave or something?” You deadpanned, and Lando paled as he finally shrugged, scratching the back of his neck guiltily. 

“Well…uh…you didn’t look…I was worried! I didn’t know–” he spluttered, struggling to find the correct words as you shook your head, turning back to Max. 

“You made it just in time for the funeral preparations,” you joked, stepping aside from the door to let him in. He accepted the offer, not even offering a laugh as he set his suitcase down and wrapped you firmly in a tight hug. 

And though you gave him shit, he could feel you relax slightly at the gesture. You were thinner, smaller than the last time Max remembered seeing you. You might joke, but you looked worse. Not in a way that was too glaringly obvious. Just a little more…fragile than the last time he had seen you. Something you’d only notice about someone you knew acutely well. 

You always hid it well when you weren’t feeling well, but Max had known you for too long to get away with that. He knew in his heart that he had been right to fly out. There was no way he was going anywhere right now with you in this state. 

“Did you just fly in?” You asked, and he nodded, a small smile gracing his lips. He could tell immediately how you longed for normalcy, refusing to directly address the reason he was here. 

“Booked a flight as soon as Lando called me,” he explained, and you nodded slowly before looking between the pair of them. 

“What, no big holiday to Ibiza?” You quipped, and Max glanced away as Lando remained stock still. It took you a beat before you realised, and your whole body stiffened. You turned to Lando, despair cresting into your eyes. 

You should have known that between the pair of them they were going somewhere. Probably to party and relax. 

Nothing about this, nothing about you was relaxing or fun. 

“No…please don’t tell me,” you began, looking downright distressed. Lando simply held a hand up, which shut you up rather quickly. 

“Don’t. We did have a holiday planned, and it’s been cancelled. Max and I are both right where we need to be, so don’t even say a word,” he cut you off swiftly, with finality. 

You were not going down without a fight though, that much was certain. 

“Lando! You can’t just cancel everything because I had to spend a day in the hospital,” you scolded, and you saw Max out of the corner of your eye begin to speak before Lando cut in, his eyes narrowed. 

“You speak as though you’ve just had the flu, but you and I both know this is more serious than that. That you’re more sick than that. And I know you’re putting up a front to prove to us that you’re okay, but you don’t have to. We know you’re sick. We know it's bad. And neither of us is about to jet off to a foreign country and just forget about you,” he snapped, frustration evidenced.

After a breath, he softened just slightly when he saw the way you faltered. He let out a small sigh, raking his fingers through his curls as though trying to contain himself.

“We love you. We want to be here for you, not getting drunk on some beach. We’re both right where we need to be, and that’s with you. Sitting on the couch watching shitty movies and ordering whatever food you want to eat like we’re seventeen all over again,” he insisted softly, approaching you like you were an animal he was afraid to spook. 

You looked at him intently for a moment before you turned to Max. He could see how tense you were, like you were trying to hold yourself together with sheer force of will. 

“Lando’s right,” he agreed, his voice soft. “We know you need us, and that’s okay. We’re right here, and we aren’t going anywhere. You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he promised. You shook your head for a second, sniffling heavily.

“You two assholes always know exactly where to get me,” you grumbled, begrudgingly accepting the fact that both of them swooped in to wrap you in a little group hug. It was safe, and familiar, and everything you had missed the last four months. 

You stayed there for probably a little too long, interrupted only by the ringing of the doorbell just a few steps away. Lando’s head popped up out of the group hug, excitement written across his features. 

“Is that breakfast?” He asked excitedly, and all you could do was roll your eyes, a level of fondness on your face you didn’t even try to hide. 

It’s later in the afternoon when Max finally left, citing the fact that he needs to go back to his own apartment and get things in order. You don’t ask how long he’s staying in town, and he doesn’t offer it either. You just assume that he’s leaving soon, completely unaware that he’d booked a one way ticket with no plans to go anywhere anytime soon. 

You spend the early afternoon napping, laid on top of Lando like a sleepy, sun soaked cat. He doesn’t move an inch when you finally fall asleep, determined not to disturb your sleep. 

His hands carded through your hair soothingly, and every so often he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Just because he can. Because he dreamed of this for months, and he’s just now overcome with the realisation that this is real. 

It’s not a dream. 

You’re laying there in his arms, sick and exhausted and not quite whole but still right there with him. How could he have ever gone without this? He doesn’t know how on earth he got through the days without you. 

While you nap, he strategized his next move. By the time you’re awake, he pulled out his phone and began to get himself in order. He was elbow deep in trying to figure out what to do when you woke up, letting out a big yawn as you snuggled further into his side. 

You watched as he pressed the phone to his ear, still groggy with sleep and confused at his actions. 

“Who are you calling?” You mouthed to him, right as he began speaking. 

“Hey Dad,” he started, and you nodded your head in understanding as you finally went to stand, headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water. You assumed he would want privacy, that he was just catching up with his Dad. 

It took you by surprise when you heard them discussing you. Well, that part isn’t particularly surprising. 

The surprising part is rather that they’re talking about your medical plan. 

“Can we get her in to see the doctor soon, do you think?” Lando asked, and you popped your head out of the kitchen with furrowed brows. You don’t hear Adam’s answer, but you watch as Lando nodded quickly, despite the fact that his father couldn’t see his response. 

“Got it, I’ll wait for her call. Thanks Dad, I appreciate it,” he replied, and you cocked your head in confusion. 

“What was that about?” You questioned, your voice small and tentative. He turned to you from his spot on the couch, not an ounce of regret in his features. 

“We’re getting you into a private doctor to discuss changing your treatment plan. None of this waiting around bullshit,” he spoke evenly, already anticipating the horror that did in fact cross your eyes. 

“Lando!” You exclaimed, and it’s glaringly clear that you’re pissed off. Lando refused to give in to your emotions though, uninterested in going in circles about something so important. 

“Listen, you can be mad at me all you want, I don’t care. I refuse to stand here and watch you be slowly killed by something that isn’t working when I have the option to do something. You’ve seen me drop an obscene amount of money on cars or holidays or whatever, and if you think that I wouldn’t spend ten times that on trying to keep you alive, then you really don’t know me,” he threatened, and you deflated like a balloon that's been popped. 

Lando has never seen the fight drain out of you in quite such a spectacular fashion, but he isn’t going to complain. 

“Come here,” he beckoned softly, tucking you into his side when you sit down on the couch next to him. You’re clearly holding back tears, and you turned further into him as you pressed your forehead onto the juncture between his shoulder and arm. 

He simply shifted his own body, pulling you into him as you tucked your legs up underneath you. You placed your hand on his chest, matching your breathing to the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I love you,” he murmured, and you just pressed your face further into him, still unsure of what you did to deserve someone like Lando. Someone who would go to the ends of the earth for the people he loves. 

You missed it. You missed having a family, having someone put their foot down and say that they cared about you. No matter how much you pushed, or how strong you tried to be, Lando saw right through you. 

When you finally managed to get your breathing under control, you let out a deep sigh. 

“Can we call your Mom?” You asked, your voice so small it was barely audible. Lando closed his eyes tightly for a moment before pressing his lips to the top of your head. 

“We can absolutely do that,” he replied gently, and he couldn’t see but rather felt the way you relaxed into him at that statement. 

It was you, Lando, and Cisca who ended up going to the doctor's appointment they got you a few days later. You’d spent your days almost overwhelmed by the level of support you were receiving after months of doing it on your own. 

Your older brother lived in the states, and he had his own family to tend to. Your father had gone with him as well, and he was needed to help take care of your brother Oliver’s kids. It had left you here in England relying on the help of friends, who did everything they could while still needing to function in their own lives. 

But Lando, Cisca, Max, and the whole Norris family dropped absolutely everything to be there for you. 

Cisca had come over immediately after Lando had called her, bundling you into a hug and already trying to commandeer the kitchen to make you soup. She was entirely unimpressed by the way Lando tried to point out that it was July, and a bit warm for soup. She simply waved him off, eliciting a round of giggles from you. He pretended to be annoyed, but he loved seeing you happy. 

Cisca was just so delighted to see you again, even just sitting on the couch together she squeezed you tightly and fussed about you. It was so motherly it made your heart want to burst, and you easily let her tuck a blanket around you and fuss. You expected for it to make you weak. Instead, you just felt loved. 

Adam and the other Norris siblings came next, and soon you found yourself caught up and brought into the fold of the family you had missed so much. 

Max makes it his personal mission to get you to eat as much as possible. Once Lando had explained that the doctors were focused on getting your strength up, suddenly his best friend was driving all around the city with Pietra to all of your favorite restaurants. It never got old seeing you light up when he came in the door with another take away bag.

You honestly don’t even remember telling them you liked some of these restaurants, but somehow they get it correct every single time.  

Lando is completely glued to your side. So much so that you’re pretty convinced that he would crawl into your skin if he could. He slept curled around you, helped you get dressed, and walked around with a hand at your elbow as though you could fall at a moment's notice. 

“You do know I’m not like…actively dying, right?” You asked with a mirthful tone.  

All he offered back is a shrug, his eyes downcast. The look on his face is filled with pain and regret, and instead of continuing with your journey, you stopped and turned toward him. 

You brought your hands up, cradling his face within them. Your thumb ran over the lift of his cheekbones, soothing. 

“I’m right here,” you reminded, and he allowed his hands to fall to your waist, skirting over your sides. Almost as though he needed to remind himself that you were real. He nodded slowly, careful not to dislodge your hands. 

You pull him down gently, lifting yourself up onto the tips of your toes to press your forehead to his. The breath he lets out is low and relieved, almost cathartic. 

You don’t bring it up again after that. 

You have to practically push him out the door to go train, insisting that you wouldn’t perish in the two hours he was gone. Especially considering the fact that you had Cisca or one of Lando’s sisters stay with you when he was gone. 

When he leaves one day, you call Zak Brown directly to explain what is going on. The Mclaren team principal is understanding and incredibly kind over the phone, seemingly appreciative of the communication after Lando all but dropped off the grid. You promise the man you’ll do everything you can to keep him focused, and he tells you that not everything is about racing. 

Considering the fact that this season is more intense for them than it has been in a decade, you really are shocked to hear him say it. It’s the kind of kindness you didn’t expect but do appreciate. 

You never expected so many people to care about you. You’d always seen yourself as expendable, especially in the world of F1. But everywhere you turn it seems there is someone who missed you and is grateful for your return. 

It puzzles you beyond words. 

It’s nice to realise that people care. That maybe you weren’t as invisible as you always thought you were. That in a world where you were so certain there was only one objective, there is still room for humanity. 

Sometimes you got so wrapped up in the importance of F1 you forget that everyone involved is still human too. 

The doctor's appointment with Cisca and Lando is everything you’ve needed. You hate that it took their money and power for you to jump the line in such an excessive way, but it's a welcome relief that you have a better plan in place. 

It's the first of August when you go in for your next round of chemotherapy, this time with a different cocktail of drugs. 

Lando goes with you, armed with books and blankets and a fuzzy sweatshirt that he hates to wear but knows you love to snuggle into. He complains that it’s itchy and uncomfortable, but pulls it out without a complaint for once. Your love for him flourishes at the sight. 

How it is even possible for you to love him more, you aren’t sure. But every single day you love him more than the last. 

Normally you sit in a reclining chair for your transfusion, but the private room that Lando insisted on has a bed that you crawl into when you start to feel nauseous. 

“Can you come sit with me?” You asked Lando, your voice words rather spindly. He had jumped up instantly from the chair he was sitting in by your beside, slipping into bed beside you and running his hand soothingly over your back. 

You tried to relax into it, but the nausea left you struggling to get comfortable. You had promised yourself that you were not going throw up with Lando there. He had done so much for you, and you didn’t want him to have to deal with that. 

“Can you step out to call my brother and tell him how it's going?” You asked with a twinge of panic in your voice, and Lando raised his eyebrow slightly but agreed to your request. 

He had stepped out for just a moment when he heard the sharp noise of your gag, and he ran back into the room to see you hunched over a bag. He was by your side in a second, ignoring the noise of protest you made at his return. 

The driver could read your mind before you even said anything. 

“It’s okay, I’m right where I want to be. I’m not bothered by this. I want to be here for you. It’s okay, just let yourself be sick if you need to,” his words were soft and soothing, a comforting balm to the worries that screamed in your mind. 

After that, you simply gave in to the reservations in your mind. You let him hold you as you threw up, as you shivered against him, sweating through the minor fever you had. He didn’t blink once. Never acted grossed out. Never tapped out. 

He was just there. Solid, secure, present. 

You wondered every once in a while why you had ever thought to deprive yourself of this. It wasn’t even about the money, or the private rooms, or the new fancy doctors who seemed like they would move heaven and earth to get you healthy again. 

It was just him. The feeling of complete relaxation that overcame you when he smiled at you, reassuring and confident that everything would work out. His presence beside you in bed. The smell of him that lingered on the sheets even when he had to go into Woking for a meeting. 

You never let yourself linger on the feeling for too long. You knew it wouldn’t do you much good to go down that rabbit hole. 

But sometimes, in the middle of the night when you shifted over in bed and felt the way that Lando’s body followed you even in sleep…you allowed yourself to feel the bitter sting of regret. 

Because even that was a welcome feeling. After all, how would you truly appreciate all that you had come to gain in your life if you were unwilling to accept what it felt like to lose all of it? 

You allowed yourself to accept that while you had regrets, that the break had given you the opportunity to realise how truly special your life was. How grateful you were for the people within it. 

It’s August seventh, the night before your second round of chemotherapy. You and Lando ate dinner outside on the patio, the setting sun basking over the two of you and keeping you both warm as you ate. 

You noticed the fact that Lando was acting a little shifty the whole dinner. He’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking, just quick glances up to you. He poked around his food, elongating the meal when usually he would be the first person to finish. 

It sets you on edge, making you almost nauseous with worry. Panic surges within you without restraint like a wildfire, and you struggle to get even a few bites of food down. 

Was he leaving? 

Did he regret all of it? 

Is this it? 

You’re just opening your mouth to say something when you hear the gate to the garden rattling, and the sound of hushed whispers. 

Lando is out of his seat like a shot, a huge grin on his face. 

You’re still panicked, sure, but now you’re equally confused by what is going on. 

“Surprise!” He announces as friends pour into the lawn. Max and Pietra lead the charge, followed by Kayla and Isla, your friend Ava, Lando’s friends Tom and Ed and Harris, your friend Hannah, closely followed by Oscar and Lily. 

Suddenly it all made sense. 

Eating in the garden. You were right in the middle of chemotherapy weeks, so you couldn’t be around people unless it was outside to be careful about your immune system. 

Lando acting suspicious. He had always been horrible at keeping things secret. 

What you still didn’t understand though, was why they were all here. 

“What’s going on?” You laughed, finally beginning to relax as you stood and clasped your hands together. They all seemed to scatter in front of you, equally wide grins on their faces. They had bags with them, all whispering to each other with too big grins and sharp giggles. 

“It’s a talent show!” Max announced, and you broke off into laughter so hard it made your stomach begin to ache. 

Lando dragged your chair to the edge of the patio before running out into the chaos of everyone. 

Max and Pietra did a skit about a ridiculous prank you and Lando had pulled on him back when the two of them were still karting together. 

Kayla juggled oranges, except for the fact that she kept dropping them and having to start over. You struggled to compose yourself as sticky orange juice slid down her forearms. 

Isla sang while Ava performed an interpretive dance. 

Tom did a magic trick with help from his assistant Ed, shuffling cards around and pulling a coin out from behind Lando’s ear before promptly fumbling and dropping it. 

Hannah and Harris brought their violin and trombone, respectively, and performed a dramatic rendition of the Jaws theme song. 

But the absolute best act of the night was Oscar and Lily. 

Lily had been one of the first people you had called after Lando had come to see you. The two of you had been friends before Oscar and Lando were ever even teammates. You had both grown up in similar social circles, never exactly meeting but rather circling around one another. You didn’t know each other, but you knew of one another. 

When Lily had begun dating Oscar, a mutual friend introduced the two of you, figuring that there was a common connection in your respective partners. The two of you got on like bandits right from the start. 

You were more extroverted than she was, but both of you were smart as a whip. She studied engineering whilst you focused on statistics, but it sparked some fierce debate on different mathematical theories that overlapped. 

The two of you could be seen in the paddock together sometimes, when both of you made it out to a race. You could make Lily laugh like no other, and she was quick to help you with your fashion choices. 

But that had all changed when you’d broken up with Lando. You went silent, severing every single connection that had tied you to the racing community. That meant Lily. 

It was more collateral damage than a conscious choice to cut her out. If she knew, she would tell Oscar. And Oscar would tell Lando. And you couldn’t have that, it was everything you were trying to avoid. 

You’d called Lily, regret dripping from your voice as you explained. When you finished, you sat there waiting with baited breath. Would she be angry? 

You tried to put yourself into her shoes, but you had no clue how you would have felt. You forced yourself to understand that she might very well be mad, and you’d need to be okay with that. 

But you seemed to forget how compassionate she could be, and it wasn’t anger but concern that you were met with. You’d sagged with relief into the couch when she promised you over the phone that she didn’t hate you over your unexplained disappearance.

If anything, she’d been more concerned than angry. You weren’t the type to do something like that, and it had worried her more than anything. 

Seeing her in Lando’s backyard brings tears of relief to your eyes. You see her falter as she makes her way toward you, likely because you were supposed to be distanced from them. 

But you didn’t care one bit as you skipped down the steps and wrapped your arms around her tightly. Your chest stuttered with the effort not to cry, especially when you felt her tuck her head into your neck. 

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you felt her squeeze you just a bit tighter. 

“God, you have no idea,” she murmured softly in response, and you just allowed yourself to enjoy the moment for a beat before Oscar’s head popped up in your peripheral vision. 

“Uh…I think Lando is having an aneurysm,” he chuckled nervously, and you rolled your eyes as you pulled back, giving Lily’s arms one last squeeze before you walked carefully back to your boyfriend. Lando tucked you into his side and led you safely back to the patio, away from where all your friends were sitting on the lawn a safe distance away. 

Oscar and Lily’s act was easily the best, if for no other reason than it was so different to their usual composure. 

The two of them performed slam poetry, line after line about you and Lando, racing cars and daisy chains and paddock chaos. 

You laughed so hard there were tears streaming down your cheeks. You gripped Lando’s arm with enough force to bruise, trying and failing to steady yourself. 

All he did was watch you with a fond gaze, more focused on your reaction than the hilarious scene in front of him. 

“This is the best thing ever,” you wheezed, completely and totally amused. 

His whole world had narrowed though, focused intensely on the way your eyes creased at the edges with every smile, at the sound of your laugh, the lift of your cheeks when you smiled. The only thing that mattered to him in that moment was your happiness. 

“Yeah, it is,” he replied softly. 

He wasn’t talking about the talent show. 

It was later that night when Lando realised that something wasn’t quite right. 

You’d had so much fun with your friends, chatting for a good long while as the sun set. Eventually, they all bid you two goodbye and left back to their own homes, and Lando had brought you inside. 

The two of you got ready for bed in tandem, but you were quieter than usual. You brushed your teeth without playing music, showered more quickly than you usually did. 

You didn’t meet his gaze in the mirror as you applied your moisturizer and brushed your hair. 

After you slid your pyjamas on, you sat down on the edge of the bed. You were facing the window, staring out at the night sky wordlessly. 

Lando had just pulled on a pair of sweats before he walked over to where you were. Instead of sitting beside you, he crouched down in front of you. Your legs parted to allow him to come right to the edge of the mattress, looking up at you. 

There were tears shining in your eyes, and he brought a hand up to catch one of them as it rolled down your cheek. 

You leaned into his hand with reckless abandon, as though you were drunk on the feeling of him touching you. 

“Talk to me,” he murmured as his eyes darted around your face, his expression pinched with worry. He didn’t understand why you were upset.��

“It’s nothing,” you forced out, but he just shook his head. His hand still laid on your cheek, and you brought your own up to cover his fingers with your own. The breath you let out was sharp and jagged, filled with the echo of grief. 

“It’s not nothing to me,” he replied, his words sure. “Not if you’re upset.” 

You took a long breath in, but it still felt shallow. Another tear slipped down your cheek, and you closed your eyes, almost as though you couldn’t face him when you told him the truth. When you spoke, your voice was barely audible. 

“At dinner tonight, you were acting so weird,” you pointed out, shrugging lightly. “I thought…well I thought maybe you were having regrets. Or working up the courage to tell me you were leaving. That it was too much for you, too hard.” 

“I thought you were going to leave,” your voice cracked over the last word, and when you opened your eyes you could see the pain in Lando’s eyes. 

“You thought I was going to leave?” He asked, his voice soft and unsure. You looked away quickly, dislodging his hand from your cheek. It fell to your lap, where he gripped your thigh tightly. As though he couldn’t bear to be separated from you. 

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I know this is hard…that it’s a lot more complicated now than it once was. We’re young, and you’re at the peak of your career. I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t do it anymore,” you admitted. 

You spoke nothing but the truth, and yet it still felt like cracking your chest open to finally say the words. To put weight behind the stark reality that you had accepted this love, but you could still lose it in a moment's notice. 

The look on Lando’s face is wrapped in devastation. He finally moved, standing up and sitting down on the bed as he pulled you into his lap. You allow yourself to fall into him, to be wrapped in his arms and the security that they provided. 

It was a terrifying thing, to be vulnerable. There is no safety in love because the very act of loving, at its core, is to be vulnerable. You must open yourself, again and again. Even when it’s painful or messy or complicated. 

To accept that in order to love someone fully, you have to let them see the parts of you that you consider to be horrifying or ugly or unloveable. 

But in some ways, it’s more terrifying to realise that someone can love those parts of you. Because it makes you question everything you once knew about yourself. 

If someone loved even the worst parts of you, did that mean that you could love them as well?

“I’m here,” Lando murmured, holding you tightly, like he was holding the fragmented pieces of your heart together. He sat there and helped you pick up the pieces of something you broke, providing you with the sense of bravery that you needed to be open and honest with yourself. 

“I’m not going anywhere Daisy, I promise you. I love you.” 

Every part of you but one screams that you shouldn’t believe him. To push him away, to protect yourself from the possibility of being hurt. 

Instead, your heart leans into him, repeating what he says over and over again in your mind until you begin to truly believe him. 

“I love you,” you replied softly as you allowed yourself the respite to relax into him. 

The entirety of Lando’s summer break is the English sun, lazy mornings, and you. 

Your chemotherapy schedule had you in for a session on August 1st, 8th, and 15th before giving you three weeks off. 

Cisca and Lando were there to get everything organized, Max traipsing behind them in the background with all the organization of a toddler on their first day of school. He was less helpful and more there for moral support, but everyone played their part. 

You couldn’t travel in between your active chemotherapy sessions, but Lando would sometimes pull out the Audi, which he ended up just buying, and help you into the car. Then, he’d slip into the driver's seat and just drive, careful and purposeless. 

He let you control the music, and the two of you just drove and talked about everything and nothing all at once. Neither of you shied away from talking about the breakup, but both of you understood that you’d moved past it. It was just as much a part of you as the last eight years of loving one another had been. 

Lando would reach over the center console to take your hand in his, pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of it before placing it in your lap. His thumb would brush over your knuckles soothingly, and you’d allow your head to loll back against the seat as you drank in the setting sun. 

The chemotherapy was intense, but all of the doctors make it clear to Lando that you’re handling it extremely well. He’s there for every single appointment, every single second spent in the hospital, endlessly devoted. 

You lay in bed one night, running your fingertips softly over his face. The slope of his forehead, the curve of his cheeks, the line of his jaw. You rake your fingers through curls, scratching at the base of his skull as he preens into your fingertips. 

You kiss every inch of his face, trying to show him your appreciation and gratitude in a way that words cannot provide. 

He kisses you back like he’s a man dying and you’re the oxygen he needs to breathe. Like the world could crumble tomorrow and the only place he would want to be is right here. 

He lingers beside you, running his hands along the lines of your body as if he needs the reminder that you’re real. You let him, and in turn you press your hands or head against his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart. 

When you wake up in the darkness of night with a start, your mind lingering on whatever unimaginable nightmare it’s chosen for that night, it’s Lando who pulls you back into bed. He curls himself around you like he’d protect you from the whole world if he could. 

Like you were the warmth in his favorite memories, like all his thoughts were made to be aligned with your desires. 

When you finish your last chemotherapy session for this round in the middle of August, he whispers into your ear with a breath that tickles you gently. 

“Let me take you somewhere,” he murmurs, and you pull back to see if he’s serious. 

His eyes stole all the protests that threatened to tumble out of your mouth. All the complications that ran through your mind were interrupted by the gravity in his gaze. You felt yourself running through the forest of his eyes, the kind of eyes that disposed you to whatever endeavor he had planned. 

“Okay,” you reply, acceptance and love and something too sharp and warm to name. 

It’s the weekend before he has to go back to work, and he arranged everything for the two of you. 

Lando Norris wasn’t exactly known for being the best person to plan ahead, exactly, but for you there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do. 

The flight is private, and while the plane feels like a ghost town it’s perfect for you while your immune system recovers. You’re bustled right into one of his cars when you land in Monaco, and he reaches for your hand before he even bothers to turn the car on. 

His apartment is just like you remember it - large windows, big open space, thick marble countertops. It oozes wealth, but somehow at the same time it feels lived in. 

There’s still cans of Monster in the kitchen, and helmets that sit on the bookshelves next to your romance novels. There’s still candles on the tabletops that you had bought, still photographs of the two of you on the wall. 

It almost feels like a relic of the past, to a previous life that the two of you had shared together. You were the same people, but somehow everything was completely different now. 

You walked toward the windows of his apartment, looking out at the street below you, at the water further out. He follows you, standing just a few paces behind you. 

“I’ve only been here a few times since…” he trails off, not bothering to name it. You turn back toward him, nodding in understanding even if you don’t really get it. 

He said the same thing about his flat in London. 

The thought tugs at the back of your mind, and you decide to confront it. 

“Why?” You questioned as he stepped into line with you, staring straight ahead out of the window before you two. 

“I know that they’re technically my spaces, but it felt wrong to be in them without you. Just felt like there was something missing…something I couldn’t ever seem to replace,” he admitted to you, and you turned to look at him more fully. 

He played with his hands like he always did when he was nervous, and if it wasn’t so heartbreaking, you would find it painfully endearing. 

You don’t mention the fact that he had spent plenty of time in those two places without you. 

All you do is reach for his hand, threading your fingers in his. 

You don’t say sorry, not exactly. 

But you squeezed his hand three times, and watched as he let out a deep sigh. Like a breath he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding onto. 

“I’m here,” you said simply as you reached up to cup his face in your hands, pressing a kiss to his jaw. His fingers curl into the material of his hoodie that you’re wearing. And for just a moment, it feels as though the last bit of balance has been restored in your relationship. 

You spend the weekend with him basking in the sun, out on the water, eating fresh fruit and ogling him in a swimsuit. 

And when he looks at you with a smile, his skin bronzed in the sun, everything surrounding you feels a lot like peace.

(Taglist: @leclercdream @henna006 @nickie-amore @hescrush @frankiejo04 @azuramicah @koalalafications @lavande3 @isar8tsyyy )

[gatsby-20]

THE LOCKER NEXT TO HIS PT1 | LN4

an: the forth installment! i had a lot of fun writing this one as you can tell it is much longer than all the other ones, this one i am holding very dear to my chest and would die for this version of lando, following this one is med school!isack, i hope you enjoy this installment! i have to post them in two parts because its too long lmao

wc: 17.2k (both parts together)

warnings: mentions of death & trauma

summary: lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.

PART TWO uniformed hearts masterlist

LANDO HADN'T MEANT TO STAY IN THAT FLAT MORE THAN SIX MONTHS. A stopgap, that’s what he’d called it. Just somewhere cheap, close to the station, until something better came along. That was two years ago.

Now, the walls still had damp blooming quietly up the corners, the boiler made a wheezing noise every time someone flushed the loo, and someone, probably Isack, had blu-tacked a page of anatomy revision notes to the fridge like it belonged there. But it was cheap. And close to work. And, in a way he didn’t often admit, just familiar enough to feel like home.

He shared it with two others. Franco, a paramedic who was mostly never around and staying at his girlfriend’s place, and Isack, a med student who never spoke above a whisper and survived almost exclusively on rice. Lando saw more of their laundry than their faces.

The place smelt faintly of washing powder and leftover curry. The living room rug was half-singed from a failed candle experiment last winter. Still, at the end of a long shift, it was warm. And sometimes that was enough.

This morning, he was already late.

He jammed a half-eaten cereal bar into his mouth, slung his fleece over one shoulder, and locked the flat behind him with the usual three-jiggle twist it took to get the key to behave. The sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet, that strange hour when the world felt like it belonged to delivery vans and joggers and no one else.

The station was only ten minutes away. Twelve, if he stopped to grab a tea.

He didn’t.

Inside, the usual morning buzz was just beginning, chairs scraping, the telly droning low in the corner, Zak already sighing like the day had personally offended him.

Lando was halfway through pulling off his jacket when he saw her.

Standing in the kitchen, back turned, sleeves rolled up, one hand on the kettle and the other flicking through a file. Hair up. Posture that said she wasn’t just passing through.

He paused, briefly, just taking her in. She wasn’t familiar. And he’d have remembered.

Not firefighter. Not one of the council types either. Too practical.

New.

He didn’t say anything straight away. Just stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame, casual as anything.

She noticed him. Didn’t look up. Just said, “If you’re here to ask when breakfast’s ready, you’ll be disappointed.”

Lando blinked. Then smiled, slow. “Right. So no full English then?”

“Not unless you brought your own pan. And cleaned it first.”

He chuckled, stepped further in. “Didn’t realise we’d hired a chef.”

“We didn’t,” she said, glancing up now. Her eyes were sharp. “I’m maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” he echoed. “You fix the boiler or the printer?”

“Neither. I answer phones, do inventory, chase you lot for forms you forget to fill out.”

“Ah,” he said, mock grin. “The real power behind the throne.”

She raised a brow. “Something like that.”

He offered a hand, out of habit. “Lando.”

She glanced at it, then shook it once, quick and professional. “I know.”

That caught him off guard. “You do?”

“You’re the one who broke the kitchen chair last week, left half a Kinder in the fridge with a post-it that said ‘mine’, and wrote your own name on the rota in capital letters. Twice.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Alright. Bit of a fan, are you?”

“Not even slightly.”

Her tone was deadpan, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, more the memory of one.

Lando tilted his head, watching her. “Well. If you’re going to be making notes on me, at least let me buy you a coffee first.”

She didn’t roll her eyes exactly, but the look she gave him was somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Do you flirt with everyone this early in the morning, or am I just the lucky one?”

He grinned, crooked. “Only the ones who remember the Kinder.”

That earned him nothing but the click of a cupboard door and the soft clatter of mugs being rearranged.

Still, as he turned to leave, she said, almost offhand, “Zak wants you to do a PPE check. Form’s on your locker.”

He glanced back. “You always this charming, or just for me?”

She didn’t look up this time. Just stirred her tea and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her voice had softened by a degree. And Lando, who had been through enough hell to know the difference between cold and careful, he just smiled to himself and walked away.

Lando grinned all the way down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if it was the tea fumes or the new girl’s deadpan delivery, but something about the whole exchange left him in a better mood than he’d started in.

He found Oscar in the mess room, hunched over a bowl of cereal like it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a slight sway to the way he was sitting, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando said, dropping into the chair opposite.

Oscar grunted.

“Alright, Eeyore. You look like you’ve been up all night getting emotionally waterboarded.”

“I have been up all night,” Oscar muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Baby won’t settle unless she’s lying on me, and at some point I passed out with half a dummy stuck to my cheek.”

Lando winced. “Fatherhood’s so hot.”

Oscar gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk. Then went back to his cereal.

Lando leaned back in his chair. “Met the new girl yet?”

“What new girl?”

“Maintenance. Zak’s latest hire. Bit of an enigma. Possibly my soulmate.”

Oscar blinked. “You’ve known her five minutes.”

“Yeah, and I’ve grown emotionally in all of them.” He stood, gesturing with his mug. “Come on.”

Oscar stared at him, unmoving.

Lando sighed. “This is what happens when you don’t talk to adults. You forget how to do normal social things. Get up. This is your reintroduction to society.”

Oscar groaned, but stood anyway, carrying his cereal bowl with the slow resignation of a man who knew he wasn’t winning this.

Upstairs, the kitchen was still warm. A different kind of quiet now, more settled. She was sorting through a delivery box on the counter, frowning down at a set of mugs that looked suspiciously like they belonged in someone’s nan’s attic.

Lando leaned casually in the doorway, Oscar lurking just behind him.

She glanced up, caught them both staring, and narrowed her eyes. “Why am I being looked at like I’m on trial?”

Oscar, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry just… there’s usually no women here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right. First time seeing one?”

Oscar flushed slightly. “No. I just meant…”

“Mm.” She looked him up and down, then caught the glint of the ring on his left hand. “So it’s not your first time. That’s a relief. What’s Lando’s excuse?”

Lando, who was sipping from his mug just to appear casual, nearly choked. “I don’t need an excuse,” he said, grinning. “I’m a very supportive colleague. Just thought you two should meet. Oscar’s our resident domestic deity. Got a newborn and a soft spot for dad jokes.”

“Impressive,” she said, with a faint smile. Then to Oscar, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said, still a bit thrown. “She’s small. And loud. But I love her.”

That made her laugh, just a little. The sort of sound that caught Lando more than he’d admit. Light and fleeting, like something she didn’t let out often.

She turned back to the mugs, pulling one out with a small frown. “These are horrible.”

Oscar peered at them. “They look like they came from a charity shop in 1983.”

“They did,” she muttered, checking the box label. “Brilliant.”

Lando leaned in. “You know, we’ve got some pristine ones in the crew room. Untouched. We only use the chipped ones out of loyalty.”

She gave him a look. “You mean laziness.”

He shrugged. “Tomato, tomato.”

Oscar, sensing he was no longer needed, backed away slowly like a man escaping a wild animal encounter. “Right, I’m going to pretend I’m still on leave.”

“You’re literally in uniform,” Lando called after him.

Oscar held up his cereal bowl in vague farewell and disappeared down the hall.

That left Lando in the doorway again, her still half-focused on unpacking, but not quite not-looking at him.

He tapped the side of his mug with one finger. “So. No name badge. I’m still operating on mystery-girl settings.”

She didn’t look up. “That’s intentional.”

“Fair. Adds to the intrigue.”

“I think your definition of intrigue is ‘mild inconvenience’.”

He grinned. “Only when it comes with sarcasm and a file of health and safety violations.”

She glanced at him then, properly. The sort of glance that said she was still deciding what to make of him. Not in a rude way. Just measured.

“I’m here to work,” she said, tone light but firm. “Not get flirted with by every firefighter who forgets how to work a printer.”

Lando placed his mug down on the counter and gave her a small, mock-serious nod. “Right. I’ll keep it professional, then. Strictly toner cartridges and awkward eye contact.”

She snorted. “Please don’t make eye contact when discussing toner. That feels weirdly intimate.”

Lando laughed. “Alright. No eye contact. But I reserve the right to leave mysterious Post-it notes.”

She raised a brow. “You leave mysterious Kinders. Not the same.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty.”

The radio crackled to life again in the background, some caller-in show about potholes, typically British. She turned back to the box and he lingered for a moment longer, just watching the way she worked. Efficient. Sharp. Like someone who’d been underestimated enough to turn it into armour.

Eventually, he straightened. “Well. Welcome to the circus.”

She didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

He paused just long enough to hear her say it.

Then headed back down the hall, still grinning, like he’d just been handed a puzzle he wouldn’t mind taking his time figuring out.

She’d been here a week. And no one had noticed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how she’d planned it.

There was a certain freedom in invisibility, no questions, no expectations, just her and the never-ending list of things that needed restocking, reordering, or politely emailing the council about. The station ticked along with its own rhythm, and she slotted herself into the gaps. Fixed the printer. Made the tea. Carried on with the quiet efficiency of someone trying very hard not to be part of the story.

And then Lando had walked into the kitchen with his ridiculous grin and his even more ridiculous face, and now well.

She’d been noticed.

Not just glanced at. Not just nodded to. Noticed. Clocked. Eyed in that way she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The way that said I see you, even if he didn’t know what he was looking at yet.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Well. She was. She just wasn’t sure she liked how she felt about it.

She turned back to the delivery box with unnecessary focus, tugging another mug out with a bit too much force. Her knuckles grazed the edge of the cardboard. She didn’t swear, not aloud, anyway.

The thing was, she hadn’t wanted to be here. At all.

After uni, she’d done what everyone told her to, took a gap year to "find herself", which mostly involved booking flights she couldn’t afford and having mild identity crises in hostels that smelt like socks. It was meant to help. Give her time. Clarity. A sense of direction.

It gave her a sunburn, two expired travel cards, and a vague dislike of anyone who said "manifest it" unironically.

So when she landed back home with no plan and even less money, her dad had said, kindly, firmly, with that look she knew better than to argue with, “You need to face reality.”

And reality, apparently, was a job at his fire station.

Maintenance, on paper. Odd jobs. Admin. Support. Nothing official. He’d even promised, hand on heart, that no one would know they were related.

And so far, he’d kept that promise.

They barely spoke on shift. Just passing nods and the occasional muttered “well done” when she managed to fix the kitchen tap with nothing but a spoon and a suspiciously old instruction manual.

Still. It was weird. Being there. Being her there.

The station had its own language, radio codes, nicknames, shorthand she hadn’t quite cracked yet. It smelled of gear bags and burnt toast and stale deodorant. The men were mostly decent, older, tired, still caught in the glory days of jokes from 2009. Some of the younger ones looked at her like she was either an intern or a misplaced delivery.

But none of them had really looked at her. Until this morning.

She rubbed the back of her wrist absent-mindedly, eyeing the last few mugs. The sound of Lando’s voice still lingered faintly in her head, bright, teasing, too quick for her to deflect without thinking.

She didn’t want to be flirted with. She didn’t want anyone to ask her name. She didn’t want to feel warm in the face just because some firefighter with annoyingly nice forearms and a crooked smile had noticed she existed.

She wanted to do her job. Get paid. Maybe disappear again in six months.

But now…

Now she’d been noticed.

She shoved the last mug onto the shelf, shut the cupboard a bit too firmly, and stood there for a second, palms flat on the counter.

Maybe he’d forget about her. Maybe it was just a one-off.

She opened her eyes and sighed.

It definitely wasn’t.

By midday, the station had settled into that familiar low hum, not quite quiet, but not buzzing either. She liked it best like this. Paperwork stacked into vaguely sensible piles, someone’s half-finished toast abandoned on a plate in the kitchen, and a dog-eared training manual lying face down on the sofa like it had given up on life.

She moved through the building with her usual rhythm, checked the rota board, confirmed the equipment delivery (which was, as always, three helmets short and labelled for a completely different station), replaced the loo roll in the women's locker room, even though she was still the only person using it.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. And she was good at it, the small, invisible things that made everything else tick along.

Around half three, she swung by her dad’s office.

The door was slightly ajar, as always, and the radio on his desk was turned low, some footie commentary murmuring away like background weather. He was hunched over a spreadsheet, glasses low on his nose, biro in mouth.

She knocked gently on the doorframe. “Delivery update. You’re not getting your flash hoods until Friday. And someone in logistics thinks we’re in Milton Keynes.”

Without looking up, he said, “Alright, princess.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “No.”

He looked up, blinked. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Yeah, well. Break it.”

He smiled, a little sheepish, a little smug. “Noted.”

She stepped inside, resting a hip against the edge of his desk. “Everything alright?”

He sighed. “Fine, mostly. Andrea’s chasing up the budget report. Something about overspending on vehicle maintenance.”

“Because the bloody ladder mechanism got stuck again and someone tried to fix it with WD-40 and optimism.”

He snorted. “God, you sound like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Didn’t realise it wasn’t.”

She smirked despite herself, then nodded toward the open personnel files beside him. “Anyone actually fill out their updated medical forms?”

“Two out of fifteen.”

She made a noise of vague despair. “And you wonder why I threaten them with brightly coloured spreadsheets.”

He chuckled. “You’re good at this, you know.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I want to be here.”

His expression shifted, just slightly. “I know.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just full of things they weren’t going to say.

Eventually she pushed off from the desk and nodded toward the hallway. “Alright. I’ve got to go and chase up the missing radio order.”

“Thanks, love.”

She froze. Gave him a very pointed look over her shoulder.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

She muttered something under her breath and stepped out into the corridor.

Only to walk straight into Lando.

He was leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, one foot propped up behind him like he’d been there long enough to get comfortable. He had that look on his face, the one people got when they knew something they shouldn’t.

“Princess, huh?”

Her whole body stilled. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow, far too pleased with himself. “Didn’t peg you for the royal sort.”

“Piss off.”

He stepped beside her, falling into step as she marched back down the corridor. “Do we curtsy now? Or is it more of a wave-from-the-balcony vibe?”

She didn’t look at him. “If you start humming God Save the King I will staple your rota to your forehead.”

Lando grinned. “Ooh, feisty. Bit of a Lady Catherine de Bourgh situation.”

She glared sideways at him. “You read Pride and Prejudice?”

“No. But I saw the film. The one with the pond scene.”

“Of course you did.”

They turned a corner. He was still going. “Alright, what about Duchess? Your Royal Highness? Madam?”

“You sound like you’re ordering off a weird menu.”

“Alright, alright. Something simpler. Love?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Babe?”

She stopped walking and gave him a look so withering it could’ve stripped paint.

He held his hands up. “Right, not babe. Got it. Bit strong.”

“Bit tragic.”

He smirked. “Fine. We’ll keep it simple. How about… Trouble?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me less than a month.”

“Exactly. And look how much damage you’ve done already.”

She shook her head and started walking again, refusing to let him see the way her mouth wanted to twitch.

He kept pace beside her, not saying anything now. Just humming. Badly.

Probably God Save the King.

She sighed.

This was going to be a long placement.

By the end of her second week at the station, she could walk the corridors without needing to look where she was going.

There was a comfort in routine, not the dramatic sort, not anything life-affirming, just the steady hum of predictability. Tom still started every morning with a groan and a tea he never finished. Andrea had taken to recounting the same three stories about her early days on shift, adding a new detail each time, like folklore. The back door stuck. The toaster was temperamental. The station dog, who technically didn’t exist, but wandered in most afternoons, had taken a liking to her boots.

She moved quietly through the days, doing her job well enough to be useful, not so well that anyone got ideas. Printouts, forms, stock requests, phone calls. The small things no one else remembered to do, until they weren’t done.

She liked being overlooked. There was peace in it.

Or there had been, until Lando started paying attention.

It began on Monday, in the kitchen, where he appeared beside her while she was fixing the drawer runners. He held out a custard cream like it was a rare offering.

“I’m not bribable,” she said, not looking up.

“Not even for the superior biscuit?”

She glanced at him, expression flat. “That’s not the superior biscuit. That’s the beige one people pretend to like.”

He looked scandalised. She ignored the smile curling behind his scowl.

By Tuesday, she’d learned to brace herself.

Oscar passed her in the hallway holding what looked like the contents of a nursery in both hands, a car seat, a onesie, a muslin cloth draped over his shoulder like a war flag.

“Do you know how babies’ arms work?” he asked, bleary-eyed.

She blinked. “Not really?”

He nodded. “Didn’t think so. They’re too bendy.” Then wandered off in the direction of the kit room, muttering something about elasticated nightmares.

On Wednesday, Lando caught her crouched under the printer with her hand up to the wrist in toner powder.

“You always fix everything?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Someone has to.”

There was a pause.

“You good at fixing people too?”

She did look up, then. Not long, just enough to catch something unfamiliar in his expression, something quieter, more honest than she’d expected.

“People are messier,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

He left her to the toner after that.

Thursday brought Oscar again, sat on the sofa in the mess room staring into a cup of tea like it wasn’t the correct colour.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I cried at a John Lewis advert this morning,” he said. “The penguin one. So lonely.”

She made him another tea, stronger this time, and sat beside him until he stopped sighing.

On Friday, she caught Lando standing in front of the noticeboard, staring at a tacked-up photo someone had left, a family barbeque, blurry and sunlit. His arms were folded, jaw tight. Still.

She almost said something. Almost.

But then he turned, saw her watching, and grinned like it had never happened.

Later, he called her handwriting weirdly attractive. She called him a walking HR risk. But the moment had stayed.

By Saturday, things had shifted.

She found a Post-it on the coffee tin.

Superior biscuit rankings:

Chocolate Hobnob

Bourbons

Rich Tea (if dunked properly)

Custard Creams (wrongly slandered)

Underneath, a line in smaller script: This list is legally binding. Debate at your own peril. — L.

She rolled her eyes. Smirked. Reached for a pen.

Chocolate Digestives or we riot. 

She didn’t sign it, but she knew he’d know.

On Sunday, Oscar appeared again, looking vaguely haunted.

“Why are you here?” she asked, eyeing the yoghurt on his jumper.

“I just needed to be near adults,” he said, deadpan. “I had a forty-minute conversation with a sock this morning.”

She made him coffee. He thanked her like she’d just administered CPR.

And just like that, another week passed.

She still didn’t have a nameplate on her door. Still hadn’t told anyone her dad ran the place. But the station had begun to feel less unfamiliar. Not home, not exactly. But somewhere in the region.

And Lando hadn’t stopped.

Still teased. Still turned up at inconvenient moments. Still leaned into conversations with that smirk like he was trying to distract her from something neither of them were ready to say.

But every so often, she caught him between expressions. When he thought no one was watching. And that was when she saw it, the quiet edge beneath the grin, the pause that lasted half a second too long.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.

Didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she’d noticed.

And it was becoming harder not to look.

It was nearly midnight by the time she reached the station. She hadn’t meant to come back  but somewhere around mile three of a run she didn’t particularly want to be on, she’d realised she’d left her charger under the printer desk. Again.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that only settled after eleven, not empty, just still. Streetlights hummed above. The air smelled faintly like takeaway and damp concrete.

She let herself in through the back door, not expecting anyone to be around.

The station at night was different. Softer. The fluorescent glare had given way to low amber bulbs in the corridors. The mess room telly was muted, casting a flickering glow over abandoned mugs and someone’s half-finished Sudoku. No shouting. No alarms. Just the odd creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of the boiler cupboard.

She padded towards the office, tugging her hoodie down over her hands. Her legs ached pleasantly, the ache that came from moving just to stop your brain spinning.

She was halfway through reaching under the desk when she heard it, the clink of a spoon against a mug, followed by a low, familiar voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the mystery admin gremlin.”

She looked up.

Lando was in the kitchen, sleeves of his fleece rolled to the elbows, tea in hand, leaning against the counter like he lived there. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d just come back from a call and jumped through a quick shower. There was a streak of something, ash, maybe, along the hem of his shirt. He looked comfortable. Tired in a way that suited him.

“I’m not a gremlin,” she said, standing upright, her hoodie sticking slightly to her arms with sweat. “I came to get my charger.”

“Midnight charger rescue mission?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Very high stakes.”

“Not all of us have three spare at home.”

He took a sip of his tea. “And here I was thinking you just couldn’t stay away.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned.

She sighed and walked past him into the kitchen, opening the cupboard mostly to avoid his face. “Aren’t you on night shift?”

“Mm. Just me, for now. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be.”

She nodded, pulling a glass down from the shelf.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here at this hour,” he added, watching her with quiet curiosity. “Out for a jog?”

“Run,” she corrected. “Jogging implies I enjoyed it.”

He smiled around his mug. “You always run late at night?”

“Helps clear my head.”

He nodded, slowly, like he understood.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just full.

She poured herself some water from the tap, the metal clinking gently as she set the glass down.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He didn’t push. Just sipped his tea again, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“You always here this late?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

“Not always. Just got back from a call.” He shrugged. “Small fire. Washing machine went rogue.”

She smirked faintly. “Those bloody washing machines. Menace to society.”

He laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. Once helped my friend Max who got his cat stuck in a washing machine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t ask.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet settling between them like an old jumper. Comfortable. A little frayed.

She leaned back against the counter. “Always the joker when you’re tired, huh?”

“I always joke,” he said simply. Then added, “Tired just makes it more dangerous.”

She looked at him then, really looked. The easy grin, the slouched shoulders, the way his fingers wrapped around the mug like he didn’t quite trust his hands to be still otherwise.

And there it was again. That flicker. That pause, right before he spoke. Like something inside him was louder than the words he let out.

“You alright?” she asked, the question returned, quieter this time.

He looked up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just been a long shift. You know how it is.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

He tapped the rim of his mug once, twice, then glanced over. “You ever feel like you’re running just to stop your head catching up with you?”

She looked at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “Yeah. Me too.”

That was all. Nothing more than that. But it sat between them, heavier than silence.

She finished her water, set the glass down gently.

“Well,” she said, already moving toward the door, “I’ve got my charger now. Gremlin duties complete.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Night, princess.”

She paused mid-step. Turned slowly. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “What was it? Force of habit.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “Sleep well, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, hoodie sleeves shoved down to her knuckles, face warm in a way she refused to examine.

Behind her, the door creaked shut. The corridor hummed.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be invisible after all.

Lando waited until he heard the back door click shut before moving.

The corridor hummed faintly behind him, that low, electric buzz that stations all seemed to have at night, like the walls were holding their breath.

Lando set his mug down in the sink, rinsed it, left it to dry on the draining board with the others that no one ever put away. His hands were still damp when he pressed the button for the gym lights.

They flickered once. Came on low.

It wasn’t much of a gym, just an old weight bench, a knackered treadmill, and a punching bag that swayed too much when the heating kicked in. But it did the job. Kept the edges off. Let him move until his brain shut up.

He slipped off his fleece, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and started with push-ups. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Repetition.

Down. Breathe. Up.

Again.

The floor was cold beneath his palms. The air tasted faintly of rubber matting and leftover adrenaline.

He kept going.

Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

It wasn’t about numbers. Wasn’t about anything, really, just the act of it. The quiet. The ache. The way it drowned everything else out.

When his shoulders started to burn, he switched. Pull-ups, then bag work. Let his knuckles sting. Let the punchbag sway too far and hit him back. Maybe he deserved it.

After a while, he didn’t count.

He stopped when his arms wouldn’t quite lift the way he asked them to.

The sweat cooled quick. It always did in here. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed his fleece, still warm from before, and walked back into the corridor like nothing had happened.

Except something had.

It always did, when she was around.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. She was sharp, sure. Funny, in that dry, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. But it wasn’t just that.

It was how she looked at him sometimes. Like she hadn’t decided yet if she trusted him. Like she could see the cracks before he even made them obvious.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He wandered back into the mess room, lights still low. The telly was off now. Someone had left an empty tea bag on the side, like a promise they’d come back and clean it up later. They wouldn’t.

He sat for a minute. Let the quiet settle. Tried to ignore the way his chest still hadn’t caught up with his breath.

Then he stood. Walked to the noticeboard.

The photo was still there.

It always surprised him how no one seemed to mention it. Like it had just become part of the wall, pinned between rotas and fire safety posters and that one printout about mental health support that no one had taken seriously since 2014.

It was a family photo. Slightly curled at the corners. Dad, mum, two boys, one lanky, older, arms folded like he thought he was hard. The other younger, round-cheeked, grinning with the sort of abandon you only ever saw in children.

He didn’t know who they were. Had never asked. Probably someone’s cousin’s cousin, a story passed along the chain and forgotten.

But every time he looked at it, his stomach twisted.

Tonight, it didn’t twist. Tonight, it dropped.

He stared at it for too long. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just breathed.

And there it was, the flicker. The corner of memory he spent every day trying not to walk past. The echo of a voice. A smell he couldn’t quite name.

He reached out.

Fingers didn’t touch the photo. Just hovered.

Then the alarm went.

That shrill, familiar sound that sliced through everything.

Lando flinched.

He grabbed his fleece, shrugged it on, and ran.

No time to think.

Just the job.

Just keep moving.

It was Monday, which meant the station was technically quieter, fewer calls, fewer people, fewer distractions. But admin didn’t stop just, it kept coming, and her dad had casually dropped a teetering stack of paperwork on her desk that morning with a cheerful, “No rush, but yesterday.”

So she’d parked herself in the corner office, the one with the drafty window and the chair that wheezed when you leaned too far back, and resigned herself to a day of forms, phone calls, and sighing.

She was halfway through reformatting a log sheet when she heard the unmistakable squeak of a wheeled chair being dragged down the corridor.

Not rolled.

Dragged.

She didn’t even look up. “If you break that, you’re paying for it.”

The noise stopped in the doorway.

“I’ll have you know this is a tactical relocation,” came Lando’s voice, far too pleased with himself.

She looked up, unimpressed. He stood there with a chair from the meeting room, one hand still gripping the backrest like he might ride it into battle.

“You’re not on shift,” she said.

He shrugged. “Franco’s got his girlfriend round and Isack’s studying for some terrifying anatomy thing. He offered to show me the flashcards. I ran.”

“And you thought this was the better option?”

He rolled the chair in beside her desk, flopped into it like a bored teenager, and stretched his legs out with a dramatic sigh. “I figured you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Just kept typing.

He watched her for a bit, not in a creepy way, just with the sort of idle curiosity that came from having nothing else to do and nowhere else to be.

“So,” he said eventually, “what’s the most thrilling form on your desk today?”

“Incident review,” she said. “From two weeks ago.”

“Scandalous.”

“I can feel your sarcasm from here.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, spinning slowly in the chair, “this room could use a bit more sparkle.”

She side-eyed him. “You’re not sparkle. You’re disruption.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t one.”

But she didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t move.

She kept working, and he kept gently spinning in that way people do when they’re fighting the urge to fidget. After a while, she slid a stack of blank forms across the desk.

“If you’re going to loiter, make yourself useful.”

He blinked at them. “Am I being put to work?”

“You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s enough for me.”

He picked one up and held it like it might bite. “You know this is against the Geneva Convention.”

“Welcome to admin,” she said, dry.

They fell into an odd rhythm. She typed, answered the occasional radio call, scribbled notes. He asked questions with the sincerity of someone who had never willingly filled out a form in his life.

Somewhere around the fourth page, she glanced over at him properly. Really looked.

He was slouched, legs long in front of him, head tilted back just slightly as he read a line for the third time. There were faint shadows under his eye, darker than usual. His jaw was less tight, somehow, like he’d run out of energy to hold it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in ages,” she said, casually.

He looked up. Smirked. “I’m good.”

She frowned.

He looked away, back at the form, pen twirling between his fingers.

The thing was, he said it like a reflex. Not like it was true.

She didn’t press. Just went back to her own work.

Time slipped on, slow and quiet, the clock ticking somewhere behind them. The room was warm, soft with sunlight filtering through the blinds.

At some point, she reached for the stapler. When she glanced up again, he’d gone still.

Proper still.

Head tilted against the back of the chair, mouth slightly open, pen still in his hand, but asleep.

Deep, unbothered sleep.

She stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to be annoyed or concerned.

Then she sighed. Rolled her chair back. Opened the drawer, pulled out an old fleece someone had left behind, and draped it gently across his chest.

He didn’t stir.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

But she didn’t wake him.

Not yet.

Hours went by and he didn’t move once.

She checked twice, just to be sure, once by glancing over the top of her monitor, and again by quietly sliding her chair back and standing, careful not to disturb the creaky floorboard by the heater.

Still out cold. Head tilted slightly to one side now, jaw slack with sleep, hand resting lightly on the folder he hadn’t managed to finish. 

She left it there.

It was the most still she’d seen him since arriving at the station. No smart remarks. No grin. Just quiet.

She sat back down and tried to work. Tried being the operative word.

Ten minutes later, the corridor outside creaked under the weight of heavier boots, and then—

“Ah, just the person I’m looking for.”

Max’s voice, authoritative and a bit too loud. She’d been introduced to him last week when he came back after a garage fire.

She stood quickly, holding a finger to her lips. “Shh. Please.”

Max blinked. Oscar, just behind him, squinted into the room.

Then both of them spotted Lando.

“Oh,” Max said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he asleep?”

She nodded. “He came in a couple of hours ago. Wasn’t on shift, just, turned up. Said he was bored.”

Oscar sighed. “Sounds about right.”

Max stepped a little closer, peering at Lando like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take a photo.

“He looks twelve like that,” he said.

“He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days,” she said quietly. “Just let him be.”

Oscar gave her a look. Not mocking. Just knowing.

Max nodded, stepping back again. “Right. I’ll be quick. I only needed him to sign off on a joint report from that garage fire. Insurance flagged something weird. It’s just a formality.”

“I’ll sort it,” she said without hesitation. “Leave it with me.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it signed and sent over first thing.”

Oscar was still watching her. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Max handed over the folder, gave her a grateful nod, and turned to go.

Oscar lingered for half a second.

“He probably doesn’t sleep, otherwise,” he said, soft.

Then he followed Max down the hall.

She stood there for a long moment after they’d gone.

Then turned back to Lando, still dead to the world in that chair that couldn’t have been comfortable, and whispered, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

But she didn’t wake him.

Instead, she pulled out a new form, clicked her pen, and quietly got to work.

Lando didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t mention the fact he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, slumped in a borrowed chair in the corner of her office like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t apologise. Didn’t make a joke about it. Just vanished.

She’d only stepped out for five minutes, a quick detour to her dad’s office to hand over a supply order and get cornered into a discussion about rota gaps.

When she came back, he was gone.

The chair had been returned to the meeting room. The admin folder he’d been working on was neatly stacked, signed and dated. Her pen capped. The desk tidied.

And on top, stuck at a slight angle, was a yellow Post-it note in familiar handwriting:

might steal your job — L

She smiled, helplessly. Rolled her eyes. Folded the note in half and slipped it into her notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

She’d just sat down again when Oscar appeared in the doorway, knocking gently against the frame like he wasn’t sure if she was mid-email or mid-breakdown.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

She looked up. “I haven’t broken anything. Yet.”

“Not here to scold. For once.”

He stepped inside, holding a bright pink envelope that had clearly been carried by someone under the age of ten, it was covered in butterfly stickers and glittery stars, and her name was written on the front in purple gel pen, all curls and extra hearts all over the place.

She blinked. “Should I be worried?”

Oscar grinned. “Aurelia’s birthday party. This weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound normal. “She’s turning…?”

“Nine,” he said. “Going on nineteen.”

She smiled. “Big deal, then.”

“Massive. There will be pizza, games, some kind of pinterest inspired cake situation I don’t fully understand. She made invitations herself. You’re on the guest list.”

He handed it over.

She took it carefully, trying not to dislodge the glitter.

Inside was a folded card covered in felt-tip doodles, unicorns, a suspiciously buff firefighter, and a massive ‘YOU’RE INVITED’ across the top. Inside, written in big letters with no regard for spacing:

dear fire girl,pls come to my birthday on saturday. there will be cake and silly games and my stepdad said you’re cool even tho you look serious all the time.also mum says you have very nice hair.love,Aurelia :)

She stared at it for a second, something warm catching in her throat.

“I’m not fire crew,” she said, not really to him. “I just do paperwork.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

There was something about the way he said it, like it was obvious. Like she didn’t need to prove anything.

“I’m not trying to crash anything,” she added quickly. “I know it’s a family thing.”

“And you’re part of that,” he said, simple as anything. “Like it or not.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak straight away. Just nodded, pressing her thumb against the edge of the envelope to keep her hands busy.

Oscar gave her a soft smile. “Don’t overthink it. Just show up. Eat some cake. Let a small child judge your dancing.”

“Terrifying,” she muttered.

“Welcome to the family.”

And with that, he wandered off down the corridor, humming something that might have been the Cha Cha Slide.

She sat there a little longer, staring at the card, glitter catching the light like it had something to prove.

Maybe this place was becoming something after all.

On Sunday, she’d spent far too long standing in front of her wardrobe.

It was just a kids’ birthday party. Not a job interview. Not a first date. Not anything that required this level of internal debate. And yet there she was, trying on her fourth outfit and wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard.

Eventually, she landed on something simple: a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cropped top that was just on the right side of casual, and an oversized cardigan that made her feel less exposed. Soft trainers instead of boots. A touch of lip balm. Nothing dramatic.

Still, when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognised herself. No station polo. No cargo trousers. No practical ponytail scraped back like she was heading into battle.

Just her.

She carried the small gift bag in both hands as she walked up the stairs to Oscar’s apartment. She could already hear the laughter from inside, music playing low, the sound of kids squealing in delight, someone shouting over everyone else. Warmth spilled out through the letterbox.

She paused at the door.

And stood there.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d been invited. Welcomed, even. But something about the sound of everyone already inside, the ease, the familiarity, made her hesitate.

She was the outsider, after all. The one with the clipboard. The one who wasn’t quite in the group, even if she was starting to circle the edges of it.

She was just reaching for the doorbell when a voice behind her said, “You planning on standing there all day, or?”

She turned.

Lando stood a few feet away, arms full of gift bags, three plastic ones stuffed with boxes, tissue paper, and what looked suspiciously like a giant inflatable unicorn. He was in jeans and a black hoodie, hair still slightly damp like he’d only just got out the shower. He looked stupidly relaxed.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.

He grinned. “Fashionably. Also, I had to stop at three different shops because apparently nine year olds don’t like books anymore unless they come with glitter slime.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of presents.”

“Got to maintain my title as favourite uncle, haven’t I?”

She smirked but didn’t reply.

He shifted the bags in his arms and looked at her properly then, the way her cardigan sleeves covered her hands, the way she was still angled slightly away from the door.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Just forgot how loud kids can be.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled, easy and warm.

“Well, lucky for you, I brought reinforcements.” He nodded toward one of the bags. “One of these is a karaoke microphone. Battery operated. No volume control. We’ll have them begging for bedtime by six.”

She laughed, quietly, but genuinely.

Then he noticed the gift bag in her hand. “Ooh. You got her something?”

“It’s just a little art kit,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Some pastels. Sketchbook. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed.”

He tilted his head. “You softie.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.

“She’s gonna love it,” he said, firmly. “She’s been drawing all over the walls at home. Oscar’s nearly wept.”

She smiled again. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Obviously,” he said. “How else am I supposed to win her eternal loyalty?”

“Bit competitive, aren’t you?”

“I don’t play to lose.”

He winked, then shifted the bags again and nudged the door open with his hip. “Come on, let’s make an entrance.”

They stepped inside together.

Warmth hit her like a wave, fairy lights strung up around the bannisters, balloons in chaotic clumps, the smell of party food and cake and sugar. Someone had put on a kids’ playlist. The room was full of colour and laughter and far too much glitter.

“Uncle LanLan!”

Aurelia came barrelling down the hallway like a tiny whirlwind, tutu bouncing, face painted with lopsided butterflies. She launched herself at Lando with absolutely no hesitation.

He caught her with ease, bags dropped in a heap at his feet, arms lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Hey, monster,” he said, grinning up at her. “Happy birthday!”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re late!”

“I brought offerings.”

“Are they sparkly?”

“The sparkliest.”

She squealed and clung tighter.

And she just stood there, watching.

Something about it, the way Lando held her, the way he laughed without holding back, the way Aurelia fit so perfectly against his shoulder, it pulled something strange and deep in her chest.

He was so good with her.

Natural. Effortless. Kind in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed.

He glanced sideways then, catching her watching, and gave her a small smile.

She looked away, suddenly shy.

Maybe he wasn’t all jokes after all.

The party unfolded in a swirl of noise and colour.

Aurelia ruled the lounge like a glitter covered queen, directing games with the authority of a small dictator and demanding cake before the candles were even lit. Oscar played referee with the vague desperation of a man outnumbered, while his wife laughed from the kitchen doorway, half-horrified, half-proud.

She kept mostly to the edges, helping carry plates, passing around napkins, ducking flying balloons. Not invisible, exactly. Just quietly present.

Then came gift time.

Aurelia sat cross legged in the middle of the floor, hair wild and face flushed with sugar, tearing into bags like her life depended on it. Lando sat beside her, grinning as she pulled out gift after gift with increasingly dramatic reactions.

When she got to her bag, the one with the pastels and sketchbook,  she paused. Slowed.

Lifted the tissue paper carefully.

And then beamed.

“OH,” she said loudly, holding the sketchbook aloft like it was a trophy. “THIS IS COOL. LOOK AT ALL THE COLOURS.”

She turned, without hesitation, and flung her arms around her.

For a second, she froze, not expecting it. Then returned the hug, awkward but warm.

Oscar celebrated from the kitchen. “We’re never going to have a clean wall again.”

His wife laughed. “Just let her draw on the windows this time.”

“I like the windows.”

“Then maybe don’t have a creative daughter.”

Aurelia was already flipping through the sketchbook, muttering about what to draw first.

Lando stood, brushing glitter off his jeans. “I’ll take it all up to your room,” he offered, scooping up the rest of her opened presents. “Keep the chaos contained.”

“Don’t touch the purple slime,” Aurelia warned. “It’s cursed.”

“Noted.”

He disappeared up the stairs with a wink in her direction, arms full.

The party swelled again, music, cake, someone trying to teach a dance move that looked vaguely illegal. She lost track of time for a bit, swept into the strange domestic warmth of it all.

But twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

And Lando didn’t come back.

She tried not to overthink it. Maybe he’d been cornered by a child with a puzzle. Maybe he was helping clean up. But then what if he wasn’t.

She slipped away from the noise, up the stairs, quiet.

Aurelia’s room was at the end of the hall. Door ajar.

She pushed it gently open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still and upright, staring at the chair in the corner.

Aurelia’s school uniform was draped over it, blazer, shirt, tights folded on the seat. Nothing dramatic. Just a chair with clothes. Ordinary.

But he was frozen.

Not in a relaxed sort of way. In a locked sort of way. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

She stepped in, careful not to startle him.

Then, slowly, lowered herself beside him, not too close. Just enough to be felt. Her hand came to rest lightly on his thigh, not firm, not pressing. Just there.

The reaction was instant.

He flinched, grabbed her wrist, not hard, not mean. Just automatic.

His eyes snapped to hers, wide. Then dropped to her hand. Realisation hit.

He let go immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

He ran a hand over his face, looked away.

“I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “I’m usually better than this.”

She let the silence breathe. Let him breathe.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He hesitated.

Then stood.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

She didn’t try to stop him. Just watched him walk to the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

As he reached for the door, she said, “Wanna go get ice cream?”

He turned.

She shrugged, casual. “I’m craving gelato. Figured you looked like someone who doesn’t know how to say no to pistachio.”

He stared at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

Then his mouth twitched, just a little.

And he said, “Yeah. Actually. Yeah, alright.”

They made their way downstairs together, the party still in full swing. Someone had started a conga line. The cake had reached its messy, dismantled stage. Aurelia was attempting to teach Andrea how to floss and was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

She hovered in the doorway, unsure how to make an exit without interrupting.

Lando didn’t seem to have that issue.

He clapped Oscar gently on the shoulder. “We’re off.”

Oscar turned, eyebrows raised. “Both of you?”

“Giving her a lift,” Lando said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar looked between them, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something almost knowing.

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Well. Drive safe.”

She offered a little wave to Aurelia, who was too busy pelting someone with wrapping paper to notice. Oscar’s wife mouthed thanks for coming, and she mouthed thanks for the invite back.

And then they were outside.

The air was cooler than she expected, the sort of late sprint evening that carried the smell of grass and someone else’s barbecue. Streetlights blinked on above them. 

They walked in comfortable silence for a bit, side by side, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Lando jerked his head toward the kerb. “That one’s mine.”

She looked.

A black Mercedes, quietly sleek, parked under a tree. Her eyebrows shot up.

“You drive that?!”

He shrugged. “Prefer to walk.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned. “Swear. It was my sister’s old one. I kept it after she said she needed a family car but couldn’t be bothered to sell it. Everyone in my flat’s insured on it now. Isack uses it more than me. Says the bus gives him migraines, but I think he’s trying to impress girls.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m basically the custodian of luxury transport for stressed out medical students and over committed paramedics.”

She laughed.

He opened the passenger door for her with a slight bow, which she ignore, but stepped in anyway, frowning when she heard the word “princess” slip from his lips.

Inside, it smelt like lemon air refresher and whatever shampoo Lando used.

They drove without music. 

When they pulled up outside the gelato shop, she nudged him gently with her elbow. “You going to order something ridiculous?"

“I’m a purist,” he said, feigning offence. “Chocolate and hazelnut. Two scoops. Waffle cone. No frills.”

“Liar.”

He grinned, pulling out his card from his wallet, before she could even open her mouth to argue, he gave her a look that silenced her as she plucked the card from his fingers.

She returned a few minutes later with her own ice cream in one hand, card in between her lips.

He started the engine as she looked over, “Let’s go to the park.”

His nose scrunched. “No.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, covering. “Alright. Sorry I just thought—”

He nodded to the dashboard. “Let’s sit in the car.”

She blinked.

He added quieter, “It’s warm. And I don’t really do parks after dark.”

She didn’t ask why.

Didn’t need to.

“Okay,” she said, nodding.

And so they stayed, engine off, parked on a quiet road under the amber streetlight, two people sitting in a luxury car with melting gelato and too much unspoken between them.

The gelato was starting to melt, running slowly down the side of her cup. She let it. Neither of them seemed in a rush.

They sat in companionable silence, the soft hum of a late evening pressing gently against the windows. The street was quiet, one of those sleepy little residential corners where everything felt paused.

She glanced over at him.

He was leaning back in his seat, one hand curled around the steering wheel even though they weren’t going anywhere. His other rested on his leg, thumb idly brushing back and forth.

His cone was untouched in the cup holder.

She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

And eventually, he spoke.

“That room,” he said quietly. “The chair.”

She looked at him properly now.

“I know it was nothing,” he went on. “Just clothes. Just… normal. But it looked exactly like—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It looked exactly like how my brother’s uniform was, the night he died.”

She didn’t move. Just listened.

“I was eight. He was fifteen. We shared a room. He was, he was everything. You know? Tall, loud, never took anything seriously. Used to wind me up with something rotten. But he always made sure I had the warm side of the blanket. Always said he’d look out for me.”

Lando stared out of the windscreen.

“There was a fire. At home. Faulty plug socket. My mum had been nagging about it for weeks. I didn’t wake up properly until there was shouting. Smoke everywhere. I got out.”

He paused again. His voice was low, steady, but every word felt carved.

“He didn’t.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know if he was looking for me, or if he’d already passed out. I don’t know. I just remember standing on the pavement, watching the house go. And waiting for him to come out.”

He blinked, hard.

“And he didn’t.”

She reached for him, but he kept going.

“My parents” He exhaled. “They never forgave me. Said I should’ve woken him. Said I should’ve done something. I was eight.”

She felt her stomach twist.

“After that, it was just cold. Silent. I got blamed for everything. Started staying with my friends. Skipped school. Didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not for years. Parents didn't care where I was."

He looked at her now. Eyes bright, jaw tight.

“That’s why I froze. In Aurelia’s room. It was just a stupid chair. But for a second it felt like I was there again.”

She opened her mouth, but he held a hand up gently.

“I want to tell you,” he said. “Not because I want pity. Just because I trust you.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he added, quieter still. “Like, properly told. Not in bits. Not like a joke.”

She didn’t know what to say.

So she put down her cup, reached awkwardly across the centre console, and gave him the most ridiculous, bent-arm, middle-seat hug in history.

His body tensed at first, surprised, then relaxed into it.

He chuckled against her shoulder. “This is the least ergonomic hug I’ve ever experienced.”

She huffed a laugh, face half in his hoodie. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

She pulled back slightly but didn’t move far. Their faces were still close, breath mingling in the warm car.

There was a moment. Soft and still and entirely theirs.

She didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say that’s awful or you’re so strong or anything else that people say when they don’t know what to say.

Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me.”

And that was enough.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, limbs tangled awkwardly across the centre console, faces close, the air warm with words not spoken.

Eventually, she eased back into her seat, reaching for her rapidly-melting gelato. “We should eat this before it becomes soup.”

Lando hummed in agreement and started on his own cone, finally. He took one bite and immediately winced.

“Brain freeze,” he muttered, clutching his forehead.

She snorted. “Serves you right for inhaling it.”

“I panicked,” he said. “Felt like the right thing to do in the moment.”

“Very brave of you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be expecting a medal in the post.”

She rolled her eyes and took another spoonful. “You know, for someone who had an emotional breakthrough five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly annoying.”

He grinned. “Can’t have you getting too used to me being serious.”

There was a beat of quiet again, but this time it felt easier. Lighter.

She glanced sideways at him, fiddling with her spoon. “You don’t have to answer this,” she said, softly. “But what brought you to the fire service?”

He didn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful.

Then he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car.

“I think I thought if I became a firefighter, if I saved enough people, did enough good, maybe I could balance it out.” He glanced at her. “Make up for losing my brother. Like I owed the world a life.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let it land.

“I know it doesn’t work like that,” he added. “But that’s what it felt like. Like maybe if I pulled enough people out of fires, it’d stop mattering so much that I didn’t pull him out.”

Her chest ached for him.

He took a slow breath. “I still can’t go into kids’ bedrooms, during house fires. Not if I see the uniform on the chair. Doesn’t even have to be the same colour. I just freeze.”

His voice faltered slightly.

“And the thing is, I’d hate, really hate, to ever be the reason someone didn’t make it. Because my stupid brain decided it was time for a panic.”

It wasn’t self-pitying. Just honest. Raw in that quiet way grief gets, when it’s lived inside you long enough to soften its edges.

She reached over, without thinking too hard, and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, ruffling it with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

He blinked. “Did you just mum me?”

She smirked. “You may be an idiot, but not stupid.”

“High praise.”

“Although,” she added, straightening up, “I still don’t agree with your biscuit ranking.”

“Ah. And there it is.”

“You lost me at custard creams.”

“You’ve got no biscuit integrity.”

“Says the man who has a soft spot for Hobnobs.”

“They’re classic,” he said, mock-affronted. “They don’t need your approval.”

She laughed, properly this time, and for a moment it felt like the weight had shifted. Not gone. But lighter. Carried together, even just for a while.

part two...

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[gatsby-20]

in motion /// oscar piastri x reader /// a college hockey x f1 au

Oscar’s a certified hockey prodigy, and the new kid on the block. You’re the adopted best friend of his new hockey team. You take it upon yourself to make him feel welcome. What could possibly go wrong?

all chapter titles (and fic title) from various songs from ‘when facing the things we turn away from’ by Luke Hemmings

COMPLETED 6/14/2024

Chapters

1. Starting Line: moving in, family dinner, and the first game of the season.

2. Change Of Heart: Max Verstappen’s Pizza Theory, breakfast for dinner, and an attempt at a passing grade in physics

3. Losing The Dream: a walk in near the park, a surprising team photo, and the semester comes to a close.

Winter Break: A social media au/ blurb bonus part!

4. Baby Blue: a very bad snowstorm, bears in the ice hockey arena, and a one night only poster board pick-me-up.

5. Take Bloom: one plane ride, a little sunburn, and far too many margaritas to count.

6. Back To Course: a museum visit, one far too observant teammate, and the beginning of the end of hockey season.

Pre Playoff Pandemonium: social media au blurb! you land a relationship, max and lando launch an investigation

7. On My Way: a hockey watch party, one last data point for the pizza theory, and one last chance at the national title.

Celebrations: some celebratory social media posts, and a peek at life for you and Oscar

8. All Here, In Color: end of semester celebrations, graduation shenanigans, and the final family dinner of the year.

Extras

hair dye - a pre in motion blurb

[gatsby-20]

➤ THE (OTHER) COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself. 

wc: 7.6 k

warnings: none!

authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic

➤ MASTERLIST - part one

You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe. 

It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.

Not remotely.

"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant. 

"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before. 

It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.

After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.

Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into. 

The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?" 

"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list. 

Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!

Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?

Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?

Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has? 

You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!" 

And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.

All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers. 

-

Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday. 

However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside. 

How do you not fall in love like that? 

Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did. 

However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?" 

"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?" 

"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend." 

"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly. 

"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong? 

Do you not want him to see Milo? 

He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise." 

"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed. 

Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!" 

"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!" 

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet." 

"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see." 

"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound. 

"Milo, what did I just say?" 

"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.

"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow. 

He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?" 

"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain. 

You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?" 

And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!" 

"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero." 

"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed." 

"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?" 

"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.

He was a hero in your household, anyway. 

Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve. 

He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen. 

-

"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?" 

The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart." 

"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped." 

"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently. 

But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people. 

Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?" 

"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart." 

"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.

"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors. 

"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.

"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?" 

Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri." 

"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit." 

"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home." 

"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?" 

Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver." 

"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.

"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV." 

"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.

Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much." 

Loves. 

I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?" 

"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri." 

You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war. 

At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!" 

-

Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you. 

However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared? 

However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now. 

It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it. 

You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid. 

Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?" 

"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's. 

"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians." 

"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?" 

A work out? 

Oh, him being out of breath and sweating. 

"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here. 

Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears. 

Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store." 

"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow. 

"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything." 

-

Lando gets it, now. 

Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you? 

Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?

Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh. 

He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this. 

-

McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all? 

Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando. 

Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand. 

"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something." 

"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home." 

It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge. 

"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart." 

You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all." 

"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you." 

In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you. 

"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-" 

"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you. 

His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-" 

"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet." 

"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here." 

"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much." 

Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close. 

But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..." 

"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too." 

"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly." 

"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually." 

"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?" 

He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls. 

It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time. 

"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?" 

"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly,  because it's the truth. 

Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?" 

There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously." 

"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you. 

"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo. 

It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present. 

"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris." 

"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head. 

"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?" 

"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.

As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs. 

"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you. 

It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out." 

"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one." 

"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you." 

"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it." 

As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me." 

Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me." 

-

So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly. 

However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful. 

He wanted this. 

He wanted you. And Milo. 

And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could. 

He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received. 

That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about. 

He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his. 

Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris. 

As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.

Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision. 

Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.

God, if he fucked this up, he could never-

"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto. 

"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes." 

Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?" 

"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up. 

Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race. 

To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet." 

-

When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.

"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"

"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."

"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"

Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.

He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.

"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.

It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.

That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.

Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.

"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.

"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.

"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."

His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.

This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.

"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.

"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."

"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.

"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."

Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"

Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"

"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.

This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love. 

It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.

It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them. 

It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.

Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light. 

It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.

a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)

[gatsby-20]

➤ THIS COULD BE LOVE | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x not!soulmate(?)reader

request: more soulmate aus?

summary: when you and max meet in the middle of a monaco night, max doesn't want to believe in soulmates. he wants to believe in something real. 

wc: 7.7 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! some suggestive content (not explicit), villainization of jos verstappen and reference to poor childhoods and past injury

➤ MASTERLIST - OSCAR'S SOULMATE STORY

When you and Max meet in the middle of the night, it's the sort of serendipity that makes Max believe less in the universe. He'd lost his faith in it in his childhood, of fate, of something set, of something magical, of soulmates. His parents were soulmates, anyway, and he knew how well that story went. He knew all the tales of those who gave up dreams and aspirations for magical nudges from something greater, none of which he found convincing compared to the reality of the world, the hard concrete ground of the racing track, and the voice of his father. 

Soulmates were just another distraction in a world full of them. To pursue your dreams, to want something bigger, you couldn't believe in fairytales fed to you by the delusional. It didn't stop Max's 18th birthday from rolling around anyway, waiting with baited breath for some sign, some magic name on the inside of his wrist, anything. It took a few days for his soul mark to be spotted on the back of his right shoulder, over his shoulder blade. It took a few days after that for Jos to notice and to continue his rants on the distractions of love in the path of greatness. 

After that, after everything his father put him through, everything Max did to earn his love, he stopped caring about soulmates. He'd meet the love of his life someday, surely, even with his soul mark bandaged, hidden from flashing cameras. It was through his fame Max realized how right his father was, of those attempting anything to copy his soulmate to pretend to be his love, a warning straight out of whatever textbook his father used to learn how to raise his children. If it was still in publication, Max was pretty sure he'd pay good money to have every copy burned. Soulmates, magical connections, they were just another distraction. He didn't want someone loving him because of a mark, because of how fast he went around a track and how much money he made, he wanted something real. Someone to look at him and think that he was meant to be theirs for no other reason than Max himself. 

It didn't stop the whole thing from getting to Max every so often, when someone close to him found their supposed one true love, when it made the headlines. Tonight, it was some bartender seeing colour for the first time, their soulmate a patron. The whole bar exploded with drunken excitement for them, forcing Max out into the night air because there were some things even a man as strong as him couldn't stand. 

"-and don't fucking follow me!" A man calls, slamming the door to a cab as it rips off into the hot Monaco night, and Max finds that the words are not directed at him, but rather you, sitting on the curb, looking entirely unenthused. 

Without thinking much of it, Max finds his place beside you. "Trouble in paradise?" He finds himself saying, scrubbing his hands over his face. Just because people were soulmates didn't mean it mattered, didn't mean it would last, didn't make both parties nice. 

"I wish," You breath out softly, "They're not my soulmate. Just a date." 

"A date?" Max echoes, sparing a glance your way. In the mixture of moonlight and streetlights, there's a sort of warmth from you that has Max wonder why you'd go on a date with someone who isn't your soulmate, even if he understands it perfectly well. 

"Surprising, isn't it?" You muse, sparing a glance up at the night sky. "Dating someone who isn't your soulmate, how terrible." 

"No, no." Max is quick to correct. "I understand." 

And then, in the middle of the heated Monaco night, you lock eyes with him for the first time, and if it were meant to be something, Max would feel something. Instead, he takes in someone pretty, warm from the night, flushed softly, probably from the drinks at the bar. He takes in someone who went on a date without their soulmate, and he feels a little bit less alone in this strange, awful world. Your eyes are slow to part from his, only breaking his stare when a car drives by too fast. "My soulmate passed away, I think." You admit quietly, almost hidden under the dragging noise of the car as it passes. "It's not worth being alone the rest of your life because you missed out on the perfect match. I'll settle for second best." Then, with a soft laugh, "Third, even." 

"I have a soulmate." Max says, and you turn to look at him again, that softness slowly slipping away. "And I don't want them. Don't know who they are." 

"So you're leaving some poor soul all alone for nothing?" Max shakes his head, trying not to think of whatever 'poor soul' matches with him. It was always a selfish thing to try and explain, but that was how Max was raised to think, and some habits die hard. 

"I want someone to want me for me." He says then, the words so often unspoken. He'd rarely talked about this to any of his teammates, and to admit it to a stranger somehow felt better. Your soulmate had passed; there was no threat of a matching symbol. You would just understand what it was like to be alone, to be othered and date anyway. "Not because I'm supposed to be a soulmate, or for some random choice that we don't even understand. For no real reason." 

You don't answer immediately, just staring at him intently, before you nod slowly. "You want someone to fall in love with you for the sake of loving you." 

"I don't want to hurt my 'soulmate' in the process," He says with air quotes, "But them loving me for a mark is just not what I want, in the end." He doesn't tell you about how he also doesn't want someone to fall in love with him for the fame, and he realizes only in this moment, it's because you could fall in love with him. 

For him. 

Your soulmate had passed, you were already going on dates. You could get to know him for no other reason than to know him, and he could make it work. The warmth he gets when he looks at you isn't magical: it's something realistic. "And how has that gone so far?" 

"Haven't got a single date." Max jokes, but it's the truth. No one wants to date a random stranger when their soulmate might be out there. "For obvious reasons. And you?" 

"They don't last." You say quietly, "Like I'm a stepping stone before they find who they want." Then, because that's not the kind of thing to admit to a stranger, you duck your head with a soft blush, and Max scoots closer, leaning to nudge his shoulder with yours. 

"You're the finish line for someone out there." He says, an unfortunate race reference he doesn't think about until later. 

"Thought you didn't believe in soulmates," You answer back softly, rocking your shoulder into his, and Max finds himself grinning down at you. 

He didn't believe in soulmates, he believed in this. Real connection, with real people, no magical, mystical interference necessary. "Didn't say that person had to be your soulmate. Could be anyone." His eyes flicker down your dress, stuck on the open back of it, the perfect curve of your spine, and he has to take a slow breath. "Some stranger on the street." 

You turn to look at Max with something so close to hope that he can't think too much about it, or he'll start to fall sooner than he can prepare for the landing. He just wants proof that he can love, and be loved, without needing a soulmate or matching mark. He doesn't need you to be the answer to all of his problems; he just wants a chance. "You're really sweet." You say, that look of hope flickering, "But I'm only here a week." 

"And?" He rises off the curb and extends a hand to help you up. "Doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves while you're here." 

"You're not a tourist?" Your hand slips into his, and if you were his soulmate, if they were real, it would be something magical. Every story has the first touch being something so important, the final connection of a soul bond, but when your soft skin glides against his, nothing remotely fantastical happens, and Max loves it all the more for it. 

"I'm a veterinarian here," He answers, the first fake profession he could think of as he helps you up. Might make the fact that he owns three cats more normal. He lets your hand drop, a terrible thing, and he gestures for you to follow him on the sidewalk. "I can take you for a midnight tour of Monaco if you like?" 

"You know, this is typically how people end up kidnapped or dead, or something." Without much thinking, Max pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands it to you, and you blink up at him. "What?" 

"If I was going to do something to you, why would I give you my wallet? It's got all my identification in there." You open the wallet, staring down at his driver's licence and flipping through the few cards he keeps in there, more out of curiosity, he thinks, than scrutiny. 

You spare a glance up at him, folding the wallet up and tucking it into your purse. "Now it feels like I'm robbing you, Max." 

"Well, I'd rather you take advantage of me than the other way around." You saying his name trips him up in a way he didn't expect, sounding so nice in your voice. It's just Max, he knows, but still. 

It does something to his heart that he didn't realize it could do. "You're one of the strangest people I've ever met." 

"Welcome to Monaco?" You laugh, another beautiful sound that has Max realizing he's more screwed than humanly possible. A week, he tries to remind himself, but with you by his side in that dress, it's hard to think of anything but the present. 

-

You're not sure how you end up on the beach with Max, heels in hand, but it's a pleasant change of pace. If it hadn't already screwed you over, you'd say it's fate, to be here with him, but that wasn't possible. Not when whoever bore your matching soul mark had faded out, or at least the soulmark had, splotchy and scratched out in a way you could only imagine meant death. 

It had happened so young, too, that it had never felt like you were able to pursue love or a soulmate seriously. Sure, there were online groups for widows, though you didn't consider yourself really a widow at this age. So, instead, you focused on all the other great things in your life, hoping for that miracle to come someday, and currently, it was in the form of a Dutch veterinarian in Monaco. 

Not how you expected your night to go. "They're named after clubs?" 

"Jimmy and Sassy are, but Donatello is not." Max answers very seriously, sparing a small grin your way, and you try to think what kind of experience he must have gone through to not want his soulmate, to want love from anyone, just for being him. You understand the thought of not wanting someone to just automatically stick with you for the sake of being a soulmate, but Max had so much to offer. You kept trying to find faults, but all you found were cats and a sweet tooth. "What would you have named them?" 

"Three cats? You should give them all names with the same first letter, like Jessica, James, and John." A laugh bubbles out of Max at the suggestion, a bright thing that has you blushing, luckily hidden in the dim light of Monaco's nights. 

"I am not naming a cat Jessica. Or James." 

"But John works?" You tease, stopping to stare up at a crystal clear night that, even with the light pollution, reveals a sky littered with stars. Max comes to stop at your side, saying nothing for a moment as the two of you just stare out into the night, and your hand brushes his. 

It shouldn't be this electrifying. Shouldn't be something so intense from a stranger, some truly random man you met in the night, but it was the sort of adventure you wouldn't mind pursuing. You only had a week here, but maybe you wouldn't mind spending that week with Max. "For the right cat," Max finally continues, still happily enthralled with the cat conversation, "John would work." 

"Do you think the water would be nice?" You ask, stepping closer to the shore. The water barely reaches your toes, and without much consideration for his pants, Max pulls his shoes and socks off, and wades in shin-deep. You laugh, watching him practically stomp around, and there's an evil glint in his eye that has him charging at you. You don't even try to run, letting him grab you by the waist and haul you into the water, spinning you around and sending water flying around with it. Your hands brace against his shoulders, and for working with so many different animals, he'd have to be strong for that, surely. 

Or maybe he just likes to work out in his free time, your hands smoothing against his biceps as he sets you down into the water, a pleasant thought you tuck away for later. "Does that answer your question?" 

"You are ridiculous." Then, you realize Max hadn't let go of your waist, and you hadn't let go of his arms, wrapped up together and standing in the water like it was normal. 

Because it could be. 

This could be your future, if you really think of it. Love was something worth pursuing, even if it wasn't the perfect match set out for you from the universe. You had spent so long mourning your soulmate you hadn't stopped to realize that maybe, just maybe, there were other people out there for you. 

That there could be a Max, after it all. And you could kiss him, if you wanted, looking up at him in the moonlit night, on a random beach, but fear stirs in your stomach too quickly to let you. There was little evidence this could ever be more than a pleasant night, that it would last, and Max notices your hesitation, very gently letting your waist go. "We, uh, don't have towels." You say, trying to direct the conversation away from your spiralling thoughts. "We're going to have wet feet." 

"Well, I might have wet feet." Max makes his way back to his shoes, using his socks to wipe off his feet before putting his sneakers on, and then he finds you at the edge of the shore, and holds out his arms. "But I could carry you?" 

"Carry me?" You echo, blush rising to your cheeks, and you realize Max is waiting for permission. "I mean, I might be heavy, I-" 

"Oh, heavy!" Max then proceeds to scoop you up, bridal style, like it's nothing. He marches up to where the beach meets a cobblestone road, and gently sets you on the low stone fence seperating the two. 

And then, like it's normal, like it's something people do, he squats down without a word and helps put your heels on, a Cinderella moment that has you considering if maybe he really was your long-lost soulmate. 

You'd never asked what his trait was, never got to see what it could be. Maybe you had matching, scratched-out marks. Maybe he got into an accident that damaged it. Maybe, by the way he's looking up at you, it didn't matter. "What brings you to Monaco?"  Max continues, as if he didn't just do the sweetest thing anyone has for you in a long, long time. 

"A break from it all." Max leads you down the street toward your hotel, and you don't want the night to end, both for your enjoyment, and the concern that it all might be over tomorrow.

Max doesn't realize you'd stopped infront of your hotel, sparing a glance to your side and then doing a small spin to face you again, lopsided smile revealed in the streetlight above him. "You should come back," He says, coming to lean on the wall of the hotel beside you. "I'm not sure I can show you all you need to see in just a week." 

"I might need more convincing than that." You joke, and Max smiles down at you, a sight that has your stomach flipping, and this time, before you let your emotions truly get in the way, you lean up on the tips of your toes and press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for all this, Max. It really means a lot." 

Max's hand hovers over his cheek, shock plain on his face from the kiss, and you're worried you've overstepped before he's blushing deeply, a perfect pink colour picked up in the lights of the hotel. It's a view you could get used to. "Oh," He breathes out softly, a small, giddy smile breaking out across his face. "You're most certainly welcome."

You take a step up the hotel stairs and Max calls after you, making you pause above him, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, as if some kind of non-chalant defense for whatever he's about to say next.

"Think I could convince you to give me your number?" You half-heartedly roll your eyes, coming back down the stairs to put your number in his phone. You send off a test text, and you hope it's enough to make him want you tomorrow, because the more time you spend with him, the more you try not to get your hopes up. 

He's not your soulmate, and this isn't fate, but god, do you want it to be. 

You move back up the stairs and step into the hotel, leaving the door open to look back at Max, and you know you can't invite him up, can't jump through that many stages yet, and Max respectfully waits on the sidewalk, that stupid smile still on his face. "Goodnight, Max." 

"Goodnight," He says, along with some word in what you assume to be Dutch. You try to figure out what he possibly could have said when Max waves a hand, ushering you toward the elevator. "Forget it, it's Dutch. Go get some sleep." 

It's only when you get to your room do you realize you still have his wallet.

-

Max awakes to the sound of his phone buzzing. Glancing at the screen, since he came home and crashed, he's missed a handful of texts.

unknown 

hey! i still have your wallet

Then, about half an hour later, 

unknown

I really needed that tonight, thank you 

Maybe you can give me a tour sometime?

 

Then, this morning, 

unknown

me again, if this is the wrong number, can you let me know?

Glancing at the time, Max realizes he's slept in until noon. With a curse, he drags himself out of bed and quickly tries to type out a response that doesn't make him seem like a degenerate. 

max 

sorry, I passed out after I got home 

not used to staying out that late 

i could give you that tour in return for the wallet today? 

Your answer is almost instantaneous. 

unknown

that sounds wonderful 

sorry for keeping you up late

max

it was worth it

unknown 

I'm on a run currently, do you want me to pick you up some breakfast to start our tour?

max

you are perfect

and waffles?

And it was the start of something perfect. 

Without really putting too much thought into it, partially because it's early, partially because if he does, he'll start to crack into a million little pieces, he sends his address, and spends the next twenty minutes furiously cleaning everything he can. It's only once there's a knock on his door and he answers that he realizes he hasn't changed out of his pyjamas, left standing before you in an oversized t-shirt and boxers.

Somehow, though, it's not quite embarrassing. You just smile up at him, shaking your head with your arms full of take out boxes, his wallet balanced on top. "Give me a minute, and I'll get changed." He says, taking the boxes from you and setting them down on the counter, and you take in his space, almost presentable now with his frantic tidying. 

He disappears into his bedroom, trying not to think too hard about whatever outfit he throws together, something nice and casual, nothing to get him noticed in the streets. Considering you had his wallet, and knew his name, there's a chance you might have searched him, which ruins the whole fame aspect of this, but for some reason, he has faith. 

He steps back out to the kitchen to find you sitting on the ground, Donatello in your lap, and Max has to pause to take in the moment. It's so deeply domestic, of you curled up with his cats, boxes of waffles left open on the counter above you. He couldn't remember the last time he shared breakfast with someone outside of work, let someone into his space, like it was normal.

If he had his phone on him, he'd take a photo to remember the moment, but then you're looking up at him and smiling, and the memory will be better than any photo could be. "Who's this one?" 

"Donatello, or Donut." Max moves to the counter and gathers up the boxes of waffles and watches you struggle to pick Donatello up to join him, but the cat just lets you awkwardly cradle it like a baby. "He likes you," Max admits as he falls onto his couch and promptly tears into one of the boxes of chocolate waffles. "He doesn't let me hold him like that." 

"You're a vet!" You exclaim, coming to sit beside him, like this was normal, like you had always shared mornings, like it was meant to be, even if it never was. "Shouldn't you be an expert at this stuff?" 

"It's not about me, it's about the animal." He extends his arms to try and take Donatello, who leaps off his lap and disappears somewhere into the house. "See?" 

"Maybe that's what you get for naming him Donatello." You take one of the boxes, cutting up some crepe thing with a plastic knife and fork as Max takes his first bites of food. "Are you a car guy?" 

Max's heart stutters in his chest before you gesture to his shelf, where some replica cars and car books stand out, glaringly obvious. "Oh, yeah. My dad's a big racing fan. Do you know anything about cars?" 

"Not really, no." You answer truthfully, taking a bite. He waits for you to finish eating to continue asking questions, but then you're gesturing to his waffles. "Are they any good?" 

"Want a piece?" Without another word, you cut some crepe and give it to him as he offers up a piece of the waffle, trading like it's nothing, and Max finds that he doesn't really care if you figure out who he is, because so far, you've treated him perfectly normal. You're curled up on the couch, by his side, trading pieces of fruit and breakfast, an unspoken thing that you do the entire morning. 

When he slowly extends an arm over the back of the couch, letting you lean into him, you do, and you talk about the night before like it's nothing. 

Because it was nothing. It wasn't some big, meaningful thing, some soulmate bond, it was just you and him. You don't ask to see his soul mark, and he doesn't ask to see yours. You just sit in each other's company, laughing over the cats being idiots, and Max unfortunately realizes that he could really, really get used to this. 

A week wouldn't be long enough, so mentally, he decides to pull out every stop. Yachts, restaurants, hikes, anything that might convince you to stay, or at least stay with him. 

Anything to convince Max that something like this could last, and that it could be love. 

-

"What's your favourite colour?" You ask Max, taking your time as you wander through the Japanese-style garden he'd brought you to. For a veterinarian, he somehow had access to some of the best places in Monaco, apparently due to all the wealthy people whose pets are his patients. 

"Blue, I think." Max answers absent-mindedly, stopping to study a bush of flowers intently. "Here, come look." 

"What did you say in Dutch, the other day? Sounded like cat something." You join Max's side to see a butterfly perfectly perched on a flower, and distracted, you don't see how red Max gets at your question. 

"Nothing," He repeats softly, his hand gently brushing against yours. Without much thought, you link your fingers together, and walk the rest of the garden like that. "Just means good night." 

-

You are currently lounging on Max's yacht in a blue one-piece bathing suit, and Max has never struggled to look at a person more. It's sort of the opposite, really, that he wants to stare at you, to keep looking at the way your curves lay out perfectly on the blanket he provided, that you might have bought that suit for him, because it's his favourite colour. 

"You know," Max says before he can stop himself, "Wearing a blue bathing suit can be dangerous. You might not be spotted in the water." 

"What?" You say, rolling over to look at him, and Max has to stare intently down at the book he's trying to read to not look in your direction. "But I've worn this for years, no one ever said anything." 

I've worn this for years. 

His shade of blue, like it was meant to be, but it wasn't, because this was just something real, something two people could share without anything else influencing it. "I can take you shopping for something brighter? Just in case." 

"You just want to see me try on bathing suits, that's what this is." You tease, and Max flushes red. Then, to his surprise, you rise, coming to sit on the end of his lounger in the shade, and he ever so carefully looks up, so that he only looks at your face. "Do you need any sunscreen? You're getting pretty red." 

"It's not the sun." Max blurts, before quickly trying to return to his book. Then, your hand comes to pull the book down from his face, and the joy in your expression is something evil. 

"You really do like blue, hm?" Max tosses his book to the side, uncaring where it lands before he's picking you up. "Wait, Max, Max! Not the water, not the water!" 

"Perfect day for a swim, no?" He teases, and you smack his chest. 

"I thought you said people couldn't see me if I was in blue." You do have a point there. Without letting you go, Max settles back into his lounger, you in his lap, and without needing any instructions, you happily bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting Max hold you there. 

At some point, your breathing evens out, and in the only chance Max has, he gently presses a kiss to your forehead and lets himself fall asleep too. 

-

The last day doesn't quite feel real. Max had gotten you dinner reservations at a Michelin star restaurant, and you had tried to teach him yoga in the morning, and somewhere in between, you'd gone for a hike and gotten gelato, and Max had fallen into what he realized now might be love. 

"You know," He finds himself saying, watching as you curl up in his side, Donatello in your lap and his suit jacket around your shoulders, "I think Donut might miss you more than me." 

It was a perfect mirror to your first morning here. You had come back from dinner, not even thinking about returning to Max's apartment instead of your hotel. At this point, he should've told you to bring your suitcase, to spend the week here, but there were some boundaries you had yet to cross. "I can't say the same for Jimmy or Sassy," You say up to him, both cats nowhere to be found. They'd always been more territorial over Max anyway. You shift further into his side on the couch, hand reaching up to adjust his jacket before remembering that you had to give it back, and before remembering that you had to go. 

Max watches both thoughts occur to you in real time, the smile slowly fading from your features. "I suppose this is it." He says softly above you. Neither of you had talked about what this was, what it meant, and frankly, Max was terrified to bring it up on his own. 

He loved you. It was a strange conclusion to come to in only a week, but you were living, breathing proof that someone could care for him without a mark, without the fame, his identity perfectly tucked away the whole time. You could've searched him up, could've done a lot of things, but he's not sure you ever did. 

"Can I ask a question?" Max asks, hand coming up to gently brush some loose hair away from your face, a domestic moment that might haunt him forever. "Did you ever search me? My name, in the wallet?" 

"What, Max Verstappen?" His full name haunts him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't seem to come. "No, I didn't. Should I have?" 

"I'm not a veterinarian." He answers softly, and the confusion on your face morphs into something closer to fear, and very gently, Max finally admits what he's been keeping from you. "Another reason I don't want to pursue a soulmate is because I am a Formula One driver, and enough people have pretended to love me for that. That's why there's so much car stuff." 

"Max," You breath out softly, shifting up to look at him more directly, "I know why you didn't, but you could have told me." 

"You are proof enough that I was right, though." You were here, curled up in his home like it was yours, with no strings attached. He trusted you when you said you didn't know his identity, because he trusted you entirely. "I don't need a mark or money to make someone love me." Your eyes widen, and Max realizes rather quickly what he just said aloud, scrapping all the progress he made to drop that word on you after only a week. "I didn't mean, as in I thought, after the week, I-" 

"Wait, Max-" 

"I'm sorry, I didn't think of-" 

"Max." You sit up properly now, facing him, and if this were another fantasy, Max would drag you into his lap, hold you there for a while, but now, he lets his hands ball up into useless fists at his side, waiting for you to tear a strip off of him for saying that you loved him after a week. Instead of the coming anger he expects, however, there's a softness as you gently place a hand on his chest, smoothing down his tie. "I don't think either of us can call this love yet." You say, and Max tries to get something out before you can continue. "But you're right. You don't need a soulmark or money to make someone love you, because I have spent the most incredible week with you, and the only thing I've cared about is needing to get to know you more. Not more about your soulmark, or about your secret identity, I just wanted you." 

You just wanted him. 

God, this could be love. It's all Max can think as he leans in, kissing you before he can stop himself. It starts out as a soft, simple thing, but Max could never truly describe himself as soft, if not maybe only for you. His hands find your waist, pulling you into him, and you deepen the kiss as your arms wrap around his neck, slotting together like you were always meant to be here, even if you weren't. You pull apart for a breath, staring up at Max with so much knowing in your eyes that Max can't help but immediately loosen his tie, flinging it off to some far corner of his apartment before continuing. 

He doesn't want to rush you, doesn't need to rush this, but god, all he can think is that this could be love, and all the ways he might be able to make you stay, to make you his. He doesn't care how many jets he has to charter, how many rules he had to bend, because you cared for him, the closest thing he's ever known to love. 

Your hands begin to undo his dress shirt, beating him to his own game, and he practically rips it off himself to get to you, and your hand smooths over the bandage on his shoulder, and you still.

Desperately, Max wants to ignore it. He wants this moment to be his, he wants you to be his, and for this all to disappear. 

But that's not how life works, unfortunately. That's not what Jos allowed. Someday, he'll have to talk about it, and as you slowly pull away, Max swallows thickly, trying to think of how he could tell you all that he did, all that he's done, to get rid of this damned mark. To make his father proud. To be the driver he needed to be. 

"You don't have to show me," You say, somehow unexpected. Throughout this whole week, you had never rushed him, never tried to make him talk about soulmates again. Still, with this much tension between you, with that damned bandage under your hand, he didn't expect you to happily ignore it. "We don't have to talk about it." 

"It's ugly," Max says quietly, leaning back to press a hand to his eyes, the other still holding onto your waist, gentle but firm. "Shouldn't be seen anyway." 

"No soulmark is ugly," You answer, a knowing to your voice. "I would never judge you for it." 

"I scrubbed it off." The words hang in the air, a quiet admission that Max had never dared to tell another soul. 

That after the hundredth race belittled by his father, tormented by this stupid mark, by a love that served no one, Max had found some solvent invented to get rid of soulmarks, and to the best of his ability, he scrubbed it off. It hurt like hell, the scar worse than the soulmark was itself, but Max got rid of it. "What?" Your confusion answers everything Max needed to know, slowly leaning back to put distance between the two of you. 

"I was raised in a household where soulmarks didn't work. The universe didn't pick lovers, it just didn't...they didn't...work. And because I was determined to race, I was convinced love would get in the way. Didn't help that everyone kept throwing themselves at me, faking marks to try and convince me they were my partner. I scrubbed it off permanently, and I don't regret it." 

He does. 

It probably hurt his soulmate. It probably tortured him more than he needed at his age. You pull back even farther, a mix of emotions that Max can't read as you stare at him. Disgust, he's pretty sure. That he would do that to someone else. "That's why real partnerships matter to me. Not soulmarks that can be burned off." 

"God, I'm sorry Max." The apology comes easily, despite Max's experience that it should be difficult. No one ever apologized to him sincerely, but it came to you like breathing. "I'm so sorry anyone ever made you feel like you had to get rid of that to succeed. I'm so sorry they convinced you it wasn't worth it." 

"That doesn't matter now." 

"Doesn't matter now? Of course it does, Max." Your hand smooths over the bandage on his shoulder. "If I'm the proof you need that love doesn't need to be scrubbed away, then so be it. Soulmarks be damned, you are so worthy, Max. You never should have felt the need to do...to do all that." 

The tears come in waves that Max isn't used to, normally fighting them with all his might, but right now, he couldn't care as he lets them fall, your hands gently coming up to wipe them away. He was worthy. 

That was all he was ever waiting to hear, he thinks. "I'm sorry," He says as he presses his face into your neck, your hand gently sliding into his hair, soothingly parting his hair this way and that. "That you never got to meet your soulmate. They were one lucky, lucky person." 

"I got to meet you, didn't I?" You weren't his soulmate, he knows. But it was still a nice admission that has Max laughing sadly into your collarbone. "I never have to see your mark if you don't want, but never feel the need to hide it from me." 

Without much thought, Max leans back and awkwardly reaches over his shoulder, tearing off the bandage in one clean rip, but he doesn't let you see right away. Instead, he finds himself stuck, staring at you through slowing tears as you begin to pull your dress over your head, a shock that has Max's eyes squeezing shut tight. "Wait, wait, you don't have to-" 

"If you want to show me yours, I can show you mine." Max's eyes flutter open, and he never thought he'd be more distracted by a mark than by you, in your underwear, in his lap. 

But he is, because it's his. 

There, tucked on your ribs is his mark, the little lion-looking head, a symbol Max carried for years in homage to the one he scrubbed off. It's a matching scar, more faded now, but it's his, and instantly, his hand clamps over it to hide it from his sight. 

You're his soulmate. 

All that fighting, trying so hard to not need a soulmark to fall in love, and you were still his. "What, Max?" 

"Don't move." Max manages to say under his breath, the next round of tears coming. "Please, god-" 

Your hand smooths over his shoulder, fingers gently tracing over his scar, and once you make the full way around, you freeze, because of course you'd recognize a matching scar. All this time, you thought your soulmate had died because Max had scrubbed off his soulmark, making it look like he'd passed. "But I...I never felt the bond." 

"I told you," He answers through gritted teeth, "I scrubbed it off. It must have broke the bond." 

"Max." God, you should be so angry at him. He expects a tantrum, a fight, you storming out and ending this perfect week with all of Max's terribleness. 

Because if the universe was right, you were his soulmate, and he'd ruined it all for you. You and him had fit so perfectly, and he had just fucked everything up to a degree that even he didn't know how to fix. "Changes how you think of me, huh?" He jokes softly, unable to meet your eyes, and to his surprise, you gently take his head in your hands and press a kiss to his forehead. 

"Just confirms my suspicions, actually." You answer as Max's eyes flicker open, looking up to see you smiling at him. 

Smiling. "What?" 

"You might have destroyed our soul bond, but we still fell in love." You gently pat his chest as you lean back, taking a deep breath. "We were perfectly capable of falling in love with strangers, but something in me knew we were more than just...strangers." 

"You're not mad?" 

"This wasn't your fault." Oh. "You made some very, very poor decisions, but this...I couldn't blame you for this. I found my way back, didn't I?" 

Oh. 

Max pulls you into the tightest hug he can manage, holding you perfectly still as he finally comes to terms with the fact that once upon a time, you were his soulmate. He'd hurt you, scrubbed the mark and bond and made you believe he was dead, and you kept going. You kept trying to find love, and you found him, and maybe it all wasn't real. 

Maybe it wasn't the universe. Maybe it wasn't fate. Maybe it wasn't soulmates. The bond had broken, after all, and you had both proven you were able to love each other without needing an inch of proof of forever. You just needed him now, and Max has to fight the tears he'd had built up inside him since he was eighteen. 

He's not sure how long he holds you there, but it's long enough for him to be sure that you're going to miss your flight tomorrow, and long enough for him to be sure that no matter what this is, no matter what connects you, it's real. 

And that's all he ever needed it to be.

-

-

-

"So you're not soulmates?" One of Max's mechanics ask, stood beside you infront of the monitor. You almost don't hear them with your headphones on, but the words have been said enough times to get the essence of it. 

How could you possibly date someone who isn't supposed to be yours in the eyes of the universe? It was a hard thing to explain, that Max was your soulmate, but he had severed the bond, and you had repaired it anyway. You decided to keep all that from the world however, soulmarks tucked away to only be shared between the two of you. What the world didn't know wouldn't hurt them. "We don't have a soul bond, no." 

"But don't you think about your soulmates?" The final laps approach, Max having a fair advantage as you watch his car whip around the track. "Finding someone better?" 

"Better?" The best possible option was right here, shining in the night like he was meant to. You wouldn't lie and say that it didn't hurt, knowing that Max had purposefully tried to break the bond, but that didn't dampen your feelings for him. You were children back then, and he was hurting, and he thought this was the best way forward. 

Maybe, if he had kept the soulmark, you'd have found each other somehow, in some way, but that's not the love story you needed. Your love story started on the streets of Monaco in the middle of the night, falling for a man for no other reason than he was Max, and he was yours, and it was perfect. 

"Soulmates are not the be-all end-all. There is other love out there for us, and it's no better or worse." The only thing this could be was love, you think, soulmarks be damned. You believed, deep down, that something more than just coincidence connected you and Max, but what you had was built on a foundation of your own making, not the universe's. "Max is the best partner I could ask for, whether he was my soulmate or not."

The mechanic doesn't have time to question it further, because Max crosses the finish line, and your heart begins beating so fast that it has to be love. It was meant to be, even if at one point, it wasn't. You were meant to be here, and on that street with Max, and in his arms, and with his cats, and in each other's lives, and there was no explanation needed for why. 

It was love, when you rushed down toward the parc ferme, past all the garages and the flashing lights, that you were here for him. The headlines hadn't known what to do with you, and Max hadn't bothered to indulge their rumours. You were his, and he was yours, and nothing would come between that. 

Because you were soulmates. 

It wasn't a fact you let yourself indulge in too often, considering what you had wasn't built on the assumption of loving someone, but the growth of learning how to do it.

But, once upon a time, you were soulmates, destined to be here, and it felt like something finally clicked into place as Max meets you at the barrier, helmet and sleeve ripped off to kiss you senseless, because this is what you built, together. 

It was something real, no magical, mystical interference needed. 

You were healing each other in the ways only you could, and as you pull away, you find yourself picturing the young Max, who went through so much torment to be here, to be with you. To think this wasn't an option was impossible. "I'm so proud of you." You say, the few words that you knew Max needed to hear. 

That he was worth it, that he was loved, that there were other things in this world besides racing to devote yourself to. If you were somewhere more private, Max might let you know how he really feels about it, but instead, he gently cradles the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "I told you," He says softly, "You'll be the finish line for someone." 

"Didn't realize you meant that literally." Sometime later, when the crowds disperse and the interviews stop and the night slows, you and Max drive away into the night for the hundredth time and end up back at the hotel, where a glimpse of his soulmark confirms your suspicions.

And, sometime later, after the room service gets delivered and the adrenaline of the day slows, you fall asleep on Max for the hundredth time, and as you shift in your sleep, he gets a glimpse of your soulmark as the shirt you'd stolen from him rides up on your chest.

Repaired, unscarred, and perfectly whole.

And, for the first time, in a long time,

Max starts to believe in soulmates again.

a/n: saw this request and tried to write something small and cute and ended up writing 7 thousand words of what it means to be loved - enjoy?

[gatsby-20]

tug of war ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day. probably both.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x fashion journalist!reader. ꔮ word count: 12.3k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. enemies to ???, tension... so much tension..., slander vs. oscar’s fashion sense, piastri siblings & mark w. cameos, oscar models calvin klein (you have been warned), google translated french. title from carly rae jepsen’s tug of war. ꔮ commentary box: that modeling contract was announced and i locked tf in. i am sure there will be a dozen more model!piastri fics in the forseeable future, so consider this my contribution to the discourse 🪞 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cooler than me, mike posner. diet mountain dew, lana del rey. jealousy, jealousy, olivia rodrigo. pretty boy, lennon stella. hate to be lame, lizzy mcalpine & finneas. everybody talks, neon trees.

Oscar hadn’t cared about the modeling contract.

It had been a management decision. One of those postseason strategy meetings where someone in a blazer said brand equity three times in five minutes; Oscar had tuned out somewhere between the PowerPoint transition and the phrase post-athletic versatility. IMG had been floated as a way to help secure luxury campaigns, sharpen his media presence, smooth the F1 edges.

The thinking was: clean lines, minimalist jaw, silent type. Marketable. Digestible. Glossy.

He’d said yes because he didn’t have a reason not to. And because saying no would’ve meant sitting in that meeting room for another hour.

So no, he hadn’t cared. Not until Hattie forwarded him your article.

The link came with a text that just said, wow, which meant it was either horrifying or hilarious. Turns out, it was both. The log line says:

Oscar Piastri owes IMG Models an apology for being the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. 

One sentence in and Oscar’s stomach had already done something unpleasant. By the second paragraph, it starts doing somersaults.

His Fashion Week appearance felt like a high schooler playing dress-up in his older brother's Balenciaga. Somewhere, a creative director is crying into his moodboard. There’s aloof, and then there’s absent. Piastri, regrettably, leans toward the latter. A beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately. Someone please explain how the sport that gave us Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc also produced this cardboard cutout in Prada.

Oscar blinks at his phone like the words might shift into something kinder if he just stares long enough. They don’t. The tone is biting. Effortless. Like you hadn’t hadn’t even broken a sweat while eviscerating him.

He reads it again. And then again.

It’s not that he hasn’t heard criticism before. Racing is full of it—bad weekends, strategy fails, one too many lockups and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion. But this is different. This isn’t about telemetry or tire strategy. This is personal. This is public.

This is accurate, which is probably why it pisses him off so much.

Oscar tosses his phone on the couch, then immediately picks it up again. Reads the line about the moodboard one more time. He doesn’t know what a moodboard is supposed to look like, but he’s now certain he’s personally destroyed one.

He should let it go. Laugh it off. Call it petty and move on. Instead, he looks at your byline and commits it to memory. 

Oscar Piastri hadn’t cared about the modeling contract. Now he does.

He rereads the article for the fourth time, then fifth. Every line lands sharper the longer it sits. He keeps getting stuck on beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately. By the sixth read, he’s no longer angry. He’s spiraling.

He hits FaceTime.

“Jesus Christ,” Edie says by way of greeting. She’s already mid-eye roll. “What now?”

Hattie and Mae appear one after the other, settling into their usual squares like it’s a scheduled intervention. Hattie’s in the kitchen, making a sandwich at a concerning angle. Mae’s already in bed. It’s noon in Oscar’s Monaco but eight in the evening over at Melbourne. 

Oscar doesn’t beat around the bush. “What the hell was that article?” 

“Oh.” Hattie flashes him a shit-eating grin. “How’d you like it?” 

“Who does this girl think she is?” Oscar snaps. “Seriously. She thinks she can just—”

“She’s literally incredible,” Mae interrupts.

“Oscar, come on,” Edie sighs. “She’s an institution.”

He frowns. “She called me cardboard in Prada.”

“No, she said you looked like a high schooler in Balenciaga,” Hattie corrects. “Which, to be fair, you kind of did.”

Oscar’s jaw tics. His sisters, ever so relentless, push on. “She’s not just some influencer,” Mae adds. “She was writing features before Vogue. Like, real features. That profile on Anok Yai? I saved it. Actual goosebumps.”

“Her newsletter goes viral every other week,” Edie says. “I read her Substack like the morning paper.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Oscar deadpans. 

“She’s our age, and she’s already shaping industry conversation,” Hattie says, smug and ignorant of Oscar’s mental breakdown. “You think IMG just let her roast you for free?”

“They probably begged her to,” Mae yawns. “Honestly, it gave you relevance.”

“Thanks,” Oscar bites out, already regretting his choice of calling in. “Really uplifting.”

“Check her Insta,” Edie says, already knowing he will.

Oscar hangs up before they can gloat any harder. Opens Instagram. Types your name.

Your profile loads in clean, curated rows. Not overly aesthetic. Not fake-candid either. A balance that feels practiced but not desperate. He scrolls.

There you are at New York Fashion Week, not posing, just standing. One heel cocked. Blazer draped loose. Eyes lined sharp. Mouth unsmiling. You look like someone who doesn’t need to ask twice.

Another shot—some rooftop party. Laughing this time. Half-lit, hair undone, drink in hand. The caption is some niche reference he doesn’t get, but the comments are flooded with blue ticks and clapping emojis.

And then a close-up. No makeup. Hoodie. A hand cradling your face, gaze direct into the lens. Oscar actually stops scrolling.

He doesn’t know the first thing about fashion. But even he can tell—you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Worse: you know it. Worse, still: you know exactly what to do with it.

Oscar locks his phone before he can do something stupid.

The IMG boardroom smells like mineral water and expensive neutrality. Oscar sits stiffly at the long glass table, a half-drunk espresso cooling in front of him. The screen on the far wall flashes a slideshow of moodboards and market analysis. Soft tailoring, desert tones, a luxury brand he’s already forgotten the name of.

He’s not really listening.

Someone’s saying something about crossover visibility. Someone else uses the word synergy. A third says, “the Vogue piece did numbers,” and Oscar's spine straightens before he can stop himself.

“Any questions?” asks the IMG rep—Valentina, maybe, or Vanessa—clicking to the final slide.

Oscar clears his throat. Immediate regret, especially when the entire room turns to look at him like that one Simpsons meme come to life. “Um. Yeah, just—” He shifts in his seat. “Should we be… worried? About that article?” 

Three heads swivel. “The Vogue one?” Valentina-slash-Vanessa clarifies.

Oscar nods, as neutrally as possible. There’s a pause. Then, a light chuckle ripples through the room. Not cruel, but close.

“Welcome to the fashion world,” she says, smiling. “You get roasted. It means you exist.”

“She doesn’t roast just anyone,” someone else adds. “You made it onto her radar. That’s not nothing.”

Mark, seated four spots down, is doing that thing where he presses his knuckles into his cheek like he's considering whether to intervene. Eventually, he does.

“Look, mate,” he says, calm, as always. “You got pushed into an ecosystem where image is everything. She poked fun. That’s her job. Let it ride.”

Oscar looks at him. “You saw it?” 

Mark raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t read Vogue?”

Oscar blanches. Mark shrugs. “She’s good. She’s sharp,” the latter says sagely, “and she’s not going anywhere.”

That last part hits harder than it should.

Oscar leans back in his chair, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture might read. Relaxed. Unbothered. Cardboard in Prada. 

The meeting rolls on. Talk shifts to campaign dates, shooting schedules, soft embargoes. Oscar nods when required, scribbles nothing, waits for the room to empty.

He doesn’t say another word.

By the time he’s alone, only one thought remains: You may or may not be around for the foreseeable future. And now, so will he.

Nonetheless, Oscar tries to put you in the back of his mind. He focuses on the simulator. On tire strategy. On corner speeds and data sheets and the way his new helmet vents better in the rain. The fashion thing is a side gig, background noise.

Until the campaign drops.

It’s everywhere by Friday. A soft launch gone sharp. His face on buses. On billboards. In reels that glitch between slow-motion struts and stiff-limbed turns in silk. One frame of him squinting at a rooftop in Milan is already a meme.

He thinks: fine. Let it ride. But then Lando walks into the paddock with that face-splitting grin and a phone already in hand. “You’re trending,” the Brit sing-songs.

Oscar doesn’t look up from his water bottle. “Great. Another out-of-context GIF?” 

“Not exactly.”

Oscar finally glances over. Lando holds up his phone. It’s your Twitter. The open tweet:

ynofficial: A quick thread on why luxury branding is suffering, feat. Oscar Piastri and a war crime against wool blend tailoring. 🧵

Oscar goes still.

Lando scrolls. Each tweet hits like a slap.

ynofficial: First of all: the fabric. Looks like it itches. Looks like it squeaks. If I wanted trauma flashbacks to my Year 8 choir uniform, I’d go to therapy.

ynofficial: Secondly, the pose. Who told him to stand like his hips are on strike? I’ve seen more fluidity in IKEA assembly diagrams.

ynofficial: Third: who keeps convincing this man to stare into the distance like a brooding hedge fund intern? You’re not solving the economic crisis. You’re in pants.

Oscar exhales sharply. “I’m going to kill her.”

Lando cackles. “She ratioed the brand account in two hours.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means people agreed with her.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. Lando is still talking, but none of it registers, because something is twisting under Oscar’s ribs. Not embarrassment. Not quite. It’s sharper than that. Competitive. Cavernous. The ache of being underestimated and publicly mocked by someone who clearly knows exactly where to aim.

Oscar pulls his fire suit on in silence. Helmet next. No commentary. No fanfare. This isn’t luxury; this is his world. He gets in the car, and he floors it.

The track roars beneath him, corners blurring into muscle memory. Every apex is cleaner than the last. Every lap carves out a little more fury.

He qualifies P1. Come Sunday, he finishes P1.

The engineer’s voice crackles in his ear on the cooldown lap. Oscar responds with cursory thanks but nothing more.

All he can think is, you saw the campaign. Now, you’ll see this.

Here is something he will never admit: Oscar spends an unhealthy amount of time thinking about how he might meet you.

He imagines a fashion event, something obnoxiously glossy with ambient synth and ten-euro cocktails. You’d be in black. All sharp lines and pointed comments. The kind of presence that makes stylists stutter and PR managers sweat. He’d walk up with practiced nonchalance, half-smiling. Say something like, So, do I still stand like an IKEA diagram?

You’d assess, tilt your head. Maybe smirk. Maybe destroy him again with four words or less. Maybe not even that. Maybe just a look.

He turns it over in his head, each version a little more bearable than the last. Sometimes, in the boring hours after media day or a late debrief, he catches himself imagining what your voice might sound like in person. How you’d cross your legs. If your sarcasm is sharper when you’re tired.

Instead, it happens in a bakery.

Rue Grimaldi. Mid-morning. Monaco between triple-headers is strange—too calm, too clean, like the whole city is holding its breath between champagne sprays. The sun makes the buildings look smug. Oscar’s running low on sleep and lower on patience, thinking only of croissants. Maybe a cannelé if he’s feeling reckless. He’s in a hoodie, sunglasses, trainers with half the laces undone.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, and walks straight into someone.

“Oh—shit. Sorry,” he mutters, hands halfway up like he’s surrendering.

You take a step back, brushing hair from your cheek. “It’s fine. I wasn’t looking.”

You move past him without ceremony, heels clipping against tile. Already halfway to the counter, head tilted at the pastry case. He watches the way your fingers hover over the glass, like you’re about to point at something but change your mind.

And then it hits him. “Wait,” he chokes out. 

You turn, slowly. Brows lift. Recognition blooms like something slow and amused. “No way,” you say, sounding properly tickled. 

“You’re—” He gestures vaguely, as if that might conjure the words. “That journalist.”

“Guilty,” you drawl. 

Oscar gives you a quick once-over, a bit disbelieving. You’re dressed down—cardigan, wide-legged trousers, sunglasses pushed up like a headband. One hand in your pocket, the other holding your phone like it’s mid-thought. But it’s you in the flesh. Your voice is far more devastating than he could have ever imagined, too. Clipped. Clear. Like every vowel is pre-approved.

He should walk away. He has croissants to buy. A qualifying sim to finish. A schedule to keep. But instead: “Do you want to a coffee?” 

Your head tilts, just slightly. Not rejection. Not surprise. Something in between. “Seriously?”

He nods, maybe too quickly. “If you’re not busy.”

You glance at your watch, thumb tapping the screen once. Then back at him, expression unreadable. He’s torn between hoping you’ll deny him, and praying you’ll indulge. Before he can decide which one he wants more, you say, “Make it quick.”

And just like that, he’s breathless and buying two americanos before his brain can catch up. He chooses the corner table, by the window, heart doing something awkward in his chest. He watches as you tuck your phone away, adjust your sleeve, walk toward him like it’s a runway you didn’t ask to be on but will dominate anyway.

You’re here. Real. No edits, no distance, no screens. And he’s got ten minutes to not fuck it up.

Oscar watches you sit.

You move like you’ve done this a thousand times before—tug the sleeves of your cardigan once, push your sunglasses up to rest in your hair again, glance out the window like you’re in some French romantic comedy. He’s never seen anyone look so composed in a patisserie with wobbly chairs and sugar packets scattered on the table.

He tries to read your outfit. Telemetry would probably make more sense to him.

Cardigan: grey, slightly oversized, but structured in a way that says it costs more than most of his jackets. Trousers: tailored, pleated, high-waisted, the kind that whisper wealth rather than scream it. Sunglasses: probably designer, probably older than he is. Gold accents on your fingers and ears, none of it matching, all of it deliberate. Even your shoes look like they came with a waiting list.

He squints. “So, are you just…” he starts, “built like that, or is this your job?”

You catch him staring. Not at you, but at the pieces. “Cardigan’s Totême. Trousers are The Row. Sunglasses are vintage Celine. Earrings are Alighieri. Ring was my grandmother’s,” you enumerate without missing a beat. “Good enough for you?”

Oscar smiles ruefully. “I didn’t recognize a single name.”

You shrug, unimpressed. “Didn’t expect you to.”

He huffs a soft laugh. It’s not a comfortable one. “Right. You’re in Monaco for…” 

“An assignment,” you answer crisply. “Fashion house interview. Launch story. Quick turnaround."

“And the bakery?”

“They do the only decent coffee south of the port.”

You sip like you’re just proven a point. There’s no flirtation in your tone. No curiosity, either. Just clinical precision. Oscar is used to being the composed one in a conversation—stoic, a little deadpan, unshakeable.

You rattle him.

He fidgets with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. Picks at it until it peels. “You always that generous with criticism, or was I a special case?” he asks for the lack of better thing to say. 

Your expression doesn’t shift. “I critique clothes. You happened to be in them.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, sharper than he means to.

You purse your lips in a tight grin. “That campaign was a lesson in how not to style menswear. I just took notes.”

“You said I looked like a brooding hedge fund intern.”

“And you replied by qualifying P1. If I’d known all it took was a little public humiliation, I would’ve done it sooner.”

Oscar pauses. Something in your voice makes it sound almost like a compliment, but the smile that follows cuts that thought clean. He doesn’t delve into the implications of you keeping tabs on him. 

“You write like it’s target practice,” he says.

“And you model like someone dared you to.”

Your back and forth isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The tension is precise, contained in the space between your sentences. You sip again, completely unfazed. Oscar, by contrast, feels the sweat gathering at the base of his neck.

He clears his throat. “Well,” he mutters, “guess we both do our jobs.”

“Guess so,” you echo. Cool, efficient, already checking the time.

You glance at your phone. Tap the screen. Then stand, slow and sure. With swift finality, you reach into your bag and place a crisp bill on the table. Enough for both coffees, and then some.

“I said I’d pay,” he’s saying, trying to put the money back in your hand, but of course you don’t let him win. 

“The conversation wasn’t really worth my time,” you say point blank. “Consider it charity.” 

Oscar sits in the wake of the insult, even after you’re long gone. He’s annoyed. Intrigued. Slightly caffeinated and deeply insulted. It’s not the money. It’s the ease. The way you’d dissected him, then left him right there—unfolded, unbothered.

The fuse, lit.

He watches the door swing shut behind you and thinks, very clearly: you started it.

He’s already wondering how he’ll get the next word in.

Much to his chagrin, Oscar starts seeing you everywhere.

First, it’s a Vogue magazine in the Melbourne airport lounge, flipped open to your feature on emerging designers. Your byline stares at him like it knows something he doesn’t. Then, it’s a suggested Instagram post on his Explore page: you in Bangkok, sunlight through gauze curtains, captioned with something maddeningly cryptic. Fashion girls in the comments calling you mother. He doesn’t even know what that means.

It keeps happening.

A retweet of your article lands in his feed. Someone quotes your latest editorial line by line in their story. One night, Mae sends him a TikTok you made dissecting red carpet menswear, giggling so hard she can’t finish her voice note. “She’s so mean, but so right,” Mae says dreamily. “It’s art.”

He’s two days away from blocking your name from his searches. Not out of malice—he just needs the peace.

But then: the tweet.

Something offhanded. Low-effort. The kind of tweet you could’ve typed while standing in line for a matcha. It ends up on his timeline, cursed and unbidden. 

ynofficial: Say what you want about celebrity collabs but at least Patrick Starr made a setting spray that worked. Can’t say the same for Rare Beauty.

Oscar squints. He reads it again. Then again.

With startling cognizance, he realizes, no. That’s not right. Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray.

He only knows this because Edie once dragged him through Sephora for forty-five minutes on a mission to find setting spray, and he picked up Rare Beauty thinking it looked cool. Edie had stared at him like he’d committed a war crime.

“They don’t make that,” she’d hissed. “Put it back.”

Oscar had remembered. Mostly out of spite. Now, he types a reply.

OscarPiastri: Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray. Pretty sure you’re thinking of Milk. Or Urban Decay if you’re old school

He hits send before the panic catches up.

It goes viral within the hour.

Quote tweets roll in. Not Oscar Piastri correcting her like he’s on beauty TikTok. WHY DOES HE KNOW THIS. Wait… is this flirting??

Oscar doesn’t care. He lets the notifications flood in, waiting for the only one that would truly matter. Except you don’t respond.

Of course you don’t. You’re probably spiraling in private, rewriting your whole digital identity. Or maybe you don’t care at all.

But the image of you reading the tweet, eyes twitching, maybe muttering “fuck” under your breath—it does something to him.

He walks into the paddock the next morning in an unusually good mood.

The fuse, now burning in both directions.

Two days later, Oscar’s just landed back in Monaco when it hits.

He’s waiting for his suitcase, scrolling through texts from the team, half-reading a message from his physio about recovery stretches when Lando sends him the reel.

No caption. Just the link. A laughing emoji. Oscar clicks, and there you are.

Your face fills the frame. Dewy. Annoyingly perfect. You’re holding up a glass bottle with a milky pink label, speaking directly to the camera. Voice calm, smooth, a little smug.

“Rare Beauty’s 4-in-1 Mist,” you say, tone lilting. “Hydrating, priming, refreshing—and setting. For those still confused.”

You spritz once. A delicate cloud of mist. Cinematic lighting. Some irritatingly well-timed music drop.

Oscar chokes on his own breath.

The video cuts. New outfit. New angle. You’re lounging on a sun-washed terrace, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses back in place. You’re wearing a cropped McLaren tee—cut just above the ribs, sleeves rolled, neckline raw. It’s been altered, obviously.

Oscar can’t fucking breathe. Across your back, in bold, stitched lettering: the number 4, and the last name NORRIS.

He stares. Scrolls back. Watches it again, and again, until Lando’s texts become difficult to swipe up on and ignore. 

Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: bro

Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: she wore my name 

Lan (McLaren) [4:35 PM]: is this real life? 

Lan (McLaren) [4:36 PM]: should i comment?? what do i comment

Oscar doesn’t reply. Can’t. His heart’s in his throat, competing with a hot streak of irritation. He’s not jealous, per se. Instead, he’s burning white-hot at the audacity of it all. 

The fact that you posted it knowing he’d see it. That it’d somehow landed on his radar without him following you, without anyone tagging him. You wanted it to find him, trusted that someone in his circle would deliver it to him on a silver platter. 

Voila. You hit your target audience. You didn’t clap back; you made content.

Oscar tilts his head back against the airport wall and exhales. “She’s unwell,” he mutters.

But he’s smiling as he says it, because maybe he is too. Oscar’s phone pings again. 

Lan (McLaren) [4:38 PM]: do u reckon 😏 is too much

IMG sends Oscar to Paris for visibility. Presence. The words tossed around the email like perfume. Elegant, slippery, vague. No, he isn’t walking—thank God—but he’s expected to show up. Be seen. Play nice. Smile like he means it. Be the sort of handsome that can sit next to couture and not offend.

He wears something layered and monochrome, styled to look effortless but clearly expensive. The jacket alone cost more than a sim rig. Slightly oversized. Double-breasted. Something that drapes and swallows him in all the right places, though he still thinks it makes him look like a noir villain with a secret. 

Mark tells him he looks great. Oscar tells Mark he looks like he’s playing dress-up.

“You are,” Mark replies without sympathy. “Just do it convincingly.”

The red carpet is chaos like Oscar’s never known.

Cameras flashing like artillery. Stylists flutter like moths. Security barking in five languages. People he doesn’t recognize yell his name, half-sure he’s someone they should know. He steps forward. Poses. Chin up, hands in his pockets. He gives the smile he practiced. Tight-lipped, a little cocky. Impassive but photogenic.

By the end of it, he’s posted up against a branded backdrop, trying not to sweat through the shirt. He can feel the back of his neck prickling, the kind of tension that comes from being watched and judged and catalogued all at once.

“How long do I have to stay out here before it counts as engagement?” he hisses, lips barely moving.

Mark doesn’t answer. Not immediately. He’s looking past Oscar, toward the entrance. His brows lift, and Oscar turns.

That’s when he sees you.

You don’t glide so much as you move with gravity. As if the air shifts around you. Your dress is sharp and architectural—silk, structured in the shoulders, soft in the fall. The neckline is subtle but strategic. Your pearl earrings glint once, then disappear behind the angle of your jaw. You walk like you don’t expect to be watched, which, of course, is why everyone watches you.

You’re not the main event. You’re not even meant to be on the carpet. Not a model, not a designer, not a red-list name. But the cameras start clicking anyway. Slow, then hungry. Someone calls out a name that isn’t yours, and you don’t correct them. You just keep walking, eyes fixed ahead.

Oscar forgets how to blink.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Mark mutters, “Stop it.” 

Oscar tears his gaze away a little too late. 

You catch him. 

Your eyes flick to him across the stretch of velvet ropes and photographers. A beat. A pause that lasts longer than it should. You don’t wave. Don’t smirk. Instead, you nod once. Cool. Reserved. Devastating.

The nod of someone who knows exactly how much space she takes up and isn’t sorry about it.

Oscar exhales. Long. Low. His stomach twists with something sour and unplaceable. He rubs the back of his neck and grumbles to no one, “Mega.”

Mark arches a skeptical brow.

“It’s going to be a long fucking day,” Oscar mutters, as if that might explain everything.

The catwalk is sharp with light, harsh and theatrical. It slices down the middle of the room like a runway to judgment, slicing through perfume-thick air and the hum of curated conversation.

Oscar sits in the front row. Legs crossed. Fingers steepled. A pair of sunglasses shoved in the neckline of his shirt like a prop, like he belongs. He’s dressed to the nines in something structured and Italian, and bored out of his skull.

He tries to focus on the clothes. Tries to remember what Mark told him about appearing engaged. Something about camera angles and posture. Something about making eye contact with designers. He nods once or twice, tries not to squint. But the models blur together. Too much tulle. Too many clean lines and high cheekbones. Too much movement, not enough meaning.

Instead, he finds himself watching you.

You’re across from him, two seats down, framed by a low-profile designer and a bored French editor. Face angled slightly. Brows pinched in concentration. You don’t clap. Don’t smile. You take notes on a tiny, battered notebook, the kind that looks like it lives in the bottom of a tote bag. You scribble without looking. Never once glancing down. It’s almost surgical. Methodical. A soundless dissection of fashion as it walks.

Oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day.

Probably both.

He shifts in his seat, tries not to look again. Fails. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and tilt your head as another model passes. Your expression doesn’t change. You are the real epitome of calm, cool, and collected. You are tragically unimpressed. 

Oscar briefly wonders if you were ever impressed by anything.

Later, the afterparty buzzes with champagne and curated lighting. Something between a nightclub and gallery. Designers holding court. Journalists circling like sharks in silk. Models pretending they’re not hungry. Music pulsing through walls that cost more than his apartment.

Oscar finds you near the bar. Alone. Not talking. Watching.

You look like a contradiction. Sharp in silhouette but soft in posture. Still wearing the same dress. Still wearing that same air of impossible detachment.

You don’t look up until he says, “You know, you act like you’re above all this.”

You sip your drink, gaze still on the carnival show of desperate A-listers. “I don’t act.”

“Right,” Oscar says, shifting his weight, trying not to sound too bitter. “Of course you’re better than everyone else. That’s why you wore my teammate’s name on your back. Real elite behavior.”

Your lips twitch. Just barely. The smallest provocation of a smile. “Still thinking about that? That was weeks ago.”

“Not really the kind of thing one forgets.”

“No,” you hum. “Especially when you were too busy watching me to notice the show.”

Oscar hisses in air through his teeth. So much for being subtle. By the way you’re hiding your grin behind the rim of your glass, you’ve been waiting to say that.

“You think you’re clever,” he accuses. 

“I am clever. You’re just slow.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You know, the Rare Beauty thing was an honest mistake.”

“So was your outfit at the Balmain shoot.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Brutal.”

“Accurate.”

You swirl the ice in your glass, slow and deliberate. Still calm. Still infuriating. Oscar tries not to clench his fists. “You know,” he says, eyes narrowing, “for someone who hates attention, you seem to collect a lot of it.”

You set your empty glass down, fingers brushing the rim. “Is that why you’re here?” you ask, and it would be innocuous if it weren’t for the spark that flies in your eyes. 

The words land. Oscar can’t even deny them. He watches you—unbothered, radiant, impossibly sharp—and the words escape him before he can tuck them away for another one of his daydreams. “Dance with me, then.” 

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s the offer?”

“It’s not an offer. It’s a challenge.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “Cute,” you drawl. “You think I’m something to win.”

“Aren’t you?” he shoots back. 

You laugh—just once, low and incredulous. Then, you lean in close enough that he can smell whatever citrusy thing you’ve dabbed behind your ears. "You’ll have to try harder than that, Piastri."

In the next heartbeat, you disappear into the crowd, pulled by someone else or maybe just the thrill of walking away first.

Oscar stands there, still watching you and the sway of your hips.

Still thinking about ruining your day.

Still wanting to be the exception.

“You’re joking,” Oscar says flatly, like it might scare the suggestion off.

Mark just raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Do I look like I am?”

Oscar glances at the pristine email printout handed across the table like a verdict. Calvin Klein. Two-page proposal. Full creative direction. Option for an extended partnership. His name is printed in bold.

“I drive cars for a living.”

“You also signed with IMG, remember? This is what comes with that. High fashion. Big brands. Broader reach.”

“Half-naked in a denim ad?”

“Tasteful half-naked,” Mark amends.

Oscar groans. Loudly. Like he’s trying to expel the entire conversation from the room.

But Mark doesn’t flinch. “It’s a legacy campaign. Shot on film. Iconic. Everyone does Calvin at some point,” he argues. “It’ll elevate your profile. Trust me.”

Oscar does not trust him. But he signs the paperwork with a sigh so deep it reverberates in his chest. Like he’s agreeing to commit social suicide with the understanding it might be good for him in the long run.

The shoot takes place in a converted warehouse in east London. Exposed brick, industrial beams, and tall windows that let in light so honest it’s almost cruel. The crew is massive. Stylists, assistants, camera techs, someone whose only job seems to be misting his torso between takes.

Oscar stands there in jeans that barely cling to his hips, shirtless under the bright lights, barefoot on cool concrete. His arms fold instinctively across his chest. A futile attempt at modesty.

“Relax the shoulders,” the photographer says. He’s wearing all black, with rimless glasses and a voice like he’s seen too much art to care about a racecar driver.

“This is relaxed,” Oscar replies, a little too defensive.

“Okay,” the man sighs. “Then turn your head more. Give me aloof.”

Oscar frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Pretend you’re bored and rich.”

Oscar thinks, I am bored. And kind of rich. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he leans against a brick wall and tries to look like he belongs in this space. Like he isn’t absolutely mortified.

They run through a series of setups. Some shots are close-ups. His jawline in profile, lips parted slightly, hair tousled in the hands of someone named Luca who smells like expensive resin. Some are wide: Oscar sprawled across a minimalist couch, or standing in the middle of the room with hands hooked in the waistband of his jeans.

None of it feels like him. Not the denim. Not the deliberate exposure. Not the forced intimacy of lens and light.

He tries not to think about it. It’s a job, a paycheck. Something that will invariably be blackmail material for years to come. 

The campaign drops two weeks later. It hits Instagram first. Then the billboards. Then the fashion blogs. Oscar is already in the middle of a race weekend when the post goes live, and he makes the executive decision to turn off his phone.

He turns it on again after thirty minutes.

Lando is the first to breach his defenses.

Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: mate

Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: MATE

Lan (McLaren) [9:22 AM]: 😏 LEMME HITTTT

Then, Logan:

Logan Sgt. [9:43 AM]: No thoughts just oscar piastri for calvin

Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Lmk who did the lighting, wanna kiss them 

Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Do u prefer I kiss you instead 💋

Oscar sinks lower into his hotel room couch, hoodie pulled over his head, drawstrings pulled tight like he can physically block out the world. He stares at the television, which is playing some muted rerun of practice highlights, and does not check Instagram.

That lasts for all of five minutes. 

He taps into the app. Curiosity wins. As it always does.

He scrolls past the official Calvin Klein post. Then scrolls back. Blinks.

There it is.

Your name. Nestled neatly beneath the sea of likes. Verified and unmistakable. The same username that haunts his Explore page. The same one that once tore his confidence in half with a single article.

He refreshes. Still there.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you liked it out of obligation, out of algorithmic pity. Maybe you didn’t even mean to do it and will unlike it the second you notice.

But the tiny heart is there. Bright and red. Undeniable.

Oscar stares at the screen, his own face looking back at him in grayscale—hip bones sharp, denim hugging a little too low, expression somewhere between sulky and iconic.

He’s torn between bracing himself and letting the corner of his mouth lift.

He does neither.

Instead, he locks his phone again. Slower this time. And when he reopens it, refreshing the page just to see if you might have taken back your like? Well. That's between him and his Calvins. 

For a few days after, Oscar lets his guard down.

He tells himself it’s fine. Normal. Healthy, even. You hadn’t said anything about the Calvin Klein campaign, and he’d spent a full forty-eight hours without spiraling over your silence. Maybe the like had been an accident after all. Maybe you didn’t have an article scheduled. Maybe you had other things to do.

He breathes easier. There are other things to worry about.

Wimbledon, for one. IMG sends him with Toni Breidinger, who’s every bit the polished motorsport crossover success they love to tout. She walks the press line like she’s done it a thousand times. 

Oscar stands beside her in a light khaki linen suit, white shirt slightly unbuttoned. No tie. No pocket square. Just a faint squint against the London sun and hair that refuses to be styled into anything other than himself.

Toni, in contrast, is pristine. She wears a satin-adjacent ivory midi dress with delicate pleats and pointed slingbacks. Her jewelry is subtle, her sunglasses Chanel. She looks like someone who belongs in the Players’ Box.

Oscar enjoys her company. She’s kind. Funny. Grounded in the way only other racers are. She asks good questions. Laughs easily. Doesn’t mind that he doesn’t say much. When the match is done, she even manages to surprise him a bit. 

“The night is young,” the NASCAR driver says as they make their way out of the court. “Have you got any plans?” 

It takes a moment for Oscar to realize where she’s getting at, and then another moment for him to realize his next words aren’t probably the best ones he could’ve gotten at. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he blurts out, wincing as he gets to the end of the sentence. 

God, the linen must be doing something to his brain. Thankfully, Toni seems endeared by his loserisms. “Maybe,” she says, coy in all the right places.

There’s a part of Oscar that considers it. Conversation in some pub. Fish and chips. Beer. But his brain doesn’t even get past that, and he doesn’t see the point in wasting Tori’s time. “Thanks,” he says politely, “but maybe next time.”

Both of them know there will be no next time. Toni takes the rejection with grace, and Oscar wonders why the hell he can’t say ‘yes’ and mean it. 

He heads back to the hotel, strips off the suit, and scrolls through his notifications. Nothing interesting. Nothing urgent. He sets his phone down and is halfway into brushing his teeth when his Google Alert pings. ["Oscar Piastri" site:vogue.com]

He taps it out of instinct. The headline is innocent enough. Wimbledon 2025: Fashion's Winners and Losers From Centre Court to Champagne Tents.

He starts to skim, already expecting his name to be somewhere on the list. That was the whole point of the notification. 

Toni is listed under Winners.

Poised and tonal, Toni Breidinger’s Wimbledon fit is a masterclass in motorsport-meets-Monaco. Ivory folds that call back to ‘90s Dior with none of the fuss. She looks like she knows your secrets and has already forgiven you.

Oscar raises a brow. He expected to at least find himself right underneath Toni, if not connected to her. To nobody’s surprise but his own, he finds himself under Losers. 

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, remains committed to dressing like an F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. His linen suit wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do, and his refusal to accessorize speaks to either laziness or existential protest. Hard to tell.

He stares, refreshes the page. It’s still there.

The line cuts sharper on the second read. An F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. He scrolls again. Wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do.

Jesus.

He lets the phone drop to the bed and stares at the ceiling.

This, he thinks, is what was missing with Toni. The friction. The fire. The way his blood runs electric when your words land like darts.

He doesn’t know if it’s a curse or an addiction.

It’s humid and loud in the Marina Bay paddock, which is why Oscar genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating.

It’s a dizzying maze of flashing credentials and overcompensating sponsors, all of it vibrating under stadium lights that haven’t even warmed up yet. He’s elbow-deep in a post-FP2 debrief, half-tuned out while Mark and his race engineer argue about brake balance, when he sees you.

You’re in black. Crisp, tailored, the fabric matte and expensive in a way that photographs like silk but doesn’t cling in the heat. Your heels are low but purposeful. Your sunglasses are oversized and unbothered. Your hair’s swept back, barely frizzing in the humidity, and your press pass swings from your hip like a dare.

But what he really sees—the thing that yanks his attention clean from throttle maps—is the lanyard. Alpine.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t storm over, but the next time he spots you near hospitality, perched casually on the edge of a lounge seat, he doesn’t talk himself out of it, either. He tells himself he’s thirsty, that he was coming this way anyway.

“Bold of you to show up here wearing enemy colors,” he says instead of hello.

You turn at the sound of his voice. Stare at him like you need a second to place the face. Then you smile. Slow, like he’s an inside joke you just remembered. “You mean black?”

“I mean Alpine.”

You glance down at the pass, genuine confusion creasing your brow. “Oh. They gave me a guest tag. I filed my credential request too late.”

“Convenient,” he mutters, though there’s a bite in it.

Your brows lift, a perfect arc of condescension and curiosity. “Did I miss a blood feud or something?”

“Just a contract battle. Public fallout,” he says, trying to brush past it now that he knows you hadn’t done it with malice. “Several months of legal.”

“Ah. I see you’re being emotionally mature about it.”

Oscar huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’re very funny.”

“Thank you,” you say brightly, like you’re accepting a prize.

You turn back toward the track, eyes scanning the mechanics swarming around a chassis like you actually know what you’re looking at. Oscar’s about to tease you about it when Lando arrives.

“Hey, love! I thought that was you,” Lando says, an easy grin in place as he slips an arm around your shoulders like you’re old friends. You lean into it without hesitation. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” you greet the Brit, voice already lighter than it’d been with Oscar. “Vogue sent me at the last minute.”

Oscar watches this with a rising tide of something he doesn’t name. It bubbles under his skin, prickling behind his collar. Later, he’ll find out the two of you occasionally exchange DMs. Lando, supposedly, asks for fashion advice. 

Right now, though, you’re smiling kindly. Asking Lando about his setup. Nodding like you’re genuinely interested in the nuances of tire deg in sector three. You even laugh at his dumb joke about humidity and air intake.

The worst part is you look good doing it.

“Can we get a quick shot?” a McLaren social media manager appears with a DSLR, already angling it like the answer will be yes. “You, Lando, Oscar—just one for the feed. Paddock energy and all that.”

Lando shrugs and steps into place. Oscar does too, like it’s muscle memory. You hesitate just a fraction, but you don’t pull away. 

So Oscar doesn’t, either. 

Instead, he slides his hand around your waist. 

Not tight. Not blatant. Just there. Possessive in the way a statement can be subtle and still sharp. You tense. The camera lines up. You recover quickly, spine iron-straight, lips curving with venomous ease.

“Smile,” he says from the corner of his mouth, gaze locked on the lens. “You’re the one in enemy colors, remember?”

Your smile widens. “You’re lucky I look good from this angle,” you grit out.

The flash goes off again.

Oscar doesn’t move. For a brief moment, it’s like no one else in the paddock exists.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only knows that whatever this is—this weird, escalating combustion between you and him—it’s not slowing down.

Maybe he should be more careful. But as you step out of frame and walk away, leaving behind the scent of heat and challenge, Oscar just thinks: Game on.

That evening, Oscar drives like something’s chasing him.

Not a car, not even the clock. Just a thought. A presence. A black-sheathed silhouette somewhere across the pit lane, wearing the wrong lanyard and a smirk too clever for its own good. You.

You, hovering somewhere in Alpine’s garage. You, probably watching from behind glossy paddock sunglasses, arms crossed, whispering commentary in your head like it’s a column waiting to be written. Probably already composing the headline: Piastri Redeems Himself, Still Lacks Edge.

The logline, probably something like, Oscar Piastri should stick to racing. It’s clearly all he’s good for. 

It shouldn’t motivate him. It does, anyway. Sector one: green. Sector two: purple.

He flies. Slips through corners like the car was carved from liquid. Every lap feeds the flame. You watching—or not watching—from the enemy’s camp has him gritting his teeth and braking half a beat later.

When the checkered flag waves, when the roar in his ears turns into a roar in the crowd, when his engineer screams through the radio—“P1, Oscar, that’s P1!”—all Oscar can think is: beat that, darling. 

The cooldown room is too bright. The AC is too weak. The cameras are everywhere.

Oscar runs a hand through his hair. It’s wet, flattened from the helmet, and he’s aware of it in a way he normally isn’t. He adjusts the collar of his race suit, makes sure the zipper sits right, wipes sweat off his brow. He pretends not to care.

He absolutely cares.

He eyes the monitor playing back the race. There he is, overtaking with inches to spare. There he is, fist raised, head tossed back in relief. He wonders if you saw that part. If it impressed you. If it annoyed you.

The podium ceremony is a blur. Champagne. Anthem. The weight of the trophy pressing into his palms. He catches his reflection in the metal and straightens up. Just a fraction. Just in case you’re still looking.

Back in the garage, his adrenaline is still humming when he hears your voice. “Congratulations.”

He turns. You’re there, somehow composed despite the heat and the noise. Your sunglasses are gone. You extend a hand. Simple. Professional.

He stares at it like it might explode. “I didn’t realize Alpine handed out sportsmanship awards now,” he says, even as he takes it.

Your handshake is confident. Cool, despite the weather. “I’m off-duty. Try not to let it go to your head.”

He doesn’t let go right away. “Must be hard, watching me win in orange.”

You hum, amused. “You clean up alright, I’ll give you that. Shame about the post-race hair.”

His lips twitch. “You watched my cooldown footage?”

“No,” you say, dropping his hand. Your lips have already turned into half a sneer. “I have taste.”

He laughs, a sharp breath through his nose. “Right. Only tuned in for the mistakes, then.”

“Exactly.”

The tension could cut glass. It hums beneath the words, invisible but loud. There’s no need to drag this on, so you give a curt nod as you turn on your heel. 

You’re walking away, already pulling your phone from your pocket, probably drafting your next jab in a group chat somewhere. Maybe something about podium etiquette or helmet hair.

But something glints by Oscar’s boot. Brows furrowed, he bends down.

A bracelet. Thin gold, broken clasped. Delicate, but not fragile. The kind that says a lot in its silence. Your perfume clings to it. Floral, warm, stubborn. Like jasmine twisted with fire.

Oscar holds it for a second, champagne drying sticky on his palm. For once, you’re the one who dropped the ball.

He rubs his thumb over the clasp, then looks up. You’re gone. Lost in the paddock. Swallowed by the crowd and the noise and the shadow of teams who aren’t his.

Looks like he has a reason to find you again.

Not that he needed one.

The opportunity presents itself sooner than expected.

Calvin Klein Autumn/Winter 2025. Runway show. Not just attending. Walking.

Oscar blinks at the email like it’s a prank.

“Please don’t make me do this,” he begs Mark over breakfast in Monza.

Unfortunately, Mark is a slave to capitalism. “You’ll be fine,” the man says, not at all reassuring. “The casting director loves you. The campaign did numbers. They want a face that can drive and walk. Two feet, mate. It’s not surgery.”

Oscar wants to crawl into the nearest drain. He wishes it were surgery. With a noise of resignation that sounds too much like a pained groan, he jabs his fork into his bacon. 

The next week, he’s flown to New York for rehearsals. Takes walking classes. Has a terrifying instructor named Claudette who uses a metronome and phrases like own your breath and summon your solar plexus.

He doesn’t tell anyone about the classes. Especially not his sisters, who will definitely make fun of him until the day he dies. Especially not you, because why the hell would he message you first? 

The day of the show, he wakes up with his stomach twisted in unfamiliar ways. It’s worse than the nerves he gets pre-race. Something slower, stickier. Like anticipation laced with dread.

Oscar is fitted into his look early. Black wool trousers, pressed razor sharp. A charcoal double-breasted overcoat belted tight at the waist, collar popped. No shirt. Just skin and coat. A single silver chain around his neck. Polished boots. Minimal, but cutthroat. Calvin in its purest language.

Hair slicked. Cheekbones sharp. Fingers trembling.

The show space is white and glacial. Rows of chairs in stadium silence. He waits backstage with professional models who barely blink. Someone sprays something into the air that smells like cold metal and luxury. Another person tapes the inside hem of his trousers. 

Oscar  knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Second row, right side, just behind the front row of buyers. Black dress. Black tights. Trench coat draped across your lap. Arms folded. Pen in hand. Eyes merciless.

He steps out onto the runway like he’s walking into fire. One foot, then the next. Claudette’s metronome rings somewhere in his skull. He counts the beat like a lifeline.

You’re not looking at him, not at first. You’re scribbling something, nodding at the tailoring on the model before him.

And then your chin lifts.

He feels your eyes like a pin to the ribs.

You don’t smile. You don’t smirk. You don’t do anything at all. You just watch.

Oscar keeps walking. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter.

He walks past you, into the lights, into the flash, into the breathless click of shutters. But for one heartbeat, all he can feel is you.

Watching.

In complete contrast to the soundless affair, the show’s afterparty is loud.

Louder than necessary, Oscar thinks. Some kind of converted gallery space with concrete walls and modular lighting. Everything hums with house music and ego. Everyone wants to talk. Designers. Models. Brand execs who smile too much and call him “champ.”

Oscar smiles back. He thanks them. He shakes hands and nods along, but his eyes are on the door.

You’ve been hovering at the fringes all night. Never fully in the center, but always just visible. You talk to a few editors. Sip something that isn’t wine. Check your phone often. And when your coat slips over your arm and your bag swings onto your shoulder, Oscar moves.

He cuts through the crowd like he’s late to pit lane. Nearly collides with someone holding a tray of cocktails, mutters a sorry, keeps going. You’re halfway across the lot when he catches up.

“Leaving already?” he calls out, breathless and not at all trying to hide it.

You turn, surprised but not startled. “Piastri.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he jams them into the pockets of his overcoat. “Didn’t peg you as someone who ghosts the afterparty.”

“Didn’t peg you as someone who corners people in parking lots.”

“Right. Fair. Still…” He shrugs. “Thought you might want to debrief. You know, since you were there. Second row and all.” 

You arch a brow. “You looking for notes?”

His grin tilts. “You offering?”

“Not exactly.”

He takes a half-step closer. The night is cool and you’ve pulled your coat tighter, arms crossed again. Defensive. Or maybe just cold. “Just tell me what you thought, then,” he prods. “Of the show. Of the clothes.” Of me, goes unsaid. 

“You’re fishing,” you snipe. 

“I prefer ‘seeking insight.’”

You consider him, then look past him, like the skyline has something more pressing to offer. “You didn’t fall. That’s already impressive.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it. You walked better than some actual models.” You look up just in time to see the surprise flicker across his expression. “There. Satisfied?”

Oscar studies you. The way your mouth is a little tight. The way your hands fidget with the strap of your bag. There’s something below the surface, something he can’t quite nail until it hits him right between the eyes. 

“You liked the campaign,” he says suddenly.

Your nose scrunches. “Excuse me?”

“My Calvin campaign,” he says, words coming out in a rush. “You didn’t say anything when it dropped. Nothing. No critique. No snide tweet. You went radio silent.”

Your posture stiffens.

He presses, triumphant in a way that a top step could never make him feel. “Which means you liked it.”

You scoff. “You're reaching.”

“Am I?”

You look away. It might be the lighting, but Oscar would bet half his month’s salary that you’re blushing. “It was... fine,” you stammer. “Well-lit. Competently styled.”

“You zoomed in.”

“Jesus, Piastri.”

You're flustered. Just a little. But it’s there, and oh, Oscar is going to count it as the best thing of the night. You adjust your bag again, already pivoting. “I’ve got a deadline. Enjoy the party.”

“Wait.”

He pulls something from his coat pocket. Holds it out.

Your bracelet. Delicate gold, a little bent from the champagne, still catching light. “You dropped this in Singapore,” he explains when your eyes narrow with suspicion. “I figured you might want it back, Cinderella.”

There’s a beat, but then you close the space. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Skin on skin, a flicker of contact that lingers longer than it should.

You don’t say thank you. Just nod once, turn, and disappear towards your car. Oscar stands there, bracelet-less, hand tingling.

Later, in his hotel room, he refreshes your Twitter in hopes of some throwaway tweet about the evening. About the walk. About him. He gets nothing, which is both a curse and a grace. 

He falls asleep with his phone in his hand. 

Oscar spends his next weekend doing something dangerously close to normal.

No cameras, no sponsor commitments, no paddock buzz. Just him, a takeaway coffee, and the faint smell of old books and worn denim clinging to the air of a tucked-away thrift shop in Monaco. It’s quaint here, nestled between a closed-down gelateria and a hair salon that only accepts clients by surname. The kind of place that never updates its storefront, never plays music above a hush. He likes it.

He’s flipping through a rack of jackets, trying to tell the difference between what’s vintage and what’s just old, when he spots it. A faded, steel-blue working jacket. Broken in just enough. Boxy shoulders. A collar that begs to be popped. He steps forward—

Only for someone else to reach for it at the exact same time.

His hand closes over yours. 

You blink up at him, equally surprised. Then, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, you arch a brow. “Figures,” you say.

Oscar groans. “This Principality’s too small.”

“For your ego, definitely.”

He half-smiles, then gestures to the jacket, still suspended between your hands. “I saw it first.”

“Debatable.”

“Undebatable. I was reaching. You intercepted.”

“You were hesitating.”

“I was assessing.”

“You were confused.”

“You were lurking.”

You tilt your head. “I was curating.”

Oscar snorts. “You just make up verbs now?”

“It’s fashion,” you snap. “All languages are fair game.”

You tug gently at your side of the jacket, but Oscar doesn’t let go. He’s not entirely sure why—he can buy a dozen just like it online. But it’s the principle. Or maybe the thrill of not backing down. Or, maybe: it’s you. 

You study him. “Let’s both try it on,” you declare. 

He squints, as if trying to figure out the ploy underneath your words. “What?”

“We both try it,” you say, the same way one might explain something to a five-year-old. “Objectively decide who it suits better.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Oscar sighs, glances around the shop like someone might come save him, then relents. “Fine.”

The mirror in the fitting room is cracked at the corner, a thin fracture spidering through the glass like tension made visible. Oscar sits on the little bench, elbows on knees, trying very hard not to look like he’s holding his breath.

You’re up first.

You disappear behind the thin curtain. The fabric sways for a beat too long, and he stares at it like it might offer a preview, a hint, a silhouette. He tries not to imagine what you look like half-undressed. He fails. Spectacularly.

When you step out, the jacket is slung over your shoulders like something you’ve owned for years. Open and deliberate. It shouldn’t work over your outfit—some slinky black knit dress that hits mid-calf, ankle boots that look sharp enough to hurt, gold hoops at your ears, your hair in something careless and unfairly chic. But of course it works. Of course it does.

You push the sleeves up to your elbows with practiced indifference, cinch the belt halfway. Collar upturned with a flick of your fingers. Oscar can’t tell if it’s instinct or performance. Maybe both. Probably both.

“Okay,” you say, watching his reflection instead of the mirror. “Your turn.”

He rises. His knees feel weirdly unsteady. He reaches for the jacket like it’s something sacred. Like touching it is the next part of a dare.

You don’t look away when he slips it on. He pulls it over his white tee, brushes it down over jeans that now suddenly feel too casual, too deliberate. The fit is almost perfect, but you step forward anyway. Tug the belt tighter. Tuck a fold at the collar. Adjust a seam at his shoulder. Your fingers smooth over the fabric like you’re coaxing something to life.

Your hand lingers at his collar. And, for some reason, Oscar’s fingers wrap around your wrist. 

You look up at him. Not startled. Not smug. Just… still.

The air is suddenly too warm. 

“You look good in it,” you say, voice low. Gazing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes that could mean only one thing. 

Oscar’s response is hushed. “So do you,” he breathes, eyes flickering to your perfectly glossed lips. 

It happens all at once. Like a thread pulled too tight. Like gravity giving up.

He’s not sure who he leans in. None of it matters, because all he cares about is that your mouth is on his. Hot, firm, hungry. Like you’ve both run out of excuses.

Your lips taste like coffee, like something sweet and sharp. Lip gloss. Impatience. Your fingers twist into the lapels of the jacket he’s still wearing. His hands find your waist, gripping and greedy. He pulls you closer like he means to stay there.

You breathe against his lips, words slipping out between the spaces. “I liked the Calvin campaign,” you hiss, like it pains you to admit. 

“I figured,” Oscar grunts. “And you called me a loser at Wimbledon ‘cause you were jealous of Toni.” 

You laugh, and it breaks the kiss but not the spell. It’s sharp, breathless, utterly you. “You’re cocky,” you huff, but you don’t correct him.  

He preens. “You still kissed me back.” 

Your nails graze the back of his neck and he groans, low and helpless.

“You started it, Piastri.”

“You wore the jacket like that.”

“You grabbed my wrist.”

“You knew what that would do.”

Clothes rustle. The mirror starts to fog at the edges. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, dips under your chin, slides down the slope of your throat like he’s learning a new track by touch alone. You fist the front of his shirt and drag him back in like you’re daring him to try and stop.

He doesn’t.

There’s the soft thud of your back against the wall. The faint creak of the bench shifting. Hangers sway behind you in silent rhythm. Somewhere, one clinks against the metal rail, forgotten.

Your breathing is uneven. So is his. The kissing gets sloppier. Hungrier. All tongue and teeth and little gasps that he drinks like water.

You whisper something he doesn’t quite catch. He thinks maybe it’s his name—Oscar, this time, instead of the usual Piasti. He rewards you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Your jawline.

Then, finally, your throat. You shiver. It’s messy. Steamy. A little ridiculous, with how cramped the space is. 

But, also: It’s inevitable. It’s you. It’s not enough. His hands trail upward, reckless and ready to risk it all. He’s barely brushed over your chest when a voice cracks through the space like thunder. 

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?!”

Oscar jolts like he’s been slapped. You spring apart, breathless and red-faced. An elderly woman with heavy-rimmed glasses and a deeply unimpressed frown is standing there, hands on hips.

“This—not a motel,” she snaps in clipped English, eyes bouncing between the two of you like you’re teenagers caught behind the bleachers. “Out. Maintenant!”

Oscar opens his mouth to apologize, but he fails to form a coherent sentence. You look like you’re biting back a laugh and a grimace at the same time. The two of you are practically shoved out by the store owner, who neglects to notice the vintage jacket still fitted on Oscar. She kicks the two of you out onto the curb. 

“Je ne veux plus vous voir ici. Bannis à vie,” she announces before slamming the door in your faces.

Oscar is still catching his breath. You’re already grinning. “Did she just ban us for life?” Oscar wheezes.

“She did,” you say, brushing your hair back. “So. Your place?”

Oscar doesn’t have to be asked twice. He grabs your hand and drags you towards a corner, your laughter still echoing behind you. There’s heat under your skin, not just from embarrassment but from the taste of your mouth still lingering on his lips. Your fingers tighten around his as if you’re daring him to slow down. He doesn’t.

The second his apartment door clicks shut, you’re on him again.

You’re kissing like you never stopped, or like you never plan to again. Oscar backs into the entryway wall, hands at your hips, then your waist, then up your back, mapping all the places he’s wanted to touch you. 

“Months,” you mumble into his neck. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

“Right back at you.”

You breathe against his mouth, sweet and amused. “You always this hands-on with critics?”

He kisses your jaw. “Only the one who got me banned from a thrift shop.”

“That was mutual.”

“Was it?” He nips at your pulse point playfully. “Because I feel like you were the instigator.”

You laugh, warm and close and perfect. “Again: you grabbed my wrist.”

“Again: you styled the jacket.”

You make it to the living room like you’re sleepwalking through instinct. Oscar drops onto the couch and you follow, straddling him like you’ve known exactly how this would go from the very first article. Your palms flatten against his chest, fingertips grazing the hem of his tee.

“It’s my jacket, by the way,” you say.

He scoffs as he shrugs the said off, casting it to the side. “You’re delusional.”

“I wore it better.”

“You looked incredible,” he admits, hands landing on your hips. His thumbs circle at your waist, reverent to a fault. “Still doesn’t make it yours.”

You reach for the hem of your dress.

He stops breathing.

The black knit slides up and over your head, pooling to the side like a flag dropped mid-battle. Beneath, your skin glows in the lamplight, your eyes watching his reaction like you already know it.

Oscar chokes. “Okay. It’s yours. Definitely yours. Keep it forever.”

You smile like you’ve won something. Like the jacket isn’t the only thing you plan on keeping. 

Oscar wakes to the morning sun slicing through half-drawn curtains. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he shifts, feels the warm weight curled into his side, your leg hooked lazily over his. And it all comes back in slow, lazy flashes. 

The couch, the jacket, your laugh against his neck, the soft thud of you both racing through the Monaco streets like idiots.

He doesn’t remember how many times you ended up in bed last night. He just knows it was a lot. You’d laughed against his mouth at some point and told him he was greedy. He remembers kissing the curve of your shoulder in apology, and then promptly proving your point. 

He’s a bit sore. He doesn’t mind.

His arm is asleep. He doesn’t care.

You’re breathing slowly, cheek pressed to his chest, hair mussed from where he’d had his hands in it. Oscar doesn’t move at first. He only stares at your face, unsure of what to do with how at peace he feels.

Then you stir.

“You’re staring,” you mumble, voice still gravelled from sleep. Your fingers curl into his side like it's a habit. “Creep.”

He huffs out a laugh, shifts again to look at you properly. “You know,” he mumbles, “for someone who just climbed me like a tree a few hours ago, you’re awfully judgmental.”

You lift your head, hair falling into your face. Your eyes are barely open. You glance down, underneath the covers where you’re both only half-dressed. The smirk that blossoms on your face is wholly unfair. “Wow. Even your boxers are Calvin Klein. Do they own you, or—”

“Really?” Oscar groans. “First thing in the morning?” 

You grin sleepily, mean and glowing in the soft morning light. He leans in to kiss you, but his efforts are met with a palm to his face. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” you complain.

“Neither have I,” he protests, trying again to capture your lips. 

You dodge him effortlessly. “I have standards.”

“Prissy princess.” 

“You were singing a different tune last night.” 

He pulls your hand off his face, presses a kiss to your palm instead. Then your wrist. Then your collarbone. Every inch but your mouth.

You squirm a little, breath catching. “Oscar.”

“You said no mouth,” he says against the valley of your chest. “‘m improvising.”

Your fingers thread through his hair. Your grin softens.

It’s dangerous, he thinks. How easy this already feels. How much he wants the morning to slow down just so he can stay in this one moment, in the space between your teasing and something gentler.

You whisper, almost like a dare, “Don’t get soft on me.” 

But you’re still curled into him, and he already is. Impossibly soft and utterly gone. 

He’s the one who gets out of bed first. Pulls on a hoodie, leaves you with a hickey in a place you can cover up and advice about where he keeps his spare toothbrushes. 

The plan is simple: pancakes. Not the boxed kind, either. He wants to impress you. Or, more accurately, he wants to have something to do with his hands that isn’t touching you, because he could probably do it all day. Cooking seems safer than crawling back into bed just to see if you’re awake enough to kiss him again.

He’s halfway through mixing the batter—flour dusting his hoodie, measuring cup discarded sideways—when he hears you. “Really embracing domesticity, huh?”

Oscar looks up. You’re in his McLaren jersey—his, not Lando’s—and nothing else. It hangs off your frame, ridiculous and perfect, and Oscar feels a deeply immature sense of victory bloom in his chest. The same jersey you’d practically flaunted wasn’t his in that Instagram reel, but now? Now, it clings to you like a claim. 81. Piastri. 

Everything is right in the world, Oscar thinks to himself smugly. 

“You finally found a driver worth repping,” he says, flipping the spatula in his hand with a bit too much flair.

You walk into the kitchen like you own it. Your hair’s a mess, sleep still heavy in your eyes. You loop your arms around his waist from behind and lean your cheek against his back. He freezes. Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he likes it too much. You fit there too well.

“Piastri,” you mumble against the fabric. “You’re burning your pancake.”

He curses under his breath and turns off the stove. Leaves the half-cooked pancake in the pan, forgotten. He turns to face you, and you’re already looking up at him with that expression. The one that sees through him entirely.

“We should probably talk about this,” he says evenly. 

“About your tragically uneven pancake?”

He gives you a flat look. “About us. About… what this is.”

You pull back slightly, arms still around him, and tilt your head. “I like you,” you say plainly. “You know that, right? I wouldn’t have gotten into bed with you if I didn’t.”

“You also called me a loser in Vogue.”

“That was my job.”

“You said I looked like a Wimbledon ball boy who got lost on his way to centre court.”

“Because you did. But it doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

“Unbelievable.”

You shrug, grinning. “You like it.”

He exhales. “You are so difficult.”

“You knew what this was.”

“I thought this was you slowly falling in love with me.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy.”

Before you can say anything else, he lifts you by the waist, setting you down on the counter behind him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeak, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders.

He leans in close, lips brushing your cheek. “Are you finally happy with your brushed teeth now?”

You blink, and then laugh. “Maybe,” you hum, that damned blush already dusting your cheeks.

“Good,” he says, and then he kisses you before you can change your mind.

The batter sits forgotten. The stove cools. Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen floor. And Oscar—hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, heart ridiculously full—decides the pancakes can wait.

Oscar barely has time to sit down when his phone starts buzzing with a FaceTime call from his sisters. Edie, Hattie, and Mae—all three of them crammed into one frame, faces glowing with purpose. It feels like an ambush.

“Is someone dead?” he asks, answering anyway, towel slung over his shoulder. He’s halfway through packing for the next race weekend, and his patience is running thin. “Otherwise, if this is about Hattie’s birthday plans again, I already said I’m not flying commercial.”

“Shut up,” Mae says. “This is serious.”

A beleaguered sound escapes Oscar. Hell hath no fury like the trio of Piastri sisters. “Then get on with it,” he grumbles. “I’m busy.” 

Edie leans in like she’s about to deliver breaking news. “Who are you dating?”

Error 404. 

Oscar blinks. Stalls. Sputters out an incredulous, “What?” 

Hattie sighs like he’s stupid. “Come on, Oz. You think we wouldn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“You,” Mae says, drawing the word out like it explains everything. “Your entire… aesthetic.”

Oscar looks down at himself. He’s in a sleeveless Margiela knit and tailored cargos. The sneakers are Balenciaga. Nothing too loud, but a far cry from his usual khaki-short-and-UNIQLO-tee era.

“You used to dress like you got lost on your way to a uni lecture,” Edie adds. “Now, suddenly, you’re wearing Loewe and soft knits in the paddock.”

“With jewelry,” Hattie cuts in. “Subtle, but intentional jewelry.”

Oscar’s eye twitches. “You lot stalk me too much.”

“The internet stalks you,” Hattie corrects. “We just pay attention. And people have noticed. There are entire threads now.”

She’s not wrong. 

There are Twitter compilations. Instagram mood boards. (Oscar knows what a mood board is now.) TikToks that compare his grid walk fits from a year ago to now. The glow-up is so documented, it’s practically a sociology paper. 

He remembers the first fight about it. You, arms crossed, standing in front of his closet like it personally offended you. “You own four identical grey hoodies,” you had said with disgust that could curdle milk. “That’s a cry for help.”

“They’re comfortable,” he’d defended.

“They’re a crime against humanity.” 

You’d spent an hour styling him in pieces he didn’t even remember owning. Some he’d never worn. He’d grumbled the whole time, arguing about collars and cuts, but now? Now he barely touches the hoodies. He still doesn’t quite know what he’s doing fashion-wise, but he knows what looks good on him. Or at least, what looks good to you.

He flashes back to you in Paris, thumbing the lapel of his coat before a shoot. Tugging the hem of his jumper just so. Offering nothing but a single nod before stepping back like an artist proud of her canvas.

He can still hear you. Style is how you say something without having to explain it. And you’re Oscar Piastri—you’ve got things to say.

The camera pans awkwardly as his sisters continue interrogating him, but then a voice floats from behind the en suite bathroom door, cutting through their squabbles. 

“Honey, should you go with the green vest or the cream knit for the weekend?”

Oscar’s soul exits his body.

You step out, holding both options in your hands, freezing the second you catch sight of the phone screen. There’s no way around this. You’re dressed in a bathrobe, barefoot in Oscar’s hotel room. The cat is decisively out of the bag—at least to his family. 

Hattie screams. Edie drops her drink. Mae starts coughing so hard that she might be choking. 

Oscar unceremoniously ends the call and slams on Do Not Disturb. 

You’re pouting, hands curled protectively around the two clothes options you were presenting. “Should I not have called you ‘honey’?” 

Despite himself—despite the interrogation he’s sure to get from his nosy sisters—Oscar grins. “Too late for that now,” he says. 

He tosses his phone face-down, crosses the room in two strides, and tackles you onto the bed, both of you laughing before your back even hits the sheets. Your voice is muffled by the pillow as you petulantly mumble, “We should’ve hidden it longer.”

“I think the Loewe gave it away,” he says, kissing your temple.

“You loved that vest.”

“You loved me in it,” Oscar says. 

You don’t disagree. ⛐

[gatsby-20]

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132

[gatsby-20]

All the Hard Things

Oscar Piastri x obsessive compulsive!Reader

Summary: sometimes OCD has a way of taking over your mind beyond all logic, but that’s okay because the love you and Oscar share goes far beyond all logic too

Warnings: depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder and inadvertent self-harm due to it

It happens like this: your cap is crooked, your tassel’s stuck in your hair, and your mum’s crying harder than you expected. You don’t even feel that proud. Just tired. Wrung out and blinking against the flash of someone else’s camera.

“Y/N!” A voice calls from behind a crowd of hugging classmates.

You turn, already smiling. Oscar is leaning against a brick column, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s trying not to grin too wide, but he’s doing a shit job of it.

“There she is,” he says, and then, a beat later, “How’s my graduate?”

“I feel exactly the same,” you say, walking into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hands slide up your back, and he presses a kiss into your temple.

“You smell like other people’s success,” he mutters into your hair. “It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn’t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

And this time, it’s not just a hope. It’s the truth.

[gatsby-20]

Monaco’s Busiest Flower Shop ╰┈➤ LN4

summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.

[word count] 6.1k

warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | humour! | cliches! | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.

🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house

lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.

it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.

or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.

so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.

lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.

the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.

it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.

so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.

lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.

"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.

lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.

wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.

"is there something I can help you find?"

lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.

there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.

he swallows roughly and blinks again.

you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."

lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.

also known as him.

lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."

you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."

you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.

"all of them?"

"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."

your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.

"and how old is said neighbour."

he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."

"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.

you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.

"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."

lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."

your smile widens, "what's your budget."

he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."

your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.

flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.

"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"

he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.

"and what's the name of the recipient?"

repeat.

"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.

he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."

"lando." you repeat.

"and your name?"

the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.

his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"

lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.

he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.

after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.

“can't make her birthday?”

your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.

“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”

you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”

he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.

lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”

“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.

“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”

“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”

“wasn't before?”

you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.

you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.

“you're cheeky,” you muse.

he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”

you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”

the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.

you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.

the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.

his heart pings at the time being interrupted.

“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”

lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.

“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.

“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”

you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”

“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.

it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.

“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.

the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.

you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”

—

almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.

but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.

lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.

you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.

you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.

“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.

lando grins, “yeah.” no.

you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.

he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”

“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.

you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”

you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”

lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.

he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.

but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.

you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.

lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”

“your sister?”

“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.

your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”

lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”

“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.

“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”

you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.

you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.

so yeah, his address will do.

“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”

lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”

you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”

and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”

when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.

—

a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.

lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.

you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.

“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.

he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”

the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.

“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”

“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.

you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.

your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.

“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”

his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”

“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”

your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”

he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.

regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”

lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.

“oh!” you emote, “really?”

“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.

your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.

“something like that.”

you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.

“alright, well, let me get something together then.”

—

four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.

it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.

your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.

his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.

"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.

"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.

"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"

"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"

"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."

the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."

your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.

"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.

he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.

"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."

you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."

george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.

once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"

"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."

you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."

the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.

"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"

"not today-"

alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."

"oh yeah, he really—"

"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"

the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.

silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.

lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."

well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.

but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.

"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"

lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.

"i'll take these, actually."

your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.

after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"

lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."

your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”

lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?

“yes,” you breathe.

“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”

like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.

lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.

lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.

—

after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.

oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.

sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.

but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?

but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.

so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.

he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.

you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”

“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.

you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”

lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”

“who's oscar?”

“my friend.”

you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”

much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”

you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.

there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.

finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”

and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”

“yes?”

you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”

lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.

“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.

your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”

“no?”

“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.

“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”

“I don't want to browse.”

“oh?”

lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.

you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”

“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”

“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”

“and the others?”

he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.

“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”

you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”

“because of you.”

“me?”

okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.

lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”

“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.

“you can kick me out,” he offers.

“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.

dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”

“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”

lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.

it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.

you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”

lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”

a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”

his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”

“I googled you.”

he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”

[gatsby-20]

Teach Me

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summary: A chance reunion with Oscar at a party leads to a night of exploration, vulnerability, and intimacy—where he learns to ask for what he wants, and you’re more than willing to teach him.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink

word count: 4,7k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this turned out to be great potential to add some parts, so maybe stay tuned if it does well

teach me series

════════════════════════

You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since both your lives split off into entirely different rhythms—his dominated by circuits and airports, yours by everything else.

And yet, when you bumped into him again at a mutual friend’s party, he still had the same shy smile. Still held eye contact like it meant something. Still remembered the dumb in-jokes that made you laugh harder than the alcohol.

You ended up talking for hours. About nothing and everything. And somehow, that turned into walking back to your hotel together. And somehow, that turned into sitting too close on your bed, the TV playing something neither of you are watching, knees touching like it’s a game of dare.

You can feel how tense he is. Not nervous like scared—but nervous like hesitant. Like he’s not sure what’s okay to want.

“You’ve always been so good at this,” he murmurs eventually, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again. “People. Talking. Flirting. I don’t think I ever got the hang of it.”

You tilt your head. “When would you have? You went straight from karts to cars. The rest of us were fumbling through school dances—you were chasing podiums.”

He huffs a laugh. Quiet. Embarrassed. “Yeah, but even then... the other guys, they still talked about it. About girls. Hookups. I never really—” He breaks off. “I was just thinking about racing.”

“That’s not a crime,” you say softly.

His voice drops a little, barely more than a whisper. “Feels like I missed something.”

You glance at him sideways, curious “Are you a virgin?”

His head snaps toward you—wide eyes, startled. Then he lets out a small, awkward chuckle. “Yeah... I mean—no.” He exhales sharply. “I’m not totally new to this. I’ve had sex.” A shrug. “We were young. It was fast. Awkward. Over before I could really think about it. And then... I don’t know. Life just kept happening.”

“Do you want to learn now?” you ask.

His breath catches. Then: “Yeah.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek. His skin’s warm, a little flushed. You lean in just enough for him to meet you halfway if he wants to.

He does.

The kiss is gentle. Curious. He doesn’t rush it, and you don’t push him. Your hand cups the side of his neck, feeling the soft thrum of nerves and anticipation under his skin.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is almost a whisper.

“You don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing.”

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your thigh. “Good,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Because I really, really don’t.”

You kiss him again, slower this time, letting it linger. His hand drifts to your waist, unsure, but you press into his palm to tell him it’s okay.

When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed, his lashes low.

“Okay,” you say softly. “New rule.”

He blinks. “Rule?”

You nod. “You have to talk to me. No hiding it. If you like something, you say it. If you want me to stop, you say it. If you want more…” You trail your fingers lightly down his chest. “You say that too.”

He swallows. “Even if I sound stupid?”

“You won’t. I promise.” You smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “There’s no wrong answers. Just tell me what feels good.”

He hesitates only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

You lean in again, mouths meeting, and this time you ease him gently back against the pillows. Your knee slots between his thighs, your hand sliding under his shirt, just brushing warm skin.

His breath stutters.

“That okay?” you murmur.

“Y-Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s… good. Warm.”

You laugh under your breath. “Good start.”

You guide him through every little step—how to touch, where to focus, how to relax into the way your lips find his neck and your hand curls low on his stomach.

Every time he gasps or moans, you stop and make him tell you why.

“It—when you do that thing with your thumb,” he pants, eyes fluttering. “It… it makes everything feel tighter. Better.”

You press your mouth to his jaw. “That’s what I want. For you to feel everything.”

And he does. Slowly, sweetly, in breathy little confessions and nervous laughs, in the way his hands start to get bolder, braver.

He listens. He learns. And he lets you teach him with lips and tongue and open praise.

It’s messy, a little clumsy, but none of that matters—not when he’s watching you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. His hands are on your back now, sliding under your shirt like he’s memorizing you.

You roll your hips just enough to make him shiver.

“Still good?” you ask, voice low.

He nods quickly, too quickly, then corrects himself. “Yes. I like… when you move like that.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

He fumbles for a second, eyes flicking away. Then, quieter: “More. I want more of you.”

That’s all it takes.

You ease his shirt up and over his head, kiss your way down his chest, slow and soft. His skin is warm, marked with a few nervous trembles, but he’s breathing steady through it now. Trusting you.

When your hand slips lower, he gasps, hips lifting into your touch before he remembers to speak.

“Yes,” he says, breathless. “That—please, don’t stop.”

You smile against his skin. “Good boy.”

He whines. Actually whines. And it goes straight through you.

His hips twitch again like the words themselves tug at something deep inside him. His fingers curl tight into the sheets, his jaw slack with need.

“God,” he pants, like the sound of praise is almost as intoxicating as your touch. “Say it again. Please.”

A soft, almost shy laugh escapes you as you pull back just slightly, looking down at him. You tilt your head, fingers brushing along his jaw.

"Did you like that, Oscar?" you ask, your voice low, teasing in a way that makes his breath catch. "Me telling you how good you're doing?"

His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide. His face flushes a deeper shade of red, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything—just stares at you, caught in a mixture of surprise and a shy kind of awe. Then, his hips buck involuntarily against you, as if the praise itself set something off inside him.

His chest heaves, and he stammers, his voice tight. "I… I… yeah, I liked it. It—it felt… good."

You lean in closer, your lips brushing just above his ear. "I could tell." You press a little firmer against him, watching his face twist with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. "You’re doing so well, Oscar. You like hearing me say it, don’t you? When I tell you how good you’re being for me?"

He bites his lip, the flush on his face spreading all the way down his neck. “Yeah… I… I want to hear it.”

You let the words sink in, savoring how they make him squirm beneath you, how much he craves that affirmation. And you know, in that moment, you could keep going—make him beg for it, make him crave your praise until he’s dizzy with it.

You give him what he wants.

“You’re doing amazing. Such a good boy, Oscar.”

That breaks him.

"Fuck, please," he says, voice trembling.

His grip tightens on the sheets, and you can feel him shift beneath you, eager, almost frantic. His body is a perfect contrast to the hesitant boy he once was. Now, he’s confident in his need, in his craving for your approval.

"Please," he gasps, his voice rough and shaky. "I need to hear more…"

Your fingers hover just above his waistband, your breath hot against the sensitive skin of his abs. Oscar’s body trembles beneath you, the anticipation almost too much to bear, and youcan feel his nerves radiating through the tension in his muscles.

You look up at him, voice soft but coaxing. “You’re doing so well, Oscar,” you murmurs, lips grazing his skin lightly. “But I need you to tell me what you want. What feels good? You just have to say it, baby. I’m here to listen.”

His eyes meet yours, uncertainty flickering in them, but there’s something else too—a hunger, a desperate need to feel good, to know that you want to hear what he’s craving. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still not sure how to ask for it.

You kiss his thigh gently, lips lingering for just a moment before you pull away, letting the tension build. “It’s okay. You can tell me, Oscar. I won’t bite. Just tell me what you need.”

Oscar swallows hard, his voice trembling when he finally speaks. “I… I don’t know what to say…”

You smiles softly, hand brushing his side soothingly, the touch gentle, patient. “It’s alright. Just start slow. Tell me if it feels good when I touch you like this.” You move your fingers again, grazing the waistband of his pants, letting him feel the heat of your proximity. “Does that feel good?”

He nods, his body reacting with a soft moan that escapes before he can stop it. “Yeah… yeah, it feels good… But I… I want more…”

Your heart races at his admission, the vulnerability in his voice making her pulse quicken. “More?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, yet full of warmth and encouragement. “Tell me what more feels like. I want to know what makes you feel good, Oscar.”

Oscar’s breath catches, his face flushed, but he nods again, this time with more confidence. “I… I like when you’re close. When you touch me, but… maybe with your mouth…”

Your eyes soften at his words, and you leans in closer, your lips brushing against his skin. “I can do that,” you murmur. “Just tell me if it’s too much or if you want more, okay?”

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and as you gently slide the last of the fabric down, his body exposed now, not prepared for the sight that greets you. You pause for a moment, eyes widening slightly, unable to hide the surprised expression that cross your face.

"Fuck, Oscar," you breathe, voice low and full of disbelief, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "How did you hide that?" Your gaze linger on him for a beat longer than you mean to, taking in how he stands there, vulnerable yet undeniably… impressive.

Oscar’s face flushes a deep shade of crimson at her reaction, his body stiffening with embarrassment.

But you’re not going to let him feel self-conscious for long. You lean in closer, your breath warm against his skin, your gaze flickering up to meet his once more.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, your voice soft, reassuring. “You’re exactly what I wanted.”

With that, you lower yourself further, your hands resting on his thighs for a moment as you look up at him, silently asking if he’s ready. He nods, barely a whisper of a sound escaping him, but you hear it—his consent.

You move slowly, deliberately, pressing your lips to his skin just below his navel, tasting the heat of him before continuing your descent. His body flinches slightly, a soft gasp escaping his lips as your mouth moves lower, your lips brushing over him with a delicate pressure. You feel his hips twitch beneath you, and you pause, your eyes flickering to his, seeking confirmation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur, your voice soft, but with the authority of someone who knows exactly how to guide him. “Just say the word, Oscar.”

He shakes his head, his hands fisting in the sheets, and his voice trembles with need. “It feels good,” he breathes, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. “Please, just… don’t stop.”

You smile, knowing you’ve unlocked the vulnerability in him, the one that lets him speak his desires. And you’re more than willing to give him what he needs. With that, you finally take him in your mouth, slow at first, the heat and taste of him overwhelming your senses as you move in rhythm with his quiet gasps.

As you continue, the sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel him struggle to keep his composure. The way his hips buck unexpectedly sends a jolt of shock through you, and you stumble for a moment, a slight gag catching in your throat. Tears well up in your eyes from the sudden movement, but you quickly recover, a trail of spit still connecting you both, glistening in the dim light.

For a moment, you just breathe, letting the surprise and intensity of the moment settle, your hand gently resting on his thigh as you look up at him. “Did you like that?” you ask, your voice a little breathless, your eyes soft with the mix of surprise and affection.

Oscar’s chest heaves, his breaths coming quick and uneven as he watches you. His eyes are wide with a mix of shock and excitement. “Oh my God… yes,” he pants, his voice hoarse with need, a little desperate now. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I—”

You smile, wiping your lips gently, savoring the way he’s unraveling in front of you. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you say, your voice soothing, though there’s an underlying teasing tone.

You take his hand, guiding it to your hair, your fingers lightly curling around his wrist, urging him to take a little control. “You can take some control,” you murmur, your voice low and full of trust. “Just guide me if you need to.”

Oscar’s eyes widen in surprise, his hand trembling in your hair as you lower yourself again, your lips brushing against him, waiting for his guidance. His breath catches as you look up at him again, your expression soft, yet encouraging.

As you pause, waiting for him to take the lead, his mind is spinning, and a sudden surge of confidence rushes through him. He’s starting to get it—how it feels to guide you, how much you’re willing to trust him with this. Slowly, he exhales, his hand tightening in your hair, not pulling, but gently guiding your head down as his hips buck up again, this time with purpose.

Your eyes meet his, and for a brief moment, he freezes, unsure if he’s doing it right. But your smile, the way you relax under his touch, reassures him. “That’s it, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice low and soft, as you sink further into him, your mouth finding its rhythm again. “You’re doing perfect.”

The control he feels is intoxicating. He guides you just a little more, feeling his own body grow tighter with the sensations. The rush of pleasure builds, and it’s almost too much to handle. He squirms beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at you, his breath hitching with the overwhelming feeling.

"I think I’m gonna…" he starts, his voice faltering, a mixture of panic and desire in his tone.

You pull off for a moment, your lips still glistening, a soft smile playing at the corner of your mouth as you look up at him. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you breathe, your voice soothing and encouraging. “Just let it happen. Let me know where you want it to be.”

Your words are the reassurance he needs. He exhales a shaky breath, his grip on your hair tightening again as he gently moves you down, his hips bucking once more in need, desperate for the release he’s been holding back.

“Please… can you…” He doesn’t know how to ask for it, but the words tumble out, raw with need. “Can you… finish it? I… I want you to.”

You smile softly at his request, your eyes locking with his.

You lower yourself once more, moving with deliberate slowness, each motion intentional as you take him in.

Your tongue glides over the tip, circling gently, your pace steady. His hand remains tangled in your hair, fingers brushing the softness as you move. Each subtle bop of your head brings him closer to the edge, the sensation growing more intense with every second. The pressure builds inside him, and though he tries to hold back, it becomes overwhelming. With a deep, almost primal grunt, he loses control, his hips jerk upward, hitting the back of your throat — the final spark that ignites everything.

The pressure inside him snaps all at once, and his body shudders violently beneath you. One hand grips your head, pulling you down harder without thought, caught in the grip of release, while his other arm locks tight behind him, bracing against the mattress and forcing his upper body forward. His back arches, hips lifting fully off the bed, his torso folding over you as if every muscle in him is straining toward you, unable to hold anything back.

But you don’t stop. Your mouth stays on him, your throat tight around the tip, taking every inch as his body bucks beneath you. One hand holds his thigh steady, the other stroking him gently through the aftershocks as he gasps through a stuttering stream of “Oh God… fuck… you feel so good…” The words fall from him unfiltered, broken by the rawness of the release.

When the tension finally ebbs from his muscles and his breath slows, he collapses back onto the bed, chest rising and falling. Only then do you let him slip from your mouth, slow and careful.

The silence between you both is comfortable, filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing, and you move to sit beside him, your fingers gently brushing over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your touch.

"You okay?" you ask softly, your voice a soothing contrast to the intensity of the moment just passed. Your eyes are full of warmth and care, checking on him in a way that makes him feel safe and cherished.

Oscar nods, still catching his breath, his eyes meeting yours. A soft, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and his hand reaches for yours, gently pulling it to his chest. "Yeah… I think I’m just a little overwhelmed," he admits, his voice quieter now, full of a mixture of contentment and vulnerability.

You smile, your thumb gently tracing over his hand, the simple touch grounding him. "It’s okay. You did amazing," you say, your voice tender, reassuring.

He blushes slightly, the praise settling into him like a warm blanket, making him feel both shy and proud in equal measure. His voice almost shy as he looks at you with wide, honest eyes. "I… I didn’t expect it to feel THAT… good."

You chuckle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch tender and careful. "We can do that again, whenever you like."

He smiles, all flushed cheeks and messy hair, eyes still a little glassy from the afterglow. “Yeah?” he breathes, disbelief and hope threading through the single word.

You nod, leaning in until your foreheads touch, your thumb still gently stroking his temple. “Yeah,” you whisper, as if it’s a secret just for him. “You just have to ask.”

Oscar swallows hard, his heart thudding all over again—but for a different reason now. Not nerves, not lust. Just this quiet, aching affection building in his chest. “Okay,” he says softly. “I… I think I will.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek—sweet, not rushed, not trying to stoke the fire again, just sealing the promise between you. Then you rest your head on his shoulder, fingers drawing slow, lazy shapes on his chest.

For a while, you don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He eventually tilts his head to glance at you, his voice sleepy but sure. “You’re really good at making people feel safe.”

And he doesn’t say anything after that—just holds you a little tighter.

NEXT PART

[gatsby-20]

always, almost - [part one]

SUMMARY: You and Lando have been seeing each other in dreams for years, but you’ve never met. He thinks you’re a dream. You think he’s a fantasy. Until fate throws you together, and it’s like waking up for the first time.

PAIRING: lando norris x reader

part one

You’d been dreaming of him for as long as you can remember.

It started when you were six, maybe seven. The first time, you woke up with a strange warmth in your chest, the remnants of a voice you couldn’t place still echoing in your ears. A boy, older than you, but not by much, stood in a field of gold, backlit by the sun, face soft and blurred like a photo just out of focus.

You never saw him clearly. Not once. Not his eyes. Not his smile. Just impressions: the crinkle of laughter, the curve of his mouth when he said your name. The name only he ever called you. A name you couldn’t remember upon waking.

But the feeling stayed. Always.

A quiet knowing. A weightless peace. A sense that you belonged to someone, even if you didn’t know who.

Over the years, the dreams came and went. Sometimes months apart, sometimes weeks. On bad days, he was a whisper in the dark, grounding you. On good ones, he was a shadow in your periphery, smiling like he knew something you didn’t.

You tried telling your mum once. She smiled, then turned wistful. Said some people meet their soulmates in dreams before they ever cross paths in real life. Said maybe you’d been lucky enough to find yours early.

You weren’t sure if you believed in that. Not entirely. But part of you hoped.

Because every time you opened your eyes after one of those dreams, you felt it in your chest like a bruise and a blessing.

He was out there. Somewhere.

And maybe one day, you’d see his face in the daylight. You’ve spent your whole life chasing a ghost you’ve never seen.

Not really, anyway.

His face has always been just out of reach, blurred around the edges like a painting left out in the rain. No matter how hard you try to hold onto the details when you wake, they slip through your fingers like water. But the feeling? That never fades.

That lingers. Clings to your ribs. Lives in the hollow space between your lungs where air doesn’t quite reach.

Sometimes, you think you might be making it all up. A fantasy conjured from the desperate wish to feel known. To feel chosen. It’s not like you haven’t tried moving on. Tried believing he was nothing but a recurring dream, stitched together from half-watched movies and too many hours spent staring at the ceiling, wanting more than what the world offered.

But there’s something about him. Something that remains.

His presence in your dreams is always quiet. He never bursts in. He’s simply…there. A soft certainty in a world that often feels too loud. He stands beside you like he belongs there, and you let him, without question. Without fear. It’s always peaceful when he’s near, the kind of peace you haven’t found anywhere else, not even in waking life.

And when he speaks, though his words never make it through the haze of sleep, your heart always understands.

You know his laugh, even though you’ve never heard it clearly. You know how his fingers twitch before he reaches for yours. You know the way your body relaxes when he’s near, like you’re safe. Like you’ve finally arrived.

You’ve spent years trying to recreate that feeling with real people. Friends, crushes, fleeting flings. None of them have ever come close.

It’s stupid, maybe. Romantic, definitely. You don’t tell people about the dreams anymore. You’re not twelve with stars in your eyes and a notebook full of made-up last names. You’re grown now. Grounded. Sensible. You pay bills. You keep your head down. You try to build a life that doesn’t depend on waiting for someone you might never meet.

But there are moments. God, there are moments.

When a stranger brushes past you on the street and your breath catches for no reason. When the sun slants through your window just right and you swear you’ve seen that exact light before, not here, but somewhere else. When you wake up with tears on your cheeks and the echo of his presence so strong it feels like loss.

You wonder what it means, to know someone so deeply in your dreams but not in your life. You wonder if he dreams of you too. If he feels the same hollow ache. If he’s searching.

And sometimes…sometimes you wonder if he’s real at all.

But then the dreams return, like clockwork. And he’s there. Waiting. Unclear. Unshakable.

You start drawing him when you're fifteen.

Not his face, you still can’t see it, not then, but the moments. The echoes.

It starts after a particularly vivid dream. One where he takes your hand and runs with you across a bridge lit by nothing but moonlight and the warm glow of distant lamps. You don’t remember where you were going, only that you trusted him completely. That you laughed, wild and breathless, as the water below rippled like liquid ink and the stars above shimmered like they were watching.

You wake up trembling. Smiling. Empty.

So you pick up a pencil and draw the bridge. Just the bridge. Long and dark and delicate, like a ribcage strung with fairy lights.

You keep going after that. One dream at a time.

The sea at night, waves silvered with moonlight, a pair of footprints disappearing into the foam. A carousel, old and slow, lights flickering like fireflies. The edge of a rooftop with a city below it, your legs dangling over nothing and his voice soft in your ear.

Each sketch becomes a fragment of the world only you know. A world no one else can see. Your sketchbook becomes a sacred thing. Not a diary, not really, but something truer. The only proof you have that he’s real, or at least was, in some parallel breath of time. The only thing that makes the dreams feel less like fiction and more like memory.

You never draw his face. You’ve tried. God, you’ve tried. But your hands always falter. There’s never enough detail, never enough certainty. He always ends up blurred, too soft around the edges, like your mind won’t let you cheat. Like you’re not allowed to see him until it’s time.

Instead, you focus on what you do remember:

The tilt of his head when he listens. The way his hand reaches for yours, every single time. The way his presence makes you feel like the whole world is holding its breath.

You keep that sketchbook hidden. Tucked between old textbooks, under your mattress, behind the stack of journals you’ll never reread. It feels too private, too intimate to share. Like if someone else saw it, they might laugh. Or worse, they might look at it with pity. Might call it lonely or sad or hopeless.

But to you, it’s none of those things.It’s a map. A promise. A thread that ties dream to daylight.

Somewhere else in the world, a hotel room in Tokyo, a flight to Austin, a garage in Monaco humming with static and sweat, Lando is doing the same thing.

He wouldn’t call them dreams, not exactly. They come and go like memories of a life he never lived. Flashes. Feelings. A girl he’s never met, but who shows up in the quiet moments. In sleep, mostly. But sometimes when he’s awake, too. When the world slows down for a second and leaves just enough silence for you to slip through.

He doesn’t remember when it started. Maybe when he was ten. Maybe younger. Just a face in the dark. Not always clear, never completely, but always there. A presence. A gravity. A softness. A laugh that makes his chest ache in a way nothing else does.

He tried to explain it once. Carlos thought he was taking the piss. His mum had just smiled. “Some people,” she said, “are connected before they meet.”

He hadn’t known what that meant at the time.

He does now.

He doesn’t tell anyone anymore.

Instead, he writes.

Tiny, cryptic notes on napkins. The inside of notebook covers. Matchbooks. Moleskines. His race gloves, of all things, symbols and half-faces scribbled across the insides of the cuffs where no one else can see. A loop of lashes. The curve of a smile. A crescent moon tucked under a pair of collarbones. Things that don’t make sense but do.

Your voice is the hardest to hold onto. It’s always just out of reach, like hearing someone call your name in a crowd, not loud, but unmistakable. Every time he wakes up, he chases it. Mouth open, breath held, like he might finally catch the sound.

He never does.

But he still listens.

There’s a sketch folded into his passport, worn at the corners, nearly torn through the center from being unfolded and folded again. He drew it after a dream where you danced. In the middle of the street. No music, just headlights and soft rain. Your hand in his. Your forehead pressed to his cheek. No words, just knowing.

He doesn’t know how he knows it’s you.

He just does.

And the worst part? The part that keeps him up on nights when the world feels too loud, even for him?

He thinks you're out there. Real. Breathing. Waiting.

Just like he is.

He wonders if you remember more than he does. If you ever wake up crying. If you’re sketching him the way he’s always been sketching you, through sensation, not detail. Through instinct. Through faith.

There are moments when he swears he almost sees you in the crowd, at airports, in cafés, on the other side of the pit wall. It always passes. Just someone turning away too fast. Just a trick of the light.

Still, every time he slips on his gloves before a race, his thumb runs across the marks inked into the fabric.

Like a ritual. Like a prayer. Like a promise.

Find me.

Neither of you talks about it.

Not really. Not out loud.

It’s not the kind of thing you say at dinner. Or drop into a conversation between races. “Hey, do you ever dream about someone you’ve never met?” It sounds crazy. Unhinged. Delusional, even. But it’s not a delusion, it’s a truth. One too private to offer up to the world.

So you carry it instead. Quietly.

You sketch. He scribbles. You keep your dream journal tucked beneath your bed. He presses his fingers to the writing inside his gloves like they might speak back. You see him in reflections, in shadows. He hears you in wind chimes, in crowd noise, in the soft, familiar lilt of a stranger’s voice.

But you never say a word.

It lives in the pauses between conversations. In the long silences on solo drives. In the heartbeat between closing your eyes and falling into that half-dreamed world where you know, without question, you’re not alone.

There’s no logic to it. No proof. But neither of you doubts.

Because how could something this constant, this deep, be anything but real?

Sometimes, you wonder if you’ll carry him your whole life. If the dreams are all you’ll ever get. If you’ll grow old still waiting for someone you don't know how to find.

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s already passed you on the street. If he’ll ever meet someone and feel nothing, and only realize later what he missed. If the ache in his chest will ever quiet.

But neither of you let go.

You just…keep moving. Keep living. Keep holding on.

You carry each other like a secret beneath the skin. Like a memory from another life. Like a story half-written in starlight.

And somewhere, under the weight of it all,

You’re getting closer.

Even if you don’t know it yet.

Yay, I love soulmate AUs. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this story!! Thank you for your support and my requests are always open!!