#f1

[astralcorpse-png]

Rainy day in Silverstone. Also did another gif version for fun under cut.

[flatlyfantasticshambler]

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[corgicrafter]

I keep seeing versions of the max pr picture so here’s mine

[storm3326]

i love them

[verstappenverse]

Starstruck

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max swore no celebrity could ever faze him. Then you walked into the paddock and suddenly, he’s blushing, stuttering, and everyone on the grid is trying to play wingman. (Requested)

2.4k words / Masterlist

Max had said it more than once, in interviews, on podcasts, off-handed to anyone who asked:

“I don’t really get starstruck. Doesn’t matter who it is they’re just people.”

He meant it too.

He’d stood next to Hollywood A-listers, shaken hands with legends of sports, even taken a call from European royalty once or twice and not even blinked. Cameras caught him cool, arms crossed, mouth in a tight, vaguely amused line. Just Max being Max.

Which is why no one, not his mechanics, not GP, especially not the other drivers expected his reaction when he saw you.

And least of all you, stepping out into the pit lane in your oversized sunglasses, Miu Miu jacket, and a polite, press-ready smile.

You’d been invited as a guest of Red Bull, a casual PR appearance according to your team, but secretly you’d jumped at the chance. No one knew you were a longtime F1 fan, the kind who watched practice sessions between interviews and followed race strategy like it was an art form. Now walking through the paddock in your Red Bull cap you couldn’t stop the quiet thrill that came with finally being here.

Max, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power not to stare… and failing. Badly. Because of course he knew who you were.

He’d known for years, had seen the magazine covers, the premieres, the interviews that went viral. He’d watched a talk show clip once where you’d laughed at your own joke and something about it had stuck with him for far too long. So when you showed up actually here, in his paddock, wearing his team’s cap it did something strange to his pulse.

He was mid-conversation with Charles when it happened. Something about tyre strategy for the sprint race. Not that it mattered. The second you walked past, Max's eyes flicked to you and stuck.

Charles noticed instantly. His sentence died mid-syllable as he turned to follow Max’s gaze. A slow grin spread across the Monegasque’s face.

“Is that… a blush Verstappen?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“You’re blushing. Blushing, mate.”

Max scoffed, crossed his arms tighter, and turned back toward the screen. “No, I’m not.”

Charles wasn’t buying it. Neither was Lando who’d just strolled past and immediately clocked the look on Max’s face.

“Holy shit, is that her?” Lando whispered. “She’s even hotter in person.”

“Don’t be gross,” Max mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor now, ears burning red.

“Ooooh,” Lando said, gleeful now. “You like her. Oh my god. Max Verstappen has a crush.”

“Shut up,” Max hissed. “She’s just… she’s famous. That’s all.”

Lando grinned. “I thought you don’t get starstruck.”

“I’m not.”

The way Max refused to meet anyone’s eye told a different story and they weren’t about to let it go anytime soon.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, the paddock was overwhelming, a blur of crisp polos, tight schedules, and champagne flutes balanced precariously on trays. Everyone looked like they belonged.

You were still trying to remember where the Red Bull garage was when your handler nudged your elbow gently.

“That’s Max Verstappen,” she murmured under her breath, voice low like it was classified information. “World champion. Four times.”

As if you didn’t already know.

You’d watched Max race since the Toro Rosso days. Sat up in bed in random hotel rooms around the world at odd hours, bleary-eyed and tense, watching him go wheel-to-wheel. You’d followed every championship year like it was a personal mission gritting your teeth during the political post-race drama. You didn’t talk about that side of yourself often.

Max Verstappen was the real deal. The reason you said yes to this weekend in the first place.

So when you looked up and actually saw him standing by the garage, race suit unzipped to the waist, gloves half-pulled off, dark blond hair pushed back with a water bottle in hand you froze for a second.

And then you realised he was looking at you.

Staring, really.

Not in a weird way. Not leering or smug or the kind of indifference you were used to from other famous men. Just… wide-eyed. A little stunned. Like you weren’t supposed to be real, like he’d been caught off-guard by you in the same way you’d just been by him.

It threw you honestly. You were used to being recognised. Used to admiration, curiosity, even jealousy, all those predictable reactions people had when they saw you in person. But Max’s gaze wasn’t any of those things.

You blinked.

Smiled, soft and polite, just enough to acknowledge him without making it weird.

That’s when it happened.

Max Verstappen, four-time world champion, calm under pressure, absolute menace behind the wheel… turned bright red.

His jaw tensed, his eyes widened further (if that was even possible), and he spun on his heel so fast you thought maybe someone had called his name.

They hadn’t.

He just bolted.

You tilted your head, more intrigued than anything.

Interesting.

Later in the drivers’ briefing the teasing intensified.

Max was trying to focus, really, he was, but it was impossible when the entire row behind him had turned into a group chat with voices.

“Ask her to take a picture with you,” Oscar said, his tone perfectly casual, like he was offering sound race strategy. “You know. For your memories… or your lockscreen.”

Max didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“You could autograph her cap,” Nico offered, resting his chin on his hand. “Real smooth. Classic paddock flirt.”

“Maybe she’ll autograph something else,” Carlos added with a grin, and Lando actually choked on his energy drink, nearly snorting it out of his nose.

Max groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can you all not.”

“Come on,” Charles chimed in, elbowing him like they were at a school dance and Max had just been too chicken to ask the pretty girl to slow dance. “She looked at you.”

Max lifted his head, giving Charles the flattest look he could muster. “She looked at everyone.”

“She smiled at you,” Charles repeated, grinning like a man who absolutely planned to make this his entire personality for the rest of the week.

“She was being polite,” Max muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what celebrities do.”

“Yeah, but most celebrities don’t look interested,” Lando pointed out. “She lingered. I saw it. You looked like you forgot how to stand.”

“You guys are children,” Max grumbled, but the tips of his ears were going red again, a tell he’d never quite learned to control.

And they weren’t wrong. Not entirely, because hours later long after the briefing, the media obligations, and dinner Max was alone in his hotel room, lights dim, scrolling aimlessly through his feed in that half-distracted, too-tired-to-sleep state. He wasn’t even looking for anything specific. Just decompressing.

Until he saw it.

A new post from the official F1 account, a carousel of shots from the paddock that day. Drivers, fans, crew, sponsors, and there in the third photo was you.

You were standing near the Red Bull garage, head tilted slightly sunglasses on, lips curved into a small, amused smile.

Max almost kept scrolling, but then he noticed something or rather someone in the corner of the frame. Him. Just a blur of his back and shoulder in the foreground. And you, clear as anything, looking up in his direction.

Smiling.

At him.

Max’s thumb hesitated over the screen. Then slowly, like he couldn’t help himself, he zoomed in. His stomach dipped just slightly, like the drop of a rollercoaster before the first turn.

Shit.

The next day, you returned to the paddock for qualifying. The sun was brutal, and the VIP section was flooded with influencers and media people pretending not to sweat. You wore trainers, shades, and another Red Bull cap.

And then there he was again.

You spotted him across the paddock, white undershirt clinging to him and hair damp from the heat, brows furrowed as he talked with the other drivers over something technical, but the second you walked into view he straightened.

It wasn’t subtle. He stopped mid-sentence. Glanced over.

You smiled again.

Max looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

Alex sidled up behind him. “Say something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Literally anything.” Lando chimed in. ‘Hi.’ ‘Big fan.’ ‘Wanna get a drink?’”

Max’s mouth opened. Closed it.

Esteban sighed. “Come on mate.”

“She’s gonna leave after today you know,” Liam pointed out, voice quieter, almost sincere. “This is your shot.”

Max scowled. “You all need to shut up.”

He qualified P2. Not bad, but not what he wanted. Not when you were watching. Not when some foolish, restless part of him had wanted to impress you.

Maybe that’s why, as he climbed out of the car afterward and peeled his gloves off with shaking fingers, he made a decision.

He was going to say hi.

Even if it killed him.

You were leaning against a railing near the back of the garage half-watching the chaos of post-quali debriefs when he found you.

“Hi.”

You turned.

Max Verstappen was standing in front of you. Hair slightly askew from his helmet. Cheeks pinker than they had any right to be. And for a man who stared down anyone wheel-to-wheel at 300kph, he looked terrified.

You smiled softly. “Hi.”

He blinked, once, like his brain had stalled. Then gave the tiniest nod. “You’re… uh. You’re here for the weekend?”

“Yes,” you said, amused by his tone. “Flying back tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” His face shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible frown tugging at his mouth. “Shame.”

He hesitated, then added quickly, “There’s… uh, there’s a thing. Like, a team thing. Sunday night. Just some people. You probably get invited to fancier stuff all the time, but… if you weren’t flying out, I’d say, maybe—”

You tried not to smile too hard. “Are you trying to invite me to a party?”

Max’s ears went fully red. “I—maybe.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re not what I expected.”

He looked alarmed. “Is that… bad?”

“No,” you said, eyes warm. “Just different. You always seem so… unfazed on TV. Calm. A little intimidating honestly.”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking down briefly before meeting yours again. “I am.”

You raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

He huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe not around you.”

You weren’t expecting that. For all his nerves the man had some game.

Feeling bold, you said quietly, “You know I’ve actually been a fan of yours for years.”

Max’s head jerked back a little. “You have?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though it absolutely was. “Watched every race.”

He looked stunned. “I didn’t think… I mean, most celebrities…”

“Think parc fermé is a perfume?” you offered with a teasing smile.

“Exactly,” he said, laughing nervously. “But you actually… watch?”

You nodded. “Religiously.”

Max’s mouth opened, then closed again, clearly at a loss for words. So instead he blurted, “Do you wanna take a picture?”

You blinked. “A picture?”

He flushed. “I mean—not like—I just thought, you might want one. For… memories.”

“Do you want one?” you asked, eyes twinkling.

Max looked panicked. “I—maybe.”

You stepped closer. “Let’s take one. Maybe for the both of us”

His blush deepened like you’d physically turned the heat up around him. You angled the phone and lifted it between you. Max hesitated a beat, shoulders stiff, body caught between bolt and melt and then he leaned in beside you.

You snapped the picture.

Then turned the screen toward him. “Not bad.”

He stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa.

“Can you send it to me?” he asked quietly.

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “I don’t have your number?”

He looked like he’d just realised he was standing on a live track. “I—Shit. Right. Of course you wouldn’t have I just…”

You laughed, full and free this time. “It’s okay. Here.”

You took his phone from his outstretched hand, typed your number in, and handed it back. He stared at the contact name like it might disappear if he blinked.

He smiled. “Thanks. I’ll… text you.”

“Nice to meet you Max,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long second. Then, just as soft. “Nice to meet you too.”

Maybe it was nothing, but it didn’t feel like nothing.

Not to either of you.

When you left that evening the grid was buzzing.

Word spread faster than a driver swap leak. One second you were seen slipping out of the Red Bull garage with a lingering smile the next everyone with eyes and a group chat had something to say about it.

Lando wouldn’t shut up. “Did you see them? He was giddy. Like full-on heart-eyes.”

Alex grinned. “He was blushing so hard I thought he’d overheated his engine.”

Even Lewis joined in. “I didn’t think Verstappen could get flustered. Man looked like he just got proposed to.”

“I haven’t seen him smile like that all year,” Yuki said dramatically.

“He didn’t even smile like that after winning his first championship,” Fernando wisecracked.

Max didn’t respond to any of them.

He just sat there, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, phone in hand, staring at your last message like it was a national treasure:

Thanks for saying hi! It was great to meet you, I hope I can see you again sometime?

He must’ve reread it ten times by now and each time it did something weird to his chest, made it feel lighter and heavier all at once.

Max’s thumb hovered just above the screen, his lips twitched when he read the message again.

“Oh my god,” Lando whispered, eyes wide with glee. “You’re down bad.”

Max finally looked up. “What?”

“You’re in love.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Max insisted, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

Because the truth was… he couldn’t stop smiling.

Couldn’t stop replaying your laugh in his head, the way you said his name, the way you admitted, so casually, so sincerely, that you’d been a fan for years.

Maybe being starstruck wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

He glanced back down at the message one last time, heart thudding hard in his chest.

Then he typed:

I’d really like that. Maybe dinner next time you're in Monaco?

He hit send before he could overthink it, locking the phone and pressing it to his knee like it was going to combust. He didn’t feel like Max Verstappen: the world champion, the paddock’s headline, the one who never got starstruck.

He just felt like a guy hoping you’d say yes.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput@blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w

[mrsfancyferrari]

Sleeping Medicine

Summary: Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.

Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 2.6k

MASTERLIST - F1

The world knows Lando Norris. They know the infectious grin, the quick wit, the fearless talent on track, the playful 'Little Lando Norris' antics.

They know he's always tired, a running joke in the paddock, an endearing quirk. But what they don't know, what only you truly understand, is the sheer depth of slumber he can fall into the moment your fingers trace patterns on his scalp.

Everyone expects him to nod off, but with you, it’s not just nodding off. It’s an irreversible descent into a blissful, unshakeable sleep, from which he will not, cannot, wake up easily.

And when he finally does, the last thing he wants is to leave the warmth of your arms.

The Driver's Room

The air in the driver's room is a cacophony of muffled sounds: distant engine roars, the chatter of engineers, the low hum of air conditioning. It’s a temporary sanctuary, a place of brief respite amidst a whirlwind weekend.

You step inside, leaving the usual race day chaos behind, and find him exactly where you expected: slumped in his ergonomic chair, headphones still around his neck, eyes half-closed as he stares blankly at a monitor displaying telemetry data.

He’s been in and out of meetings, on and off track, fielding questions, pushing limits. Even for him, a perpetual motion machine, today has been draining.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you murmur, crossing the small space to stand behind him. He grunts in response, a low, tired sound, but doesn't open his eyes.

His shoulders are hunched, a testament to the tension that has built up over the day. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his messy hair, which smells faintly of sweat and something uniquely 'race track'.

"Rough one?" you ask, your voice soft, understanding. He sighs, a deep, shuddering breath. "Quali was… a lot. My head feels like it's been through a washing machine."

You nod, sympathetic. You know the feeling, the mental exhaustion that comes with operating at such a high level of concentration.

Without a word, you lift your hands and gently thread your fingers through his soft, slightly damp hair. You start at his temples, massaging small circles, feeling the tension subtly begin to release under your touch.

His body, initially stiff, starts to relax, leaning ever so slightly back into your hands.

You move to the crown of his head, your nails lightly raking through his hair, then down to the nape of his neck, where the muscle knots are most prominent.

You can feel him melting, literally softening under your touch. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant sounds of the paddock, all seem to fade into the background, replaced by the gentle rhythm of your fingers, the quiet intake of his breath.

He leans his head back further, resting it against your stomach as you continue your work. His eyes, which were once half-open, are now fully closed.

His breathing deepens, slowly, steadily. You know this rhythm, you’ve memorized it. It’s the sound of Lando Norris, the racing driver, the public personality, shedding his armor and sinking into oblivion.

His hand reaches back, blindly finding yours, interlocking his fingers with yours, a silent plea for you to continue.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. The telemetry data still flickers on the screen, forgotten. His body is completely relaxed, a dead weight in the chair.

You can feel the warmth emanating from him, the steady thump-thump of his heart against your palm.

He’s out. Truly out. Not just a nap, but a deep, restorative sleep born of utter exhaustion and the unique comfort only you seem to provide.

Just as you're wondering how long you can stay like this, a sharp rap comes at the door. "Lando? Five minutes to driver briefing!" It's Charlotte, his press officer, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.

You wince. The spell is broken. "Honey," you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. "Lando, wake up. Briefing."

He groans, a sound of profound protest. His eyes flutter open, revealing bleary, unfocused pupils. He looks utterly disoriented, like a deep-sea diver suddenly pulled to the surface.

He blinks, then blinks again, slowly registering your face above him. A slow smile stretches across his lips, but it's the smile of someone desperately unwilling to let go of their dream.

"No," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, already reaching for you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you down until your cheek is pressed against his head.

"Stay. Just five more minutes. Ten. An hour." He buries his face into your side, his grip tightening.

He's an anchor, and you're the ship, firmly rooted.

"Lando, Charlotte's waiting. You have to go." You try to gently extricate yourself, but he holds on with surprising strength.

"Don't wanna go," he whines, his voice muffled by your clothes. "It's warm here. And you smell nice. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."

You sigh, a small laugh escaping your lips. "I know, love, but you have to. You're Lando Norris, you have a race to win."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his beautiful eyes still clouded with sleep, but a mischievous glint starting to emerge. "Only if you promise more head rubs later. A lot of them. And maybe we can just miss the briefing and cuddle instead?"

You kiss his forehead. "Get up, you big baby. After the briefing, after dinner, after everything. All the head rubs you want. Now go." With a final, reluctant groan, he finally unwound himself from you, pushing himself upright, running a hand through his now even messier hair.

But before he left, he leaned in for one last quick, sleepy kiss, a silent promise in his eyes. He might be leaving, but he wasn't really letting you go.

His Parents' House

The scent of roasting chicken and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, mingling with the comfortable, lived-in aroma of the Norris family home.

You're visiting for a quiet weekend, a much-needed break from the relentless F1 schedule.

Lando, surprisingly, had been relatively awake for most of the morning, helping his mum in the kitchen, teasing his siblings, and even engaging in a lively debate with his dad about a recent rugby match.

But the afternoon, as always, proved to be his undoing. You're curled up on the plush sofa in the living room, a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table, a book resting unread on your lap.

Lando, initially engaged in a video game with Cisca, had slowly migrated towards you. He'd started by resting his head on your shoulder, then gradually slid down until his head was in your lap, his long legs draped across the cushions.

You’d instinctively begun to run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer here, less stressed than at the track, clean and fluffy. You trace the natural part, then gently massage the scalp above his ears.

He sighs, a soft sound of contentment that resonates through you. The game controller, forgotten, clatters to the floor.

Cisca glances over, rolls her eyes playfully, and then goes back to her own device, used to her brother's spontaneous naps.

The rhythm of your touch is slow, deliberate. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his body seems to melt into the cushions beneath him. His eyelids, initially fluttering, come to a complete rest.

You can see the faint blue veins beneath the thin skin of his eyelids, the dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks.

He looks so young, so peaceful, entirely different from the focused, intense competitor the world sees.

You continue the light strokes, occasionally adding a gentle scratch with your nails just behind his ears, a spot you discovered he particularly loved.

He whimpers slightly in his sleep, a tiny, happy sound, and shifts, burrowing his face deeper into your lap, his arm blindly coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

The weight of his head is comforting, the warmth of his body seeping into your legs.

A soft, content smile plays on your lips. This is your Lando, vulnerable and entirely yours, lost in a dream.

"Dinner's ready, kids!" Cisca’s cheerful voice rings out from the kitchen, followed by a clatter of plates. "Lando! Cisca! Come and get it before it gets cold!"

Cisca immediately bolts upright. "Coming, Mum!"

You, however, have a more challenging task. "Lando," you whisper, gently stroking his cheek. "Dinner. Your mum's calling."

He makes a sound that's somewhere between a growl and a purr, tightening his grip on you. He doesn’t even stir beyond that. The call of food, usually irresistible to him, falls on deaf ears.

"Lando, come on. Chicken and roast potatoes. Your favourite." You try a little more firmness, nudging his shoulder.

He stirs, but it's not a wake-up. It's a deeper burrow. His head presses harder into your lap, and his hand, still clutching your waist, bunches the fabric of your shirt, pulling you down.

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice slurred with sleep. "Just five. Don't move."

You hear Cisca's footsteps approaching. "Everything alright in here? Lando, did you hear me?"

You give her an apologetic look over Lando’s prone form. "He's, uh, pretty comfortable, Cisca."

She clucks, a familiar exasperated-but-fond sound. She sees him, a mass of limbs and messy hair, utterly unconscious in your lap.

"Oh, for goodness sake! Always the same. You've got him properly snoozing, haven't you, love?" A twinkle enters her eye. "You're his secret weapon for a good night's sleep, apparently."

"Apparently," you agree, smiling down at his peaceful face. "He won't budge."

Cisca laughs. "Let me try." She kneels down, her voice firm but gentle. "Lando Oscar Norris! Get up! Dinner!"

He doesn't even twitch. Not a muscle. You suppress a giggle.

"Told you," you whisper.

Cisca shakes her head. "Right. Well, we'll eat, and you can keep him company for a bit longer. He clearly needs it." She pats your arm. "Just try not to starve, darling."

You thank her, and she retreats, leaving you alone with the sleeping pile of McLaren’s star driver. You look down at him, utterly trapped, but not minding one bit.

His grip on you is still firm, his breathing a steady rhythm. You know that if you managed to drag him to the table, he'd be halfway back to sleep before the starter was even served.

So you settle back, resuming your gentle head rubs, content to be his personal sedative, his favorite blanket, his anchor in the quiet, comforting world of sleep.

Dinner could wait. Lando wasn't going anywhere.

Vacation with Friends

The villa echoes with laughter, music, and the splash of water from the infinity pool. The air is warm and smells of sunscreen and something grilling on the barbecue.

You're on a much-anticipated vacation, a week of sun, good food, and great company, with Lando and a handful of his closest friends. Everyone is in high spirits, unwinding after a long, intense season.

You'd spent the day by the pool, playing silly games, and now the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the patio.

The energy was still buzzing, but Lando, never one to pace himself, was starting to flag. You’d noticed him leaning against a poolside pillar, his eyes a little glazed, his usual quick quips replaced by slow blinks.

"You alright there, sleepy Eeyore?" you’d teased, nudging him gently.

He'd just grunted, a multi-syllabic expression of profound weariness. "Just… absorbing the sun. It's strenuous."

You knew what that meant. He was on the verge. "Come on," you’d said, taking his hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter. Before you faceplant into the pool."

You led him away from the main hubbub, past the outdoor kitchen, to a secluded, shaded daybed nestled amongst some vibrant bougainvillea.

It was a perfect escape, far enough from the noise to be peaceful, but still close enough to feel part of the group.

He dropped onto the plush cushions with a sigh of absolute relief, stretching out his long limbs. You sat beside him, and without a word, he rolled onto his side, resting his head in your lap, his legs tangled with yours.

The slight breeze rustled the leaves above, and the distant sound of his friends' laughter became a soft, pleasant hum.

Your fingers found their customary place in his hair. Here, it was still damp from the pool, cool against your skin. You worked your way from his forehead, tracing the line of his eyebrows, then circling his temples with light pressure.

He melted instantly, a low moan of pure bliss escaping his lips. His breathing evened out almost immediately, deep and rhythmic. You felt the subtle tremor of his body as he relaxed, every muscle giving way to the soft embrace of sleep.

You continued, running your hands through the cool, damp strands, lifting them and letting them fall back down, scratching gently at his scalp. He was completely out, an island of profound peace in a sea of holiday merriment.

You watched the rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his lips, the way the last rays of sun dappled through the leaves and painted patterns on his face.

You were utterly content, holding this peaceful, sleeping man who, despite all his energy and zest for life, could be felled by a few minutes of your touch.

"Oy! Lando! Dinner's ready! Fresh fish!" It was Max, his voice booming across the patio.

You winced. Here we go. You tried gentle persuasion first. "Lando, honey, dinner. Max is calling."

Not a flicker. He was dead to the world, buried deep in Dreamland.

"Lando!" Oscar’s voice this time, closer, as they clearly started a search party. "Mate, don't tell me he's asleep again."

You looked up to see Max and Oscar approaching, grins on their faces. They took one look at Lando, completely passed out in your lap, and burst into laughter.

"Unbelievable," Max groaned, shaking his head. "He’s like a tired toddler. You've got him completely incapacitated, haven't you?"

"It's the head rubs," you explained, trying to sound innocent. "He just… succumbs."

"More like you brainwash him into ultimate relaxation," Oscar quipped, nudging Lando's foot with his own. "Wake up, you old man! There's food! And maybe a few drinks later!"

Lando stirred, a deep, frustrated groan rumbling in his chest. His eyes squinted open, struggling to focus.

He blinked, a slow, drugged process, then registered his friends looming over him.

"No," he mumbled, his voice thick and barely audible. He didn't even try to sit up.

Instead, he just tightened his grip on your leg, pulling you closer, nuzzling deeper into your lap. "Stay. Just five more minutes. Don't wanna move."

"Mate, come on," Max said, trying to pull his arm. "There's grilled prawns!"

Lando just mumbled something incoherent and buried his face deeper, clinging to you like a limpet. "Can't… move… too comfy… with her."

Oscar burst out laughing. "He's completely useless when she gets her hands on him! You've got him trained, you know that?"

You smiled, running a gentle hand over his still-damp hair. "He's not trained; he's just happy."

"Happy and completely comatose!" Max retorted, eventually giving up and just chuckling. "Alright, we'll save you some fish, you big baby. But you're missing out on the good banter."

They ambled back to the main group, still laughing and teasing. You listened to their voices fade, then looked down at Lando, who was already drifting back to sleep, his breathing evening out once more.

He had a faint, content smile on his lips. He was clearly missing out on the party, on the food, on the friends.

But he was utterly unwilling to give up this moment with you.

You knew, deep down, that you wouldn't trade it for anything either. Let the world have the fast, witty, energetic Lando Norris.

You had the one who found his deepest peace and most profound sleep in the simple, loving touch of your hands, making him utterly unwilling to leave your side.

It was a trade-off you were more than happy to make, every single time. . . .

[siryellowpurplehelmet]

[mawapeach]

I know I know…. Banger isn’t it 🤭 This is an au where Venom consumes Osc like in Spider-Man 3s

[sinnerism]

there are people who started following f1 after watching the movie and witnessed a messy rainy race as their first gp, a backmarker car on the podium and a team principal randomly being fired all in the span of 10 days

[housepartyprotocol]

Von Dutch

Oscar Piastri x Popstar!reader

Summary: Oscar Piastri has managed to bag a chaotic pop queen and no one understands how or why they work

(a/n: reader is based on the artist Charli XCX and her style of music, but of course it's only a face claim and feel free to picture yourself ! xx)

Masterlist / TipJar

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen, troyesivan, and 432,362 others

ynusername Are you jealous of me?

view all 1,952 comments

user BRAT

oscarpiastri I am so goddamn jealous of you(r partner)

ynusername Yeah he is fucking hot af oscarpiastri Goddamn it landonorris You two are so strange ynusername Petty man says what? oscarpiastri Damm right babe landonorris Ew

user How the fuck did Oscar Piastri pull that??

user She's so out of his league user But isn't Oscar also hot?! ynusername GODDAMN HE IS

user Queen of pop

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, alexalbon, and 189,974 others

oscarpiastri Isn't my view stunning

view all 381 comments

user Oscar = calm and chill, the girl he is dating = chaotic and messy

user As long as they work together user How though, how do they work like they do user Balance?

landonorris Can I share your view?

oscarpiastri I will brake check you so hard landonorris Woahhh calm down oscarpiastri Back off from my woman ynusername That's right, get him baby! oscarpiastri GRRRRR landonorris .... wackos

user I would say someone is in it for the money

user but they both rich AF

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, troyesivan, landonorris, and 589,522 others

ynusername When you fuck me it's crazy (sorry oscar)

view all 3,630 comments

troyesivan Sorry Oscar!

ynusername Sorry Oscar! oscarpiastri Make it up to me? ynusername I'm running over rn

user I want what her and Oscar have badly

user they are parents

oscarpiastri WOOF

ynusername WOOOF landonorris WOOF oscarpiastri Did you learn nothing?? landonorris Just love to push your buttons mate

user shes so pretty!!

oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, ynusername, alexalbon, 245,986 others

oscarpiastri Great weekend. Thank you for the team and my therapist for getting me through this!

view all 205 comments

landonorris I think having a relationship with your therapist is unethical

oscarpiastri Screw it, she is hot ynusername Therapy session tonight? landonorris Couples therapy for Oscar and I? ynusername Only offer 1-1 sessions soz landonorris May have to schedule one of those oscarpiastri Open your door right now landonorris AH

user GOd I want Y/N as my therapist

user Congrats Oscar!!

user Also congrats on the win ha

ynusername Well done baby!!

oscarpiastri Thanksss babyyy

oscarpiastri Reward soon? ynusername No patience, of course ;) user So strange liked by ynusername

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, troyesivan, lorde, landonorris, and 485,362 others

ynusername Wish the rain was my mans sweat (wtf..)

view all 632 comments

user She is so unhinged omg

user OSCARS BACK? good on you girl

oscarpiastri I don't sweat THAT much

ynusername You could collect it? oscarpiastri Deal user They are so gross omg user Has a demon or something infected Oscar?? landonorris He has always been like this, it's now just public info liked by ynusername

user same girl same

user Hottest couple on Earth

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, alexalbon, and 198,255 others

oscarpiastri Pre dinner, at dinner, post dinner

view all 184 comments

user They are so real omg

ynusername You didn't post the one of me in my dinner dress

oscarpiastri Becuase you are sneezing in every one ynusername SO? am i not hot when i sneeze oscarpiastri You are baby, but the internet doesnt need to see that ynusername sure sure

landonorris why did you even bother going to a nice place when everyone knew you were going to end up in an in-and-out

oscarpiastri *in-n-out landonorris piss off ynusername <3

user I want these two as my parents, I can be a child

user I can be a dog!

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, troyesivan, gracieabrams, landonorris and 756,352 others

ynusername brat era is never dying (thank you to my bby)

view all 325 comments

oscarpiastri hot mama omg

oscarpiastri drooling oscarpiastri barking ynusername down boy ;)

user oh shes so inlove

landonorris i'll see you at your wedding

oscarpiastri I've not even proposed yet landonorris dude, give it like a month oscarpiastri true ynusername what? oscarpiastri you will still be surprised don't worry ynusername can't wait ;)

user brat never dies

(a/n this one wasnt too long but so much fun to write oscar in an unhinged manner and having the brat album on while writing was so perfect lol)

[rapidlyimpossibleunicorn]

香港約炮 香港WhatsApp：+852 5941 1373 鍾意嘗試各種姿勢 想搵一位長期嘅，唔會打擾大家生活嘅人。有需要嘅時候大家互相聯絡。總之就係一種特殊嘅朋友啦。一齊嘅時候可以放鬆心情，冇咩壓力。鍾意嘅就加我。 （備註Tumblr见到）

[ef-1]

😭😭😭!

[captain-price-unofficially]

my mans running animation only got two frames

[pucksandpower]

Cuntissimo

Max Verstappen/Lewis Hamilton/Charles Leclerc/Fernando Alonso/Lando Norris x Toto’s ex!Reader

Summary: “Your ex is hitting you up, but you no longer give a fuck. Leaving that loser on read. Don't let him back in your bed. ‘Cause your energy’s precious. Not your fault he fell in love.”

The sun spills like Prosecco across the Monaco paddock — everything gleams. The asphalt, the million-dollar cars, the oversized sunglasses shielding secrets and smug glances. But it’s nothing compared to the shimmer you bring.

You arrive late. Not fashionably, because that implies effort. You just arrive, draped in a buttercream Valentino kaftan that slips over your shoulders like liquid silk, vintage Cartier stacked on your wrists, cigarette dangling loose between lacquered fingers. A pair of gold Celine sandals kiss the ground as you walk. Effortless. Lethal.

The press doesn’t even know where to look. Half of them fumble their phones. One woman gasps. Gasps. And Max Verstappen — grinning like he’s won more than a championship — leans in to say, “You know you’ve got every lens in the world locked on you right now, right?”

You exhale slow, tasting the smoke, tasting your power. “Let them look.”

“Do I get to be the arm candy today?”

You smile behind your sunglasses. “Don’t get used to it.”

You don’t even glance at the cameras, the engineers, the pit wall chaos you used to swim through like a queen among mortals. You float. Just a little off the ground. Like you’re humming with something no one else can afford to feel.

And then — of course — he’s there.

Toto Wolff. Six-foot-plus of composed Austrian agony, standing stiff as marble by the Mercedes garage. The same IWC watch. The same stupidly crisp white shirt. The same haunted look that crosses his face whenever he sees something he can’t control.

Like you.

Max notices him first. He’s watching. Max nudges you with a knuckle. “Should I be worried about him?”

You don’t even turn your head. Just a tiny lift of your chin, a flick of smoke into the glittering air. “He’s just someone I used to know.”

You say it like a lyric. Like you wrote the song. Like he never existed at all.

Toto doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You can feel the way his gaze tries to crawl across the distance between you, drag you back in time.

Max hums under his breath. “That was cold.”

You finally look at him. “Baby, you should know by now, I don’t do warm.”

A few mechanics stare. Someone from Red Bull actually trips over a cable. You reach for the champagne flute a hospitality girl offers, raising a single brow like she’s late delivering it.

Max watches you sip, just a little too amused. “You are trouble.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a compliment if I say it. If Toto says it, it’s therapy fodder.”

That gets a laugh out of you. Soft, sharp. The kind that makes heads turn.

You tilt your face to the sun, letting the light hit your cheekbones. The diamonds dipping into your bra — gifted, naturally, from your ex-husband — catch and scatter the light like little vengeful stars. And you are shining. You are shining wherever he is.

Toto finally moves. Not toward you. Just a small shift of his body like maybe, just maybe, he can escape the gravitational pull of you.

Too late.

Max murmurs, “He hasn’t looked away once.”

“He’ll get used to it.”

“He looks … wrecked.”

“He always did.”

Max grins. “And yet I bet he still sleeps in your old Hermès robe.”

“That was cashmere. No man’s stupid enough to give that up.”

“He is,” Max says. “Stupid. For letting you go.”

You sip again. “He didn’t let me go. He just assumed I’d stay.”

And the truth, of course, is that you might have. For a while. For the version of him that existed before the power made him paranoid, before the boardroom talks swallowed every part of your marriage. But you don’t say that. You never speak ill of the dead. And that man? That marriage? Long buried.

You lean closer to Max. Your kaftan brushes his arm. He stills.

“I like this game,” you whisper. “Let’s make him sweat.”

“You know I live for chaos.”

You’re laughing when Toto approaches. Quiet. Controlled. Still in love with the idea of control, poor man.

“Max,” he says, with the stiffness of someone trying not to flinch.

“Toto,” Max replies, breezy. Innocent, which is worse.

Toto looks at you last. Like it’s an accident. Like you’re not the reason he can’t breathe.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You let him look. Let him remember.

He finally says, low and rough, “You’re here.”

You flick a bit of ash from your cigarette. “So are you.”

Max, to his eternal credit, doesn’t interrupt. Just steps half a pace closer like he’s daring Toto to comment.

Toto’s eyes don’t leave you. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

“Didn’t think you cared.”

Silence. Cracking, electric silence. The kind you used to have in your penthouse after the fights. The kind where no one said sorry. The kind where love got eaten alive.

“I cared,” Toto says.

“That’s sweet,” you murmur. “Tragic. But sweet.”

Max breaks the tension, almost merciful. “We were just talking about you, actually.”

Toto looks at him like he’s a fly he’d love to swat. “I’m sure you were.”

“She said you were just someone she used to know.”

That does it.

Toto flinches.

Your sunglasses stay on. Your expression doesn’t change. Inside, a flicker of something ancient rises — maybe it’s grief, maybe it’s pride. You kill it before it can surface.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Toto says, voice low. “What happened.”

“Oh, darling.” You tilt your head. “You always say that when I’m standing in heels and diamonds and not crying in a hallway.”

He closes his mouth.

Max rests his hand at the small of your back. Steady. Possessive. “Should we go?”

You exhale slow. One last look at the man you left. The man who still hasn’t left you.

You touch Max’s wrist, featherlight. “Let’s.”

Toto watches you go. And you let him.

Because now you live the Italian dream. Champagne at noon. Kaftans like armor. The ghosts of ex-husbands where they belong — behind you.

And baby, it’s a way of life.

***

It begins two years ago in Baku.

Not the first time he forgets your birthday, not the first time you catch the sideways glances between his assistant and the hotel concierge and realize they all know something you don’t. But it is the first time you feel invisible. Truly. Like a ghost in your own marriage. Like a note passed over at a meeting — glanced at, skimmed, discarded.

And when the door slams behind him that night, leaving you alone in the penthouse suite with the scent of his cologne and not much else, you slide down the wall and cry into a satin pillow with a room service club sandwich going limp beside you.

You don’t call anyone.

You don’t text back your girlfriends who would say leave him, babe, he’s not that special. You know they’re right. You just don’t want to hear it yet.

Instead, you whisper to the empty room, “Is this it?”

The air answers you back in silence.

***

By the time the lawyers are done and your last name is yours again, it’s winter in Austria and you’ve stopped wearing mascara.

Your brows go unbrushed. Your nails chip. Your heart feels like it’s been smoked and hung out to dry, a pretty carcass in Dior. You move into a rented villa near Lake Como because the real estate agent promised the view would “revive the soul.” It doesn’t. But it does have a sunken bathtub and very good lighting for dramatic crying.

You spend the first week horizontal. Silk robe. Champagne. Old Italian films playing on a loop. The kind where everyone is either cheating or dying.

By week three, you wake up one morning, stare at your reflection, and say aloud, “You’re not a widow. You’re just bored.”

And it clicks.

You are not ruined.

You are reborn.

***

The rebrand is soft at first. Organic. A new stylist — young, queer, radical with color theory. The kaftans start arriving. Then the chainmail slips. The vintage Alaïa from Paris you wear barefoot on the terrace while drinking espresso and reading Colette. You don’t post photos of the outfits. You are the photo.

Soon your friends start coming back, orbiting like bees to spilled prosecco. Giulia from Milan with the snakeskin Birkin. Layla from New York who insists on quoting bell hooks over gelato. And then — because the universe has a sense of humor — Lewis.

You run into him at a gallery in London. He’s wearing a beanie and quoting James Baldwin to a curator who does not deserve that level of intellect.

You roll your eyes. “Still a preacher, I see.”

He turns. Blinks. Smiles.

“You look …” He trails off, eyes doing that thing again where they hold back a compliment like it’s going to leak out anyway.

You raise an eyebrow. “Dangerous? Expensive?”

“Different,” he says instead. “And yeah. All of the above.”

***

You don’t sleep with him that night. Of course you don’t. You get drinks instead. At a rooftop bar where the martinis are smoky and no one asks questions. You talk about the sport — because it’s in both your bloodstreams whether you like it or not — but mostly you talk about everything else.

“I’m writing a book,” he says.

You laugh into your glass. “Of course you are.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Because you’re too beautiful to be that serious.”

He leans closer. His voice drops. “And you’re too beautiful to pretend not to care.”

You drain your drink. “Touché.”

***

It’s not love.

It’s yachts in Sardinia and villas in Capri. It’s you, in a crocheted Dior bikini, dancing barefoot to disco as the sun sinks into the sea. Lewis watching from the lounge chair, wearing Loewe and holding a spritz, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to fall for a joke only you know.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“And you’re late to the fun,” you shoot back.

He never tries to contain you. Not once. He doesn’t interrupt when you monologue about the gender politics of pop music. He doesn’t flinch when you leave a party early because the energy was “too heterosexual.” And when you cry — really cry — after accidentally hearing Toto’s voice on a podcast while folding lingerie, Lewis simply wraps you in a cashmere throw and reads you Rilke until you fall asleep.

“You don’t have to save me,” you murmur once, half-asleep.

“I’m not,” he whispers. “I just want to see you again tomorrow.”

***

The summer drips with honey and salt and soft betrayals. You dance. You flirt. You read Sontag topless on a yacht.

One night, in Corsica, lying tangled on white linen sheets with the air smelling like sea and sex, you say it plainly: “This isn’t love.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you with that maddening calm of his and replies, “No. But it’s poetry.”

***

He introduces you to meditation. You introduce him to nightclub bathrooms at 3 am. He takes you to a summit on climate justice in Stockholm. You take him to an orgy-themed masquerade in Venice. You both wear masks. You both leave by midnight.

At an afterparty in Ibiza, a model tries to kiss him. You watch with mild interest. When he comes over, breathless and a little guilty, you lick salt from your wrist and ask, “Was she any good?”

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

You kiss him just to shut him up.

***

Your villa becomes a scene. Famous people flow in and out — editors, artists, a Russian ballerina who only speaks in riddles. The staff call you la strega luminosa — the shining witch. You don’t correct them. You like it.

And through it all, Lewis stays.

Sometimes just as a shadow. Sometimes as a hand at the small of your back. Always with that quiet reverence, like he knows he’s been given something no man really deserves.

But he never asks you to stay. Never suggests you belong to him. And for that, you almost fall.

Almost.

***

Late one night, in Tuscany, you lie on a balcony together, stars scattered above like spilled sequins.

Lewis rests his head on your stomach. “Do you ever think about going back?”

“To Toto?” You ask, more amused than offended.

“To … the version of your life where you weren’t constantly running.”

You sip from the wine bottle. “No. Running’s the best part.”

He hums. “You and I, then. Louise and Thelma on the run.”

You smile at the stars. “Only sexier.”

***

But every summer ends.

And as the sea cools and the villa empties, you feel it — that slow crawl of restlessness, the itch of being known too well. It isn’t love. And it isn’t poetry anymore, either. It’s comfort. And you’ve never trusted comfort.

So you leave.

A note on the pillow. Lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup. No drama. Just silence and sea breeze and the ghost of your perfume in the hallway.

He texts, once.

I knew you’d leave. But I loved the version of you who stayed.

You don’t reply. You stare at the screen for a long time, then close it. You cry once in the back of a car somewhere on the coast of France. Then you put on lip gloss and order oysters alone.

Because your energy is precious.

Because you don’t let anyone dull your shine.

Because you’ve been Salma Hayek in the sun.

Because you’re not his muse.

You’re the masterpiece.

And darling, the next act is just beginning.

***

Lake Como in September is a dream with sharp teeth. The kind of place where beauty starts to ache if you look at it too long.

You tell yourself you’re just there to swim. To rest. To wear something sheer and expensive and forget how Lewis made you feel like the version of yourself you’d buried with the wedding band. But you know why you really came.

Because Charles Leclerc called. And you didn’t have it in you to say no.

***

“I have a house,” he says, voice lazy over the phone. “Well, technically it’s a château. My mother says I’m too young to own a château. I told her youth is a construct.”

You sigh, twisting a strand of hair between your fingers. “Are you trying to flirt with me or audition for a Wes Anderson film?”

“I don’t flirt,” he says. “I suffer beautifully in women’s presence.”

“And yet, here I am, still not naked.”

“Yet,” he replies.

***

The château is absurd. Like something pulled from a dream you forgot you had — arched windows, marble floors, antique mirrors that reflect versions of yourself that don’t exist yet. It rains the morning you arrive, which feels correct. Nothing you’ve ever done with Charles has made sense in the sun.

He greets you in linen trousers and a white tank, barefoot, a glass of orange wine in hand like a Riviera prince playing house. You kiss him on the cheek. He smells like bergamot and impulse decisions.

“You’re overdressed,” he says.

You look down at your kaftan — Gucci, vintage, gold-threaded, semi-sheer. “You invited me to a château, not a hostel.”

He shrugs. “I like it. You look like money that’s forgotten how to apologize.”

You smile, just a little. “That’s the goal.”

***

You spend the first few days pretending nothing is happening.

Breakfasts on the veranda. Dinners on the terrace. Long hours by the lake with your ankles in the water and a cigarette in one hand, a philosophy book in the other. Charles talks too much. About racing, yes, but also about mythology, and memory, and that time he saw God during a 2 am qualifying session in Singapore.

“I was dehydrated,” he admits, “but still. His voice was very French.”

You snort. “Let me guess. He told you you’re His favorite?”

“He said I need to win more.”

“Sounds like your therapist.”

He grins. “I don’t have one of those.”

“No shit.”

***

The first time you kiss is accidental. Or at least you both pretend it is.

It’s late. You’ve had too much Pinot Noir and the rain has started again — soft and indulgent, the kind of rain that makes silk cling to skin. You’re on the balcony, barefoot, smoking a Vogue and talking about nothing. Charles is sitting on the railing, too close, too golden in the low light.

“You’re staring,” you say, flicking ash into a ceramic bowl shaped like a swan.

“You’re smoking,” he replies, like it’s a crime.

You turn your face toward him, exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl. “It’s a mood.”

He leans in. “You always this dramatic?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

And then he kisses you. Open-mouthed and greedy, like he thinks kissing you is a performance and he’s determined to win best actor.

You pull back first. Always. “That was a mistake.”

Charles licks his lips. “Is it going to happen again?”

“Definitely.”

***

It becomes a rhythm. A slow, secret sin you don’t name out loud.

In the mornings, he reads Proust out loud like a schoolboy who needs praise. In the afternoons, you swim in the nude and dare him to look. In the evenings, he plays piano and you sit beside him with a hand on his thigh.

No one talks about what this is. It isn’t love. It isn’t poetry.

It’s a mirror you both use to avoid looking at yourselves.

“You’re dangerous,” Charles murmurs one night, lips grazing your shoulder as you sit at the piano bench.

“You’re easy,” you reply.

He laughs, too bright and too boyish, and you want to bite him just to ruin it.

***

He worships you.

It’s obvious. In the way he watches you light cigarettes like you’re setting the world on fire. In the way he follows you from room to room like a bored cat in heat. You start wearing less around him just to see how long it takes for him to crack.

“You like being watched,” he says one afternoon as you pose on the divan, legs long, kaftan slipping down one shoulder like a whisper.

“Everyone does,” you reply, flipping a page in your book.

“Not like this.”

“No,” you admit, “not like this.”

He kneels beside you, mouth grazing your thigh. “You drive men insane.”

You glance down, unbothered. “That’s their problem.”

***

But it shifts.

Slow. Subtle. The way perfume lingers on bedsheets. The way silence starts to feel weighted.

He starts asking questions.

Personal ones.

“What was your wedding like?”

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Did you love him?”

You deflect. Joke. Laugh. Pretend he’s being ridiculous. But he’s not.

And one night — too cold for September — you find yourself lying on the floor of the grand drawing room, staring at the frescoed ceiling, a bottle of red between you.

Charles, head resting on your stomach, whispers, “Do you miss him?”

You don’t answer immediately.

Your fingers twist in his hair. Soft. Almost kind.

“God, no,” you say aloud, light and careless.

But your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, and the truth you don’t speak pulses behind your ribs.

God, yes.

***

The thing about Charles is that he needs to be adored. It’s not arrogance, it’s hunger. The kind of ache that starts in childhood and never leaves. You recognize it because you used to love a man who starved on praise. Who needed it more than air.

You used to be that woman.

But you’re not anymore.

So when Charles rolls over one morning, lashes thick, lips parted, skin still flushed with last night’s sin, and says, “Tell me you’re not going to leave,”

You stretch like a cat, light a cigarette, and smile.

“I never tell lies in the morning.”

He frowns. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

***

You start packing on a Tuesday.

He doesn’t ask why. He watches in silence, shirtless in the doorway, arms crossed like he’s trying not to fold.

“I thought you liked it here,” he says eventually.

“I do.”

“Then stay.”

“I never stay.”

He steps forward. “You’re running.”

You zip your suitcase. “Always.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly, “Was I just a distraction?”

You walk over, kiss him once — soft and slow, like an apology.

“You were a beautiful one.”

***

The drive away from the château is silent. The rain starts again halfway to Milan.

You crack the window, light a Vogue, and let the smoke mix with the mist.

You don’t cry.

You don’t look back.

You don’t let yourself feel the shape of his name curling inside you.

Because this is the life you chose.

Because your kaftans are armor.

Because you don’t go back.

Not to men.

Not to mistakes.

Not even to the places where you left pieces of yourself.

And the road ahead?

It’s long.

It’s winding.

It’s yours.

***

It starts with a message.

Are you happy?

No preamble. No signature. Just those four words. Toto’s name at the top of the screen. His number, still memorized even though you deleted it 18 months ago.

You stare at it for five full minutes.

Then you put your phone face down on the marble table and order another Bellini.

***

You don’t reply. Of course you don’t.

The moment you acknowledge him, he wins. And you didn’t spend the last year resurrecting yourself just to crumble under the weight of one nostalgic text.

You’re not the girl who cried in hotel bathrooms anymore.

You’re not the woman who waited up at night for him to come home.

Now? You’re the woman who wears sunglasses indoors and kisses Red Bull drivers just because it’s fun.

***

At first, it’s subtle.

A glimpse of his profile at a press gala in Monaco. The flash of his watch at a media dinner in Austin. The sound of his voice — too measured, too calm — floating from the Mercedes motorhome in Silverstone.

You chalk it up to coincidence.

The paddock is small, after all. You know this. You helped build it.

But then he’s everywhere.

Everywhere.

Even places he has no reason to be. Like the Armani afterparty in Milan where you’re draped in sequins and Max has a hand on your thigh, whispering something obscene in Dutch.

You see Toto across the room. Standing next to someone forgettable. His jaw tight. His tie too neat. Eyes on you like you’re a threat.

Max notices. Of course he does.

“Should I be worried?” He murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth.

You smirk. “Only if you fall in love.”

***

Toto never says anything.

He just … appears. Like a ghost who refuses to be exorcised.

In Singapore, he shows up at a dinner. You’re in red satin and diamonds the size of sin. You don’t look at him, but you feel him — tense, watching, waiting for you to crack.

You don’t.

In Suzuka, he lingers outside the Red Bull motorhome while you laugh too loud at Max’s jokes. You light a cigarette just to spite him. Blow the smoke in his direction like a curse.

In Qatar, he tries to intercept you in the paddock tunnel.

“Can we talk?”

You pause. Look him up and down like he’s a knockoff handbag.

“No.”

His jaw twitches. “Just five minutes.”

You smile sweetly. “That’s four minutes and fifty-eight seconds more than you deserve.”

And you walk away, hips swinging like a metronome.

***

Max is not your boyfriend. Not really.

He’s chaos and cocktails and unapologetic ego. He calls you lieverd and pulls your sunglasses off just to see if you’ll bite. You never do. Not in public.

But you let him press you against walls.

You let him unzip your dress in the backseat of Ubers.

You let him kiss you in full view of every camera when you’re in the mood to cause a scene.

And one night, outside the Red Bull garage — humid, electric, the whole world humming with adrenaline — you let him kiss you so hard it hurts.

His hands on your waist. Your mouth open against his. And somewhere behind the barriers, Toto watching like a man being bled slowly.

Max pulls back, cocky, breathless. “Was that for the cameras, or for him?”

You adjust your kaftan. Smooth your hair. “What’s the difference?”

***

The next morning, your phone buzzes again.

Why are you doing this?

You read it. Laugh. Leave it on read.

He texts again, two hours later.

Do you miss me?

You turn your phone off.

Because this is the difference.

He had you, once. Had all of you. The real you. Soft and loyal and terrifyingly hopeful. And he crushed you with silence. Now he wants to break himself on your laughter.

And you’re going to let him.

***

At the next race, you wear white.

A floor-length silk kaftan. Slit up to the thigh. Gold chainmail collar. No bra.

Everyone stares.

Max whistles. “You look like revenge.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “No, darling. I am revenge.”

And when you walk past Toto’s garage, you don’t look at him. But you can feel his gaze like a hand on your throat.

Good. Let him choke.

***

That night, there’s a party. Of course there is.

Champagne. Smoke. Bass so loud it drowns out every doubt.

You’re standing with Franco and Pierre, both of whom are trying to flirt with you and failing spectacularly, when you see him.

Toto. At the bar. Alone.

He doesn’t approach. Just watches. Like always.

You excuse yourself mid-laugh. Float across the room like a siren. He straightens when he sees you, eyes wide, hopeful.

You stop two feet away.

He opens his mouth.

You hold up a finger.

“No,” you say, voice silk and steel. “Don’t ruin it. Let me keep the upper hand, just this once.”

Toto swallows. “You’ve always had the upper hand.”

You blink, surprised. But only for a moment.

“I know.”

And then you turn, leaving him standing there like a statue in a gallery no one visits anymore.

***

Later, Max finds you on the rooftop. You’re barefoot, wrapped in someone else’s blazer, smoking a Vogue in the rain.

“You’re bleeding power,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face.

You exhale smoke. “Am I?”

He sits beside you. “You let him see you cry yet?”

You flick ash off the edge of the building. “Not in years.”

Max hums. “He’ll never stop. You know that.”

You lean your head back. Let the rain hit your face. “Let him try.”

***

And when your phone buzzes again-

I still love you.

-you don’t even read it.

You just delete the thread.

Because your energy’s precious.

Because you’re done being haunted.

Because you never let him back in your bed.

And he will never, ever touch you again.

***

You leave in the middle of the night.

No notes. No headlines. No goodbye.

Just a private flight from Nice to Marrakesh, and a kaftan that smells like Max’s cologne balled in the corner of your suitcase.

You check into a riad with whitewashed walls and emerald tiles, tucked deep in the Medina. The air smells like spice and rain. The staff speak softly. The Wi-Fi is terrible.

Perfect.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going. You don’t answer your phone. You don’t post. You don't perform.

For the first time in years, you vanish.

And it feels like drowning.

And it feels like peace.

***

The first few days are a blur.

You sleep too much. You smoke too much. You cry only once — into the tiled floor of the shower, mascara running in ghostly streaks, the sound of call to prayer humming through the open window like a lullaby for the unholy.

You eat nothing but oranges and olives.

You drink mint tea until your hands shake.

You read the same sentence of Anaïs Nin over and over again: I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.

You tell yourself this is a sabbatical. A self-imposed exile. A luxury. You have money. Time. Freedom. This is what you always said you wanted.

So why does it feel like punishment?

***

He shows up on a Tuesday.

You’re barefoot, pacing the rooftop in a silk slip and a glass of cold rosé sweating in your hand. The city is gold in the afternoon sun. The riad is silent.

You hear the front gate. Footsteps on the stairs.

And then-

“Hola.”

You turn.

Fernando Alonso is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sunglasses still on. He looks infuriatingly calm, like he’s just walked off a yacht in Ibiza, not crossed continents to track down a woman who ghosted the entire Formula 1 paddock.

You stare at him.

He shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to rescue you.”

You exhale slowly. “Good. I’m not a fucking damsel.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping onto the rooftop. “You’re the dragon.”

***

He doesn't ask how you are. Doesn't touch you. Doesn’t try to break the silence you’ve woven around yourself like a spell.

Instead, he sits beside you on the floor, back against a crumbling wall, and lights a cigarette. Offers you one without a word.

You take it.

He lights yours with the tip of his. The gesture is intimate. Effortless. Old world.

The sun dips lower.

You smoke in silence.

“I knew you'd come,” you say eventually, blowing smoke toward the call to prayer rising again across the city.

Fernando glances at you. “You always run to beautiful places when you’re in pain.”

You snort. “At least I’m consistent.”

He smiles, but it’s soft. “You’re not.”

You stare down at the courtyard below, at the shadow of the date palm shifting like a ghost across the tiles.

“I think I broke something,” you say.

“In you?”

“In me. In everything.”

Fernando takes a drag. “You don’t break. You just … shift.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “I’m sweet and I’m icy and strange. That’s what Max said. Right before I told him to go fuck himself.”

Fernando looks over, amused. “He deserved it?”

“He blinked first.”

“Ah.”

You exhale. Watch the smoke rise. “I don’t know who I am when no one’s watching.”

He nods. “Then stop watching yourself.”

***

That night, he sleeps in the room across the hall. He doesn't try to touch you. Doesn’t ask for anything. Just … stays.

You think that should terrify you. But it doesn’t.

***

The next day, you go to the souk together.

He wears a linen shirt half-unbuttoned. You wear vintage Chanel and a scarf wrapped around your hair. People stare. Of course they do.

He buys you dates and pomegranate juice. You pick out spices you don’t know how to use.

At one stall, a woman with hennaed hands takes your palm and murmurs something in Arabic. Fernando watches carefully as she traces your lifeline.

“What did she say?” You ask when she lets go.

“She said you’ll live a long life, but only if you stop confusing being admired with being loved.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He grins. “Touché.”

***

That evening, you lie on your backs on the rooftop, watching the stars.

You pass a cigarette back and forth. You’re wearing his shirt. He’s wearing your silence.

“You think being adored makes you immortal,” he says quietly, lighting the fresh cigarette.

You take it from him. Inhale. “Doesn’t it?”

Fernando watches you. “Not if you don’t believe any of it.”

You don’t respond.

The air smells like jasmine and ash.

You talk more that night than you have in months.

About childhood. About divorce. About the way fame erodes you until you don’t know what’s real anymore.

“I used to think being chosen meant I was safe,” you admit.

Fernando watches the smoke rise from his cigarette. “You’re not something to be chosen. You’re something to survive.”

You smile. “Are you calling me a disaster?”

He looks over, eyes tired but bright. “I’m saying you’re a storm. Beautiful. Violent. Necessary.”

You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, the call to prayer echoing like a lullaby.

***

In the morning, you find a note on your pillow.

You don’t have to be good. You just have to be real. Call me when you want to come home.

There’s no signature. Just a room key and a clove cigarette tucked beside it.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you put on your sunglasses, order a mint tea, and let yourself breathe.

Just for a moment.

Just for you.

***

It starts in Monte Carlo.

Of course it does.

The sky is ink. The sea is velvet. Your phone is on airplane mode, and you’re three glasses of Dom into a night that already tastes like bad decisions.

You’re wearing a black silk slip, no bra, sheer everything. The kind of outfit you only wear when you want to be caught.

You’re tired of running. Of Marrakesh rooftops and cryptic notes and the endless theatre of self-reinvention. You want something easier. Lighter.

Or maybe you just want to feel wanted without having to pay for it with pieces of your soul.

And Lando?

Lando is there.

Smirking in the doorway of the rooftop lounge, curls messy, shirt unbuttoned, eyes a little too knowing for someone that young.

“Thought you’d disappeared,” he says, sliding into the seat beside you.

“I did.”

He grins. “Didn’t stick.”

You shrug, fingers wrapped around the stem of your coupe glass. “Nothing ever does.”

He watches you in that way he does — curious, flirtatious, just slightly out of reach. He always looks like he’s getting away with something.

“You look like a villain tonight,” he murmurs.

You glance over. “And you look like someone who likes dangerous women.”

He leans in, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guilty.”

***

You end up in his apartment.

Of course you do.

The room is too bright, so you turn off all the lights. Monaco glitters through the windows like a thousand judgmental eyes. You pull the curtains.

He kisses you like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Careful. Almost reverent.

It makes you angrier than it should.

“Don’t be sweet,” you mutter, teeth grazing his jaw. “I’m not here for sweet.”

He stiffens. Nods once. “Okay.”

And then he’s different.

Hands rougher. Mouth hungrier. The air crackles with something dangerous. Like fire licking at velvet.

You push him down onto the bed and climb over him.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even blink.

***

It’s not love.

It’s not even romance.

It’s noise and heat and skin.

You scratch your nails down his chest because you want to leave a mark on someone, anyone. You kiss him hard enough to bruise because you don’t want to feel delicate. You close your eyes and picture other faces. Other hands. Other regrets.

He lets you.

He lets you use him like a cigarette you don’t intend to finish.

***

Afterward, the silence is unbearable.

You sit at the edge of the bed, naked, spine straight, cigarette between your fingers like armor. Your kaftan is puddled on the floor like a crime scene.

Lando lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. Breathing carefully.

Neither of you speak.

Until you do.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns his head. “Don’t be.”

You inhale. Ashes tremble. Your hands are shaking.

And then — without warning — you start to cry.

Not pretty tears. Not cinematic ones. Just the messy, gasping, humiliating kind.

You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, but it doesn’t stop. It pours out of you like floodwater. Like grief. Like truth.

“I didn’t mean to-” you start.

He sits up. Moves slowly. Gently. Places a hand on your knee. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him, mascara streaking, chest heaving.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” he says quietly. “I knew what this was.”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair.”

“None of this is.”

He reaches up. Brushes hair from your face. And then — so softly it breaks something in you — he pulls you into his arms.

You curl against his chest, crying like a confession. And he just holds you.

No questions. No shame.

Just stillness.

Just silence.

Just the mercy of being held when you no longer know how to ask for it.

***

Later, when you finally fall asleep, he stays awake beside you.

Watches the way your lips twitch in your dreams. The way your fingers twitch like you’re holding something invisible.

He doesn’t know what to call this.

Not love. Not even affection.

Just … being Thelma on the side.

And maybe that’s enough. For one night.

***

You arrive in Austin like it’s a movie premiere.

A cherry red convertible. Cowboy boots that cost more than some mechanics’ salaries. A white mini skirt, barely legal. Your hair in hot-rollered waves. Lip gloss sharp enough to be a weapon.

You walk the paddock like you own it, because in some ways, you do.

It’s not just the stares. It’s the silence that follows them. The held breath. The whispered theories. Toto’s ex-wife. Max’s maybe-girlfriend. Lewis’ ghost. Lando’s ruin.

You’re all of them.

You’re none of them.

And it’s delicious.

***

“Jesus,” someone mutters as you pass.

You don’t turn around.

You just smile to yourself and adjust your sunglasses.

You’ve perfected the art of becoming legend before breakfast.

***

Everyone wants you to choose.

A side. A man. A fate.

“You should talk to Toto,” Carmen says over drinks, all sincerity and subtle Spanish judgment. “At some point, you have to decide what this all means.”

You sip your Mezcal Paloma and raise a brow. “What if it doesn’t mean anything?”

“You don’t believe that.”

You laugh, low and musical. “I’m starting to.”

***

Christian Horner flirts shamelessly at the Red Bull Energy Station.

“You could be our good luck charm, you know,” he says, eyes twinkling, tongue permanently in cheek. “Bring Max all the way to another championship.”

“I’m not a rabbit’s foot,” you reply, dry as vermouth.

He leans in, conspiratorial. “You’re something. That much is obvious.”

You glance at his wedding ring. “Careful, Christian. You’re married.”

“Never stopped anyone in this paddock.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m not a mistress either.”

Then you take a sip of your champagne and walk away.

***

Toto avoids you.

Not well.

You see him everywhere. Talking to engineers. Laughing too loudly with Kimi. Pretending not to look when you pass.

At one point, during free practice, you feel his eyes on your back like heat. You don’t turn around. You just lean against the Red Bull pit wall, legs crossed, smirking.

It’s all a game now. And you’re winning.

****

Max finds you behind the hospitality tent after FP2.

The sun is brutal. The air thick with dust and adrenaline. Your boots click against the asphalt as you step into the shade, fanning yourself with a Red Bull visor someone left behind.

“You’re hiding,” he says, approaching with a bottle of water.

You accept it. “I’m lounging.”

He watches you drink. His expression is unreadable, which means it’s serious.

“You’re making people crazy.”

You smile, teeth gleaming. “Only the weak ones.”

He exhales, wipes sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. You watch his abs flex without shame.

He notices.

“You like being dangerous, don’t you?” He says.

“Only when I’m bored.”

“Are you bored now?”

You pause. “A little.”

He steps closer.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.

It lands like a punch wrapped in silk.

You blink. Lower the water bottle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head. “You’re twenty-seven.”

He shrugs. “So?”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I don’t want to.”

You sigh and lean back against the wall. “Max …”

He doesn’t touch you. Just watches. Waiting.

“I like you,” you say.

He smiles.

“But not like that.”

The smile fades.

“I don’t want to be someone’s endgame,” you continue. “I don’t want to be kept.”

“That’s not what I’m offering.”

“It’s what it becomes.”

He leans in, voice low. “You don’t have to marry me. Just let me mean something.”

You hesitate. “I’ve let too many men mean too much already.”

***

Later, you stand alone by the pit exit, watching the sun drip gold across the track.

A photographer lifts his camera, and you pose automatically — one leg out, chin tilted, cigarette balanced at your lips like a signature.

You’re not a woman anymore. You’re myth. You’re metaphor. You’re the girl who wore heartbreak like high fashion.

Someone behind you says, “They say that you should settle down.”

You don’t even turn. “But I don’t wanna.”

***

You eat dinner with Lando that night.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t ask questions. Just brings tacos to your hotel room and sits on the floor like you’re normal people with unremarkable pain.

“Do you miss it?” He asks at one point.

“What?”

“Belonging to someone.”

You swallow. “I don’t think I ever did.”

He nods like he understands. Maybe he does.

You eat in silence for a while.

Then he says, “You’re not a villain, you know.”

You glance at him. “Then what am I?”

“A warning.”

You laugh. It tastes like tequila and tragedy.

***

In your hotel bathroom, you stare at your reflection.

Smoky eyes. Perfect liner. Lipstick that still hasn’t faded.

You look expensive. Untouchable.

You look like someone who made the right choice.

Then why do you feel so haunted?

***

Back at the paddock the next day, Toto finally corners you.

It’s a small hallway between motorhomes. No cameras. No witnesses.

Just the two of you. And years of silence coiled between your bodies like a stormcloud.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like you’re a language he used to be fluent in.

“Are you okay?” He asks eventually.

You cock your head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You look … happy.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Don’t I always?”

There’s a pause.

“You don’t have to keep performing,” he says quietly.

You look at him for a long time. “Neither do you.”

And you walk away.

***

Max wins the race.

You don’t stay for the podium.

Instead, you drive through the Texas night with the windows down, wind in your hair, and nothing on the radio but silence.

Everyone wants you to choose.

But the truth is — you already have.

You chose yourself.

And you’re not sorry.

***

Toto texts you at 1:07 AM.

Just talk to me. Please.

You stare at it from the balcony of your suite, a silk robe sliding off your shoulder like a whispered dare. Below, Austin sparkles in scattered, restless lights.

Somewhere, Max is probably still celebrating.

Somewhere, Lando is probably asleep.

Somewhere, Lewis is definitely not texting you.

But Toto is.

You light a cigarette. Let the ember flare red and mean.

At 1:10 AM, another buzz.

Come up. Room 2314.

You flick ash into the wind.

At 1:16, you’re knocking.

Not because you owe him anything. Not because you want to. But because you need to know.

Why now?

***

The door swings open too fast. He’s been waiting.

His shirt is half-buttoned, sleeves rolled. There’s a drink in his hand — something dark and expensive. His hair’s a mess. He looks tired. Raw. Human.

“Toto.”

“Come in,” he says, voice hoarse.

You step past him like it’s just another hotel room. But it’s not. This is the kind of suite they give men who sign billion-dollar contracts.

“You couldn’t just text like a normal man with regrets?” You ask, eyeing the heavy furniture, the untouched fruit plate, the open balcony doors.

“I needed to see you.”

You glance at him. “You’ve been seeing me for weeks.”

He closes the door. Turns. “Not like this.”

It’s quiet. The air is heavy with unsaid things.

He doesn’t offer you a drink. You don’t sit down.

“What do you want, Toto?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

“That much is clear.”

“I keep thinking I’ll see you and it’ll pass. The jealousy. The … everything.”

You light another cigarette and pace toward the window. “That’s not my problem.”

“I know.”

You inhale. Blow smoke toward the glass. “So what is?”

He swallows. “You made me feel small.”

That stops you.

You turn, brows raised. “I made you feel small?”

He nods. “You never needed me.”

You laugh. It’s not cruel, it’s surprised. “And that was my crime?”

“No. Your crime was pretending you ever did.”

You sit down then, slowly, crossing your legs on the velvet couch. The robe parts just enough. He notices, of course.

“Do you want me to apologize?” You ask.

“No.”

“Do you want me to say I regret leaving?”

He moves to the minibar. Pours another drink. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I did need you,” you say softly. “Back then.”

He stills.

“I needed you to see me. To understand me. But you didn’t. Not really.”

“I was trying to build something for us.”

You shake your head. “You were trying to build something for yourself and assume I’d decorate it.”

He sits across from you. His hands are trembling. You’ve never seen that before. Not even in court.

“I didn’t know how to love you the right way,” he admits.

“Then why now?”

He blinks.

You repeat it, colder this time. “Why now, Toto?”

“I-”

But he doesn’t have an answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about now. It’s about the fact that everyone else has seen you. Held you. Kissed you. It’s about power, not love. It’s about watching you slip out of his grasp and become something untouchable.

It’s about the myth of you.

And men always fall in love with myths.

***

“I kissed Max outside your garage,” you say, crossing your arms.

He flinches.

“I let you watch.”

“I know.”

“You deserved that.”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still want you.”

You stand. Walk to the window again. “No. You want who you remember. The ornament. The perfect wife. The woman who didn’t wear see-through dresses in the paddock and laugh too loudly at press dinners.”

He walks to you slowly. Stops a breath away. “I want the woman who destroyed me.”

You blink.

“I want the version of you that made me afraid.”

You whisper, “Then you don’t want me. You want penance.”

There’s a long silence.

Then — just once — you kiss him.

It’s soft. Cold. Almost nothing. The kind of kiss that means I once loved you but not anymore.

He grips your wrist, gently. “Don’t go.”

You don’t answer.

Just step back.

And leave.

Without looking back.

***

Your phone buzzes on the elevator ride down. A text from Max.

Where are you?

You don’t answer.

You’re high off your own myth again.

It’s not your fault he fell in love.

***

The end-of-season party is yours.

Not officially, of course. On paper, it’s sponsored by some luxury tequila brand and loosely tied to a Monaco yacht club’s winter branch. But everyone knows. The grid wouldn’t be here without you. It’s your finale. Your coronation. Your final, golden act.

And the dress — God, the dress.

Gold, metallic, liquid. Cut low enough to be scandalous, draped enough to be iconic. Your hair’s swept up like a 1950s starlet on the run, skin glowing with the kind of sheen that only comes from winning every emotional war of the year. Diamonds on your ears, champagne in your hand. You don’t so much enter the party as materialize in it — light bending, heads turning, whispers rising like smoke.

It’s not subtle. It’s not supposed to be.

***

Pierre whistles as you pass. “You’re gonna break the entire grid.”

“I already have,” you say, smiling sweetly.

“Are you looking for a plus-one or just witnesses tonight?” He asks, tugging at his collar.

You shrug. “Maybe just disciples.”

Carlos sidles in with a cocktail and raises it. “We’re all just living in your highlight reel, aren’t we?”

“You’re all just lucky I let you.”

***

The ballroom is pure velvet and gold, with lights like stars and a band that switches from jazz to disco without apology. Charles dances with an Italian actress you don’t recognize. George is drunker than he’ll admit. Lewis is in the corner in full avant-garde, sunglasses on indoors, sipping something green and mysterious.

Lando arrives late with lipstick on his neck and guilt in his eyes. You nod at him once. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t need to. Some ghosts are polite like that.

***

“You’re dancing tonight, right?” Max says, appearing beside you with a glass of bourbon and a dangerous smile.

You sip your drink. “I’m hosting.”

“And?”

You give him a look. “What would you do if I said no?”

He shrugs. “Watch you anyway.”

***

The drivers orbit you like planets. Drunk on champagne and something more intangible — your gravity. Your glow. Your legend.

“You’re better than all of us,” Esteban says, wide-eyed and sweet. “I think you’re actually immortal.”

“I’m just well lit,” you reply.

***

Later, Oscar tries to flirt and fails adorably.

“Do you always wear gold when you plan to ruin lives?” He asks.

“Only when I’m making art out of it.”

***

You dance.

At first with Charles, who’s sweaty and smiling and too tactile by half. Then with Carlos, who spins you like a prize. Then with Pierre, who keeps laughing into your shoulder like he can’t believe any of this is real.

You let them have their moments. You kiss cheeks, press close, throw your head back in laughter so loud and rich it echoes.

The shoes come off around midnight. You’re barefoot. Free. Glorious.

You are the sun.

And they orbit.

***

At 1:34 AM, Toto leaves.

You watch him from the balcony, framed by gold drapes, sipping Dom Pérignon straight from the bottle. He’s buttoned up and bruised beneath the surface. His driver won the championship. His team didn’t. His heart’s an open question and you won’t be answering.

He doesn’t look back.

Good.

***

“Does it feel like revenge?” Lewis asks, joining you at the railing.

You smile without turning. “It feels like I won.”

He nods, thoughtful. “You did.”

“You were the only one who didn’t try to own me.”

“You were never ownable.”

You glance sideways. “And still you wrote poetry about me in the margins of your books.”

“I write poetry about storms too.”

You laugh. “God, I missed you.”

He clinks his glass against yours. “You missed yourself.”

***

Somewhere behind you, someone starts a conga line. It’s chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

You inhale. You glow. You exist so vividly that it’s almost obscene.

And still — he’s watching.

Max. By the bar. Leaning against marble. Arms crossed. Eyes on you like you’re a riddle he’ll never solve. He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

Like always.

Like he’s waiting for you to pick him.

But tonight, there are no picks.

There’s only you.

***

When the clock hits 3:12 AM, you kick open the terrace doors and lead a barefoot parade into the street. The city yawns open in front of you, lit in amber and possibility. Someone pulls a speaker from nowhere. Someone else pops another bottle. Carlos climbs a lamp post. Lando howls like a wolf. George loses his jacket and his mind.

You dance in the middle of the road. Spinning, laughing, high off your own myth.

Someone calls your name. You don’t turn.

You’re already in the next chapter.

And the best part?

You’re still not sorry.

Not your fault they fell in love.

***

Morning comes late.

It rolls in quietly, unbothered and gold, slipping through sheer curtains like a lover with good intentions. You don’t open your eyes at first. Not because you’re tired — though you are — but because you’re not quite ready to name what this is.

There’s a stillness to the room, rare and intimate. The kind of stillness that belongs to mornings after the world has ended and remade itself.

Max breathes slowly beside you.

One arm tossed behind his head. The sheet barely clinging to his hips. He looks impossibly young like this, but also impossibly calm — like all the rage that fuels him has softened just for now.

You stare at the ceiling and let the silence stretch.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because neither of you want to ruin the illusion that this could be anything but what it is: borrowed time, honeyed and hungover.

Eventually, you stretch. Slowly. Luxuriously.

Limbs unfurling like silk unraveling. One leg slips out from under the duvet, bare skin catching the light. The diamonds you forgot to take off glint from your wrist, your neck. Your lips are still stained red — last night’s lipstick, last night’s secrets.

You slide out of bed like a shadow.

Max watches you. You don’t need to look to know.

He doesn’t say stay.

You don’t offer to.

***

The suite is a mess. Of course it is. A champagne bottle lays corked sideways on the floor. One heel by the minibar. Your gold dress is draped over a chair like a surrendered flag. There’s a feather boa on the lampshade. You don’t remember where it came from.

You smile.

Walk barefoot to the balcony.

Outside, the air is dry and sweet. The city is waking up in fragments — horns in the distance, the echo of a siren, birds doing their best to sound poetic.

You lean against the railing and stretch again. This time slower. A yawn disguised as a pose.

And then — click.

From somewhere below: a camera flash. Then another.

You smile wider.

Let them get their shot.

You, in nothing but diamonds and lingerie. Skin dewy. Hair an elegant wreck. Mouth red. Eyes unreadable.

Max appears behind you in the glass reflection, shirtless, silent.

Let them wonder.

***

Inside, your phone buzzes.

Then again.

You don't check it.

Because you already know. The texts will be the same: Where are you? Last night was insane. Come to brunch. Are you okay?

Toto, probably.

Lewis, maybe.

Lando, definitely not.

Charles — too soon.

Fernando? Never in writing.

You light a cigarette instead.

Let the world wait.

***

“You’re quiet,” Max says from the doorway.

You glance at him. “So are you.”

He nods. Crosses the room. Takes your cigarette without asking, then hands it back. A shared ritual. Familiar. Thoughtless.

“I don’t want to ask,” he says.

“Good.”

He exhales. “You’re not going to stay, are you?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans against the balcony beside you. Not touching. Just close enough to remember the way your skin felt against his hours ago.

“Last night was something,” he says finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I don’t want to say too much.”

You smile. “That’s new for you.”

He grins. “I said too much already. You didn’t believe any of it.”

“Should I have?”

He flicks ash off the edge. “No.”

There’s a weight between you that isn’t tension. Not anymore. It’s not about games or power or promises. It’s just two people in the aftermath of something beautiful and doomed, breathing the same air.

“Do you regret it?” You ask.

He thinks. “No. You?”

“No.”

And that’s enough.

***

You head back inside. Pull the gold dress from the chair. Step into it slowly, unbothered. You wear it like armor now. Like memory. Like you already know the headlines: Y/N Y/L/N Hosts the End-of-Season Party, Ends Max Verstappen in the Process.

He watches you zip it up.

You smirk. “You’re going to tell them?”

“No,” he says. “They already know.”

You walk to the mirror. Fix your lipstick. Smooth your hair. Add another necklace for no reason but excess.

Max stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with something close to reverence. Or fear. Or both.

“Goodbye, Max,” you say.

“Bye,” he murmurs. “For now.”

***

The elevator ride down is silent. One floor clicks by, then another.

You don’t check your phone.

You don’t fix your hem.

You don’t run.

When the doors open, the lobby hushes. Conversations stutter. The concierge blinks.

You walk through it all like you own it.

Because you do.

***

In the car, you finally check your messages.

Twenty-eight unread.

You delete them all.

And then you roll the window down. Let the wind ruin your hair. Light another cigarette. And laugh — sharp, soft, real.

You’ve never felt more like yourself.

No promises.

No titles.

No man beside you trying to shrink the sun.

You’re finally free.

And not even Max dares to follow.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Chapter 1: Fight

࣪ ִֶָ☾. summary ━━━━━━━ A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

࣪ ִֶָ☾. word count ━━━━━━━ 10.9k

࣪ ִֶָ☾. warnings ━━━━━━━ slight mention of abusive childhood, vey mean Lando, swearing, medical emergency (panic attack), loads of crying, loads of angst

Series Masterlist

The rain had stopped just as Y/N arrived at Max and Pietra's apartment building in Central London, though the gray clouds still hung heavy and threatening above the city's skyline. She stood for a moment outside the familiar entrance, adjusting the strap of her designer handbag and smoothing down her black cashmere coat. Fourteen months. It had been 14 months since she'd first met Lando Norris through their mutual friends, and 12 months since that fateful afternoon when she'd discovered the devastating truth that had turned her world completely upside down.

Twelve months since she’d seen him shirtless by Max and Pietra’s pool. Twelve months since she’d spotted the intricate, fine-line tattoo—a crescent moon birthmark—on his left hip, the exact same mark that adorned her own skin in the exact same spot. Twelve months of carrying the weight of knowing the universe had played its cruelest joke on her: marking her for a man who looked at her like she was less than nothing, who spoke with barely concealed contempt, and who seemed to take genuine pleasure in making her feel small.

The irony was so perfect it was almost beautiful in its completeness. Almost.

Y/N pressed the buzzer for their apartment, her fingers trembling slightly despite the mild evening temperature. The familiar sound of Pietra's voice crackled through the intercom, warm and welcoming as always, a stark contrast to the ice-cold dread that had settled in Y/N's stomach the moment she'd received the text about tonight's gathering.

"Y/N! Come up, love. We're all here already."

All here already. Which meant he was already there. Which meant she would have to spend the next several hours pretending that her heart didn't shatter a little more each time he looked through her like she was invisible, each time he spoke to everyone else with warmth and charm while reserving nothing but cold politeness for her.

The elevator ride to the 16th floor felt like an eternity, giving Y/N too much time to study her reflection in the polished steel doors. She looked composed, professional, put-together—the image she'd carefully cultivated over years of learning to hide every vulnerable emotion behind a mask of competent indifference. Her long hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and her eyes held that particular intensity that came from years of analyzing every interaction, every micro-expression, every subtle shift in tone that might indicate incoming rejection or abandonment.

She'd chosen her outfit carefully tonight—high-waisted black trousers that accentuated the curve of her hips while maintaining an air of sophisticated professionalism, paired with a burgundy silk blouse that brought out the warmth in her skin tone. The outfit was expensive, impeccably tailored, designed to project success and confidence. It was armor, just like everything else in her carefully constructed life.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Y/N stepped into the familiar hallway. She could already hear voices and laughter from behind Max and Pietra's door—Tom's booming laugh, Ed's animated storytelling voice, Max's quick wit cutting through the conversation. And underneath it all, like a bass note that made her chest tight with unwanted longing, she could hear Lando's voice.

That voice that could go from playful teasing to cutting cruelty in the span of a heartbeat. That voice that spoke to everyone else with such natural charm and warmth, but turned cold and dismissive the moment it was directed at her. The voice that belonged to her soulmate, who would probably laugh if he ever discovered the cosmic joke the universe had played on both of them.

Y/N knocked on the door, forcing her shoulders back and lifting her chin with the practiced confidence that had gotten her through boardroom negotiations and university presentations and every other situation where she'd needed to project strength while feeling fundamentally broken inside.

Pietra opened the door with a bright smile, her warmth immediately filling the space between them. "Y/N! You look stunning as always. Come in, come in. We were just talking about Max's latest disaster in the kitchen."

Y/N stepped into the warm, inviting space of the apartment she'd visited so many times over the past year. The living room was exactly as she remembered—comfortable sofas arranged around a glass coffee table, warm lighting that made everything feel cozy and intimate, floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of London's glittering skyline. 

"Y/N!" Max called out from his position on the main sofa, raising his wine glass in greeting. "Perfect timing. We were just about to start placing bets on whether Tom can get through the evening without spilling something on himself."

"Hey now," Tom protested from his spot. "That was one time, and it was entirely Lando's fault for making me laugh while I was drinking."

And there it was. The mention of his name that made Y/N's entire body tense despite her best efforts to remain composed. She forced a smile and accepted the glass of wine that Pietra pressed into her hands, using the moment of taking a sip to scan the room and locate him.

He was sitting in the armchair near the window, and the sight of him hit her like it always did—like a physical blow that left her breathless and aching. Lando Norris at twenty-five was devastating in a way that seemed almost unfair, as if the universe had decided to concentrate all its efforts on creating the most beautiful human being possible and then, just for the sake of cosmic humor, had made him her soulmate while ensuring he could barely stand to be in the same room as her.

His curly hair was slightly messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it—a nervous habit she'd noticed over the months of reluctant observation. His green eyes were bright with laughter from whatever conversation had been happening before her arrival, and she felt that familiar twist of pain in her chest as she watched him be charming and animated with everyone except her.

When his gaze finally found hers across the room, the transformation was immediate and devastating. The warmth and humor in his eyes vanished, replaced by that familiar cool indifference that had become as much a part of their interactions as breathing. He gave her the barest nod of acknowledgment—polite, distant, the kind of greeting you'd give to a stranger you had no interest in knowing better.

"Y/N," he said, and even her name sounded different in his mouth than it did when anyone else said it. Clipped. Formal. Devoid of any warmth or interest.

"Lando," she replied, matching his tone exactly, though it cost her everything to keep her voice steady and unaffected.

The others seemed oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, continuing their conversation about Tom's coordination issues and Max's latest cooking disasters. Y/N settled onto the sofa next to Ed, positioning herself so she could participate in the group conversation while keeping Lando in her peripheral vision—a skill she'd developed over months of trying to understand why he treated her so differently from everyone else.

The evening progressed much like every other gathering over the past fourteen months. Lando was his usual charming self with everyone—teasing Max about his latest streaming failures, asking Tom about his new job, complimenting Pietra on the dinner she'd prepared. He laughed at Ed's terrible jokes, offered thoughtful responses to serious topics, and generally embodied the kind of warm, engaging personality that had made him beloved by millions of fans around the world.

With Y/N, he was unpredictable—but mostly unkind. Most days, he was rude in the way only someone who knew exactly how to hurt could be—sharp, dismissive, and laced with quiet contempt. Other times, depending on his mood, the location, or even the time of day, he’d shift without warning—offering a polite nod, a short answer, or, worst of all, nothing at all. He'd ignore her completely, as though she were invisible. On the rare occasions he was civil, it wasn’t kindness—it was cold, calculated detachment. He answered direct questions with minimal effort, never initiated conversation, and kept a distance so deliberate it stung more than open cruelty. Hostility, at least, would have meant she mattered. This—this inconsistency, this indifference—felt like the slowest form of erasure.

Y/N participated in the group conversations with her usual intelligence and dry wit, making observations that made the others laugh, sharing stories from her work that showcased her sharp analytical mind. She was good at this—had always been good at performing normalcy even when everything inside her was screaming. It was a skill learned in childhood, perfected through years of practice in situations where showing weakness meant inviting more pain.

But tonight felt different somehow. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the accumulation of twelve months of carrying the weight of their cosmic connection while being treated like a barely tolerated acquaintance. Maybe it was the way she'd caught him looking at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention—not with indifference, but with something that looked almost like hunger before he quickly looked away.

Whatever it was, when the conversation inevitably turned to relationships, Y/N felt that familiar coil of tension in her stomach begin to tighten.

"I just don't understand it," Lando was saying, running those long fingers through his curls in a gesture that made Y/N's stomach clench with unwanted longing. She watched the way his forearms flexed as he moved, the subtle play of muscle beneath golden skin, the way his hands—those beautiful, capable hands she'd seen grip steering wheels and sign autographs and gesture animatedly during conversations—moved with unconscious grace.

"Where are all the good girls these days? The ones who actually have their shit together. Someone mature, intelligent, who knows what they want in life."

The words hit Y/N like physical blows, each one more devastating than the last. Something hot and bitter rose in her throat—a mixture of fury and heartbreak that threatened to choke her. Here he was, describing exactly what she was.

Mature. Intelligent. Someone who knows what they want.

She was all of those things—had two degrees, spoke four languages fluently, could analyze market trends and debate European history with the best of them. But sitting here, listening to him describe his perfect woman while looking right through her like she didn’t exist, felt like being slowly skinned alive.

The soulmate mark on her hip burned like acid under her skin, a constant reminder of the cosmic joke that was her existence. Somewhere in the universe's grand design, she was supposed to be his everything. His perfect match, his other half, his completion. Instead, she was his invisible annoyance, his least favorite person in any room.

"I mean, I want something real," Lando continued, his voice gaining that passionate intensity that appeared whenever he talked about something that mattered to him. "Someone who challenges me, who doesn't just want me for fame or the money. A proper relationship, marriage material. Someone I could actually see myself building a life with."

Y/N's fingers tightened on her wine glass until her knuckles went white. Marriage material. Someone who challenges him. The universe had literally designed her to be those things for him, had marked them both before birth as perfect matches, and he was sitting there describing her while simultaneously treating her like she was invisible.

Max snorted from his position next to Pietra, his arm draped casually around his girlfriend's shoulders. "Mate, maybe you're looking in the wrong places."

"That's just it, though," Lando said, leaning forward in his chair, those green eyes filled with frustration. "I don't even know where to look anymore. Everyone seems so superficial, so focused on the lifestyle rather than actually building something meaningful."

Marriage material. Someone who challenges him. Someone mature and intelligent.

The irony was so perfectly cruel, she could barely breathe. The hypocrisy was so staggering it made something snap inside Y/N’s chest. A laugh escaped before she could stop it—bitter, sharp, slicing through the room like broken glass.

The sound made everyone turn to look at her, but she only had eyes for Lando—whose gaze had sharpened with something dangerously close to irritation.

"Something funny?" His tone was already defensive, already hostile. The way it always was when he spoke to her, like her very existence offended him on some fundamental level.

Y/N set her wine glass down on the coffee table with careful precision, her movements controlled despite the storm raging inside her chest. "It's just..." she began. "The hypocrisy is rather amusing, don't you think?"

"Hypocrisy?" Lando's voice was getting colder, more defensive. The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably, the easy warmth of moments before replaced by a tension that made everyone else fall silent.

"You sitting there, complaining about not being able to find a good woman, a mature woman, while you're still..."

"While I'm still what?" Lando interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. His eyes were full of anger now, all pretense of polite indifference abandoned.

"You're sitting here complaining about not being able to find a good girl, a mature woman who knows what she wants," she said, her voice steady as stone. "But how exactly do you expect to attract someone like that when you're still hung up on your ex-girlfriend?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Pietra shifted uncomfortably, her usually warm demeanor cooling as she sensed the brewing storm. Tom cleared his throat awkwardly while Ed suddenly found his glass fascinating.

Lando's entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing like a predator preparing to strike. "I'm not hung up on anyone," he said, but there was something too sharp in his voice, too quick in his denial.

"Really?" Y/N's voice was silk over steel, deceptively soft but deadly. "Because your Instagram says otherwise. Your family's Instagram says otherwise. Hell, every tabloid article about you and your little PR puppet says otherwise."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Y/N watched Lando's face cycle through several emotions—surprise, anger, and something that might have been shame before it was quickly masked by fury.

"You've been stalking my Instagram?" The accusation came out sharp and ugly, designed to put her on the defensive, to shift the blame, to cast her as the villain in this scenario. It was a tactic she recognized from childhood, from parents who turned every legitimate grievance into proof of her own moral failings.

But Y/N had been fighting battles since she was five years old, and had learned to weaponize words before most children could even tie their shoes. She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down, didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled.

"It's called having functional eyesight, Lando. Every time you and Matilde take your pathetic little PR strolls around Monaco—which, by the way, everyone can see right through—the articles always include screenshots. Screenshots of you still following your ex girlfriend, Olivia. Of your mother still commenting heart emojis on her posts. Of your father still liking her pictures from vacations she takes with her new boyfriend."

Each word was delivered with surgical precision, designed to cut deep. Y/N watched Lando’s face flush red, his hands clenching into fists on the armrests of his chair. Those beautiful forearms were tense with barely contained rage, veins standing out against his tanned skin, knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.

Even in anger—even as she systematically destroyed him with words—she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he was. How the fury made his green eyes even more intense, how the muscle in his jaw jumped as he fought for control.

"How I handle my social media is none of your fucking business," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You're absolutely right," Y/N replied, her voice getting quieter, more dangerous. Years of boardroom negotiations had taught her that the softer you spoke, the more powerful your words became. "It's not. But you asked where all the good girls are, and I'm telling you. No self-respecting woman with actual standards is going to want to compete with the ghost of your ex-girlfriend. No one wants to be someone's consolation prize."

The truth of her words hit the room like a bomb. Y/N could see it in the way Tom and Ed exchanged glances, in the way Max shifted uncomfortably, in the way Pietra's face showed a mixture of concern and fascination. But mostly, she could see it in the way Lando's face went completely white before flushing with fury.

"That's complete bullshit," he said, standing now, using his height like a weapon. He loomed over her seated form, and for a moment, that old, instinctive fear flickered in Y/N’s chest—the kind she'd carried since childhood, from people who used their physical presence to silence her. But she’d learned long ago not to flinch, not to hand anyone that kind of power.

"Is it?" she asked, rising to her feet. She only came up to his nose, but her presence was unshakable. She held his gaze, calm and unyielding. "When was the last time you posted about being single? When was the last time you removed the pictures of you and Olivia from your Instagram? When was the last time you asked your family to stop engaging with her posts?"

"I don't—"

"When was the last time you took off that fucking bracelet she gave you?"

The words exploded out of her with more venom than she'd intended, and she saw Lando's hand instinctively move to his wrist, to the metal bangle that had become as much a part of his daily uniform as his watch or his racing gloves. Y/N had watched him wear that bracelet for fourteen months, had felt physically sick every time she saw it catching the light, every time she was forced to confront the visual reminder that he was still carrying pieces of another woman with him everywhere he went.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Lando said, but his voice lacked conviction now. His hand was still touching the bracelet, as if he was suddenly aware of its weight on his wrist.

"Don't I?" Y/N laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "I know that you wear her jewelry every single day. I know that your family treats her like she's still part of the family even though you broke up three years ago. I know that you claim to want something real while maintaining connections to someone who's moved on with someone else."

"You can deny it all you want," Y/N continued, her small frame vibrating with barely contained fury, every muscle tense with the effort of not screaming. "But actions speak louder than words, don't they? And your actions are screaming that you're still completely hung up on a woman who moved on from you three fucking years ago."

The profanity felt good on her tongue, felt like the only way to adequately express the rage and hurt that had been building inside her for over a year. She saw Lando flinch slightly at her tone, saw something flicker across his face that might have been hurt if she hadn't known better.

"I'm not asking anyone to compete with anything," Lando snapped, taking a step closer to her. "Olivia and I ended on good terms. We're friends. There's nothing wrong with that."

The word 'friends' hit Y/N like a physical blow. She felt that familiar burning in her chest, the rage that had carried her through every dark moment of her life. The rage that had kept her warm through childhood and teenage humiliations and every moment in her adult life when she'd felt small and unwanted and completely disposable.

"Friends," she repeated, tasting the word like poison on her tongue. "Is that what you call still wearing her bracelet?"

"We ended things amicably. There's nothing wrong with staying civil with an ex."

"Civil?" Y/N said, her voice rising. "Civil is not blocking them, fine. Civil is being polite if you run into them. Civil is not maintaining constant social media connections, wearing jewelry they gave you—" her eyes flicked pointedly to his wrist "—and having your mother comment heart emojis on their beach photos!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Max cleared his throat awkwardly, but neither Y/N nor Lando acknowledged him.

"That bracelet—" Lando's voice was low, dangerous, "—is none of your business."

"It is when you're sitting here whining about not finding someone!" Y/N's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "No ‘good woman’ is going to want to wonder if she's just a placeholder until Olivia decides she wants you back."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Each word was precisely enunciated, his accent thickening with anger. "Olivia has a boyfriend. She's moved on."

"Has she? Have you?" Y/N challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're keeping your options open. Still maintaining those connections, just in case. Tell me, Lando, do you deny it?"

The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes—those beautiful eyes that haunted her dreams—narrowed into slits. The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.

"That's what I thought," Y/N said quietly, but the words carried the weight of a shout.

You don't know anything about my relationships," Lando spat. "What makes you such an expert? When's the last time you even had a boyfriend? Hell, have you ever even had a real one? I’ve actually been in relationships—what do you even know about any of this? I bet you’ve never had a real boyfriend in your entire life."

The words hit their mark with devastating precision. Y/N felt her breath catch, felt the familiar shame crawl up her throat like bile. He was right, of course. She'd never been kissed, never been held, never been chosen by anyone. Not even by him, her supposed soulmate, who looked at her like she was absolutely nothing.

The cruelty of it was breathtaking. Here was the man the universe had supposedly designed for her, the person who was meant to love and understand her better than anyone else in the world, and he was using her deepest insecurities as weapons against her.

But she'd learned long ago how to weaponize her pain, how to turn her wounds into ammunition.

"That's completely irrelevant," she said, each word precisely enunciated.  "We're not talking about my romantic history or lack thereof. We're talking about your complete inability to understand why decent women run in the opposite direction when they see you coming."

"My inability?" Lando laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound was harsh, ugly, designed to cut. "You want to psychoanalyze my relationship with my ex? Fine. Let's talk about how you push everyone away before they can get close. Let's talk about how you've built walls so high that no one can climb them."

Y/N felt her carefully constructed composure beginning to crack. He was getting too close to truths she'd never voiced aloud, cutting too near to wounds that had never properly healed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Lando's laugh was harsh, nothing like his usual warm chuckle. "It's obvious to anyone who bothers to look. You're terrified of being vulnerable, so you criticize everyone else who tries. At least I put myself out there. At least I try."

"Try?" Y/N's voice cracked on the word. "You call what you do trying? Messaging models on Instagram isn't trying, Lando. Leaving clubs with a different girl every weekend isn't trying. It's collecting conquests."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Even their friends, who had been watching the exchange like a tennis match, collectively held their breath.

"Conquests?" Lando's voice was deadly quiet. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Everyone thinks that of you," Y/N said, even as part of her screamed to take it back. "Your reputation precedes you. All those girls who've sold stories about you, all those photos of you leaving parties with different women—"

"You believe tabloid gossip now?"

"Are you denying it? Are you saying you haven't slept with dozens of women? That you didn't spend the first 6 years of your career treating the paddock like your personal dating pool?"

Lando's face had gone pale. His hands were clenched so tightly at his sides that the veins in his forearms stood out in sharp relief. "My past is my past."

"But it's not the past, is it?" Y/N pressed on, unable to stop now that the floodgates had opened. "It's your present too. The parties, the girls, the constant need for attention—"

"Attention?" He stepped even closer, and Y/N had to fight the urge to step back. "You think I do this for attention?"

"Don't you? The PR games with—" Lando cut her off.

"That's rich, coming from someone who's built their entire personality around being bitter and alone."

The words hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark with surgical precision. Y/N felt something inside her chest begin to crumble, felt the careful walls she'd built around her heart start to crack under the assault.

"I'm not bitter," Y/N said, and she could hear her voice beginning to shake despite her best efforts. "I just have standards. And those standards don't include men who are too emotionally weak to let go of the past."

"Weak?" The word came out like a roar. Lando took another step closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, could smell the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with something that was purely him. "You think I'm weak?"

"I think you're a coward," Y/N said without hesitation, the words coming from some deep, dark place inside her that had been fed on years of disappointment and rejection. "You want this perfect woman, this mature, intelligent partner, but you're too fucking scared to actually make yourself available for her. You keep one foot in your past because it's safe. Because if you never fully commit to moving forward, you never risk being hurt again."

The accusation hung between them like a live wire, sparking with dangerous electricity. Y/N could see that her words had found their target, could see the way Lando's face went through a series of expressions—shock, recognition, fury.

"You don't know anything about me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You sit there in your fancy apartment in a very prestigious area of London, with your fancy job and your fancy education, and you think you have everyone figured out. But you don't know shit about what I've been through or why I make the choices I make."

"I'm not the one pretending to be something I'm not!" Y/N said. 

"Aren't you?" The words cracked like a whip between them. "At least I'm honest about who I am. I don't pretend to be perfect while judging everyone else."

"I don't—"

"You do!" His voice rose to nearly a shout. "You sit there every fucking time we're together, watching everyone, analyzing everyone, finding everyone wanting. Like you're so much better than the rest of us who actually dare to feel things, to make mistakes, to be human!"

"Being human doesn't mean being reckless with other people's feelings!"

"Whose feelings?" He threw his arms wide. "Whose feelings have I been reckless with? The girls who knew exactly what they were getting into? The ones who wanted the same thing I did—a good time, no strings attached? Or is this about your feelings?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun. Y/N felt the blood drain from her face.

"My feelings have nothing to do with this," she said, but her voice came out whisper-thin.

"Don't they?" Lando moved even closer, close enough that she could see the way his chest rose and fell with each angry breath. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're taking this all very personally for someone who claims not to care."

"I don't—"

"You don't what? Don't care? Then why are you so invested in my love life? Why does it matter to you if I still wear a bracelet my ex gave me? Why do you care if I sleep with models or party too much or—"

"I said I don't care! You're the one playing innocent, asking yourself why you can't find someone serious—and I'm answering your stupid question," Y/N replied, her voice steady despite the chaos raging inside her. "From your actions, it looks like you're terrified of real intimacy. It's clear you'd rather play games with PR relationships and keep wearing jewelry from dead relationships than risk actually putting yourself out there for something real."

"And what about you?" Lando's voice was getting uglier now, more vicious. "What's your excuse for being completely fucking miserable all the time? What's your excuse for treating everyone around you like they're beneath you?"

"I don't—"

"You do," Lando interrupted, and Y/N could see that he was hitting his stride now, could see that he'd found his target and was preparing to destroy it. "You walk into every room like you're doing everyone a favor by gracing them with your presence. You act like you're so much smarter, so much more sophisticated than everyone else. But really, you're just terrified that if you let anyone get close enough to see who you really are, they'll realize there's nothing there worth knowing."

Each word was a knife, expertly wielded to cause maximum damage. Y/N felt them slice through her defenses, finding every vulnerable spot she’d tried so hard to protect.

The worst part was that some of it was true—she did keep people at a distance, did shield herself behind walls of competence and sophistication. And now, those walls were starting to crack. She could feel the little girl bleeding through—the one who’d been thrown into hallways, called names, told she was worthless.

But he didn't know why. He didn't know about the childhood that had taught her that love was conditional and dangerous, that vulnerability was punished, that the only safe way to exist was to make yourself indispensable through achievement and control.

"At least I don't parade fake relationships around for publicity," she managed, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

"Fake relationships?" Lando's laugh was harsh and meant to humiliate. "You mean Matilde? That's work, Y/N. That's business. Something you might understand if you lived in the real world instead of your ivory tower."

"The real world?" Y/N's voice rose, her famous composure finally beginning to crack like ice in a spring thaw. "You think you live in the real world? You live in a fucking bubble where everything is handed to you on a silver platter, where people pay you millions to drive in circles, where you've never had to work for anything meaningful in your entire privileged life."

"I've worked for everything I have," Lando shot back, his face flushed with anger and indignation. "I've been racing since I was a kid. I've sacrificed everything for this career."

"Have you?" Y/N's voice was gaining strength now, feeding off her anger like a fire feeding off oxygen. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've just had an extended adolescence. You get to play with expensive toys for a living while the rest of us have real jobs, real responsibilities, real fucking problems."

"Real problems?" Lando's voice dripped with disdain, with the casual dismissal that only came from genuine privilege. "Like what? Like sitting in your fancy apartment judging people on the internet? Like working your cute little nine-to-five job that probably pays you less than I make in a single day?"

The classism in his voice, the casual dismissal of her work, of her struggles, of everything she'd built for herself—it was like being slapped across the face with a glove made of contempt. Y/N felt something hot and dangerous surge through her veins, felt every careful lesson in emotional control her childhood had taught her begin to crumble.

"You privileged piece of shit," Y/N whispered, her voice deadly quiet. "You have absolutely no idea what I've been through. No idea what I've had to overcome to get where I am."

"Oh, here we go," Lando said, rolling his eyes with theatrical exaggeration. "The sob story. Poor little Y/N, had to move to London all by herself. Had to get a job like every other adult in the world. Had to actually work for things instead of having them handed to her. How absolutely tragic."

"You don't know anything about my life," Y/N said, and there was something in her voice that should have warned him to stop. Something dark and dangerous and barely contained, like a dam about to burst.

But Lando was too angry to listen, too hurt by her words to care about the warning signs. Too focused on inflicting damage to notice that he was about to cross a line that could never be uncrossed.

"I know enough," he said, his voice getting crueler with every word. "I know you're a miserable person who gets off on making everyone else miserable too. You sit there acting superior to everyone when you're just angry that no one wants you."

The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud. Y/N felt them settle into her bones, into all the spaces where her childhood fears lived. All the spaces that whispered that she was unlovable, unwanted, destined to spend her life alone.

But Lando wasn't done. He was just getting started.

"You act like you're too good for everyone," Lando pressed on. "But really, you're just scared. Scared that if you let someone close enough to see who you really are, they'll realize there's nothing special about you at all."

He kept going, his voice turning uglier, more vicious, like he could sense how much damage he was doing and wanted to twist the knife. "You're cold. You're bitter. You're judgmental. You suck the fucking joy out of every room you walk into."

Each word was a precision strike, aimed at her deepest insecurities with the accuracy of someone who'd been watching her, studying her, learning her weaknesses even as he pretended to despise her.

"You want to know why you've never had a real relationship? It's not because you have standards. It's because you're completely incapable of human connection. You're broken, Y/N. And not in some romantic, fixable way that makes for a good movie. You're just fundamentally, irreparably broken."

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N stood there, swaying slightly on her feet, feeling like she'd been hit by a freight train. Or maybe like she'd been thrown out into a hallway again, abandoned and alone while neighbours walked past and pretended not to see her.

Her soulmate—the person the universe had chosen to love her unconditionally—had just told her she was fundamentally broken. Had just confirmed every terrible thing she'd ever believed about herself, every fear that haunted her in the darkest hours of the night.

The irony was so cruel it was almost funny. Almost.

"Y/N," Pietra said softly, starting to rise from the sofa, her voice thick with horror at what she'd just witnessed.

But Lando still wasn't done. He was too caught up in his own fury, too intoxicated by the power of words to wound, to stop now.

"You know what the worst part is?" he continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "You actually think you're better than everyone else. You sit there with your fancy education and your perfect grammar and your sophisticated opinions, and you judge all of us like we're beneath you. But at least we're capable of happiness. At least we can connect with other human beings. You're just..." he paused, searching for the most devastating word possible. "You're just pathetic."

Y/N felt something inside her chest shatter completely. Some last, fragile piece of hope that she'd been protecting without even realizing it. The piece that had whispered, maybe someday, maybe if he knew, maybe if he understood...

That piece was dead now, murdered by his words and buried under the weight of his disgust.

The mark on her hip felt like it was burning straight through her skin, a constant reminder of the cosmic joke that was her life. Somewhere in the universe, there was supposed to be someone who loved her perfectly, who understood her completely, who chose her above all others.

Instead, she got Lando Norris. Beautiful, talented, charismatic Lando Norris, who looked at her like she was less than human and spoke to her like she was something that needed to be exterminated.

Y/N looked around the room at her friends—Max and Pietra looking shocked and uncomfortable, Tom and Ed staring with wide eyes, everyone frozen in the aftermath of the emotional explosion that had just torn through their peaceful evening.

"You're right," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her chest. "I am pathetic. I'm broken and pathetic and completely unlovable. But at least I know it. At least I'm not walking around pretending to be something I'm not, desperate for a love I'm too much of a coward to actually pursue."

She turned to the room, to their friends who had sat in horrified silence through the entire exchange. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "I'll go."

She moved toward the door, her legs somehow still carrying her despite feeling like they were made of lead. Every step was agony, every breath felt like swallowing glass—but she forced herself to keep going.

Y/N was already gathering her purse with hands that shook only slightly. She couldn’t look at any of them again. Couldn’t bring herself to meet Lando’s gaze to see if there was any regret there—any recognition of how far he’d gone. Any humanity left in those green eyes that had once made her dream of impossible things.

She couldn’t stay in this room another second, not while breathing the same air as the man who was supposed to love her unconditionally—who had just eviscerated her with surgical precision.

At the door, she paused one last time, not turning around.

"And Lando?" she said, her hand on the door handle, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "When you're lying in bed tonight, still wearing her bracelet, still wondering why you can't find your perfect woman—remember this conversation. Remember that maybe the problem isn't that there aren't any good women out there. Maybe the problem is that you're not good enough for them."

She pulled the door open, then paused again, some masochistic part of her needing to twist the knife one more time.

"You want to know what your real problem is? It's not that you're still hung up on Olivia. It's that you're exactly the kind of man who would rather destroy someone else than admit you might be wrong. You're cruel, Lando. Genuinely cruel. And no amount of money or fame or pretty eyes is going to change that."

Y/N stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her, cutting off whatever response Lando might have had. The silence in the corridor was deafening after the emotional intensity of the fight, and she stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.

She'd fought with her soulmate. Had screamed at him, had been cruel to him, had exposed her deepest wounds only to have them used against her. The man the universe had supposedly designed for her had just told her she was fundamentally broken and unlovable, and the worst part was that she was starting to believe he might be right.

The elevator ride down felt like descending into hell. Y/N stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors and saw exactly what Lando had described—a cold, bitter woman who pushed everyone away before they could hurt her. A woman so damaged by her childhood that she couldn't connect with other human beings even when they were literally designed by the universe to be hers.

She thought about the way he'd looked at her during their fight—not with the careful blankness he usually employed, but with genuine disgust. Like she was something repulsive that had crawled out from under a rock. Like her very existence offended him on some fundamental level.

And maybe it did. Maybe that was why he'd been so cruel to her from the moment they met. Maybe on some subconscious level, he could sense the connection between them and rejected it utterly. Rejected her utterly.

The thought made her laugh, but it came out broken and bitter. Of course her soulmate would be the one person in the world who couldn't stand her. Of course the universe would give her someone who confirmed every terrible thing she'd ever believed about herself.

Her parents had told her she was worthless, disposable, a burden they never wanted. The boy in school had told her she was pathetic, laughable, deserving of public humiliation. And now her soulmate had told her she was fundamentally broken, irreparably damaged, incapable of human connection.

Maybe they were all right. Maybe there really was something wrong with her, something that made her unlovable no matter how hard she tried to fix herself, no matter how much she achieved or how much she grew.

When she finally made it to her apartment, she went straight to her bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was blotchy and swollen from crying tears she didn't remember shedding, her hair was a mess, her clothes were wrinkled. She looked exactly like what she was: a broken woman who had just been destroyed by the person who was supposed to love her most.

She pulled up her shirt and looked at the mark on her hip—that soulmate mark that was supposed to represent destiny, cosmic connection, perfect love. In the harsh bathroom lighting, it looked like nothing more than a birthmark. A random pattern of pigmentation that meant absolutely nothing.

What a joke. What a cosmic, cruel, devastating joke.

She thought about telling him. About marching up to his hotel or cornering him the next day and showing him the mark. About watching his face as he realized that the universe had played the cruelest possible trick on both of them.

But what would be the point? He'd made his feelings about her perfectly clear. Learning that they were soulmates wouldn't change anything except to add a layer of cosmic irony to their mutual hatred. If anything, it would probably make him treat her even worse, knowing that he was stuck with her for eternity.

No, she decided. She would keep her secret. Would carry it like all her other secrets—quietly, privately, without burdening anyone else with the weight of it.

The tears came again then, great heaving sobs that shook her entire body. She slid down the bathroom wall until she was sitting on the cold tile floor, crying for the fight, for the cruel words, for the look in Lando's eyes when he'd told her she was broken.

But mostly, she cried for the death of a dream she'd barely let herself acknowledge. The tiny, secret hope that maybe, someday, when he learned they were soulmates, everything would change. That he would see her differently, understand her differently, maybe even love her.

That hope was dead now, murdered by his words and buried under the weight of his disgust.

Because even if he ever found out the truth—even if he ever learned that the universe had marked them for each other—nothing would change. He would still see her as broken, as unworthy, as fundamentally unlovable.

And maybe, Y/N thought as she finally cried herself into exhaustion on her bathroom floor, maybe he would be right.

Maybe she really was fundamentally broken. Maybe she really was incapable of human connection. Maybe the universe had made a mistake when it paired them together, had somehow failed to account for the fact that she was too damaged to be anyone's soulmate.

Maybe she was destined to spend the rest of her life loving someone who looked at her like she was absolutely nothing at all.

The mark on her hip burned like a brand, a constant reminder of the cosmic joke that was her existence. Somewhere out there, other people were finding their soulmates, were experiencing the joy and completeness that came with cosmic connection.

But not her. Never her.

She was Y/N, the girl nobody wanted. Not her parents, not her classmates, not the universe itself, it seemed.

And certainly not Lando Norris, no matter what some meaningless mark on her skin might suggest.

Y/N stood in her bathroom for what felt like hours, staring at her reflection in the unforgiving fluorescent light. Her face was a roadmap of devastation—red-rimmed eyes that looked like she'd been crying for days instead of hours, blotchy skin that bore the evidence of every tear she'd shed, hair that hung limp and disheveled around her shoulders. She looked like a woman who had been systematically destroyed, and maybe that's exactly what she was.

The shower called to her like a sanctuary, promising the illusion of washing away the evening's horrors. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, watching the steam begin to fog the mirror until her reflection mercifully disappeared. The pragmatism that had carried her through childhood trauma whispered that she should eat something, should drink water, should take care of the basic needs that would help her body process the alcohol and stress. But she couldn't bring herself to care about any of that.

Food felt impossible when her stomach was twisted into knots of anguish. Water felt pointless when she was drowning in an ocean of her own tears. Self-care felt like a mockery when the person she was supposed to care for had just been declared fundamentally unworthy of love by the one person whose opinion mattered most.

She stripped off her clothes mechanically, each piece of fabric feeling heavy with the weight of the evening's memories. 

When she finally stepped under the scalding spray, the tears came again with renewed force. The hot water mixed with her sobs, washing away the salt tracks on her cheeks only for them to be immediately replaced by fresh ones. She braced her hands against the shower wall and let herself break completely, let herself feel the full weight of what Lando had done to her.

The worst part wasn't even the specific words he'd used, though each one had been chosen with surgical precision to cause maximum damage. The worst part was the look in his eyes when he'd said them—the complete and utter conviction that every cruel assessment was justified, that she deserved every verbal blow he'd delivered.

You're fundamentally, irreparably broken.

The words echoed in her mind like a death sentence, made worse by the fact that they'd come from someone whose DNA was literally designed to complement hers. If her soulmate could look at her and see nothing but damage, nothing but a pathetic woman who sucked the joy out of every room she entered, then what hope did she have with anyone else?

Y/N slid down the shower wall until she was sitting on the tile floor, hot water cascading over her hunched form as she wrapped her arms around her knees and sobbed. This was worse than anything her parents had ever done to her. Their cruelty had been born of their own trauma, their own inability to process emotions in healthy ways. They'd hurt her because they didn't know better, because they were products of their own damaged childhoods.

But Lando—Lando had hurt her with full awareness of what he was doing. She'd seen the moment when he'd realized how much damage his words were causing, had watched his eyes sharpen with something that looked almost like satisfaction as he'd found each new vulnerability to exploit. He'd taken her deepest insecurities, the fears she'd spent years trying to overcome, and had weaponized them against her with the skill of someone who understood exactly how to destroy another person.

Her parents had broken her accidentally. Lando had broken her on purpose.

The water began to run cold, but Y/N couldn't summon the energy to move. She sat there on the shower floor, shivering as the temperature dropped, feeling like the cold was appropriate somehow. Like her body was finally matching the frozen wasteland that her heart had become.

When she finally forced herself to stand and turn off the water, her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Everything felt disconnected, like she was watching herself go through the motions of drying off and putting on pajamas from somewhere outside her own body. The dissociation was familiar—a defense mechanism that had carried her through the worst moments of her childhood, when the only way to survive was to mentally remove herself from the situation until it was over.

But this situation would never be over. She would have to carry the knowledge of what Lando really thought of her for the rest of her life, would have to see him at future gatherings and pretend that his words hadn't carved out pieces of her soul and left them bleeding on Max and Pietra's living room floor.

Y/N crawled into her bed without bothering to turn on any lights, pulling the covers up to her chin like a child seeking comfort from monsters that couldn't be defeated by hiding. The Egyptian cotton sheets that usually felt luxurious against her skin now felt rough and foreign, as if even her own bed was rejecting her presence.

The tears started again almost immediately, and this time they came with a violence that scared her. These weren't the controlled tears she'd shed in the shower, or even the angry tears that had punctuated their fight. These were the kind of tears that came from the deepest part of her psyche, from the wounded child who had never been properly comforted, who had learned to cry silently so as not to invite more punishment.

She pressed her face into her pillow to muffle the sounds that were escaping from her throat—sounds that didn't seem human, that sounded like an animal caught in a trap. The pillow quickly became soaked with tears and snot, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore except the overwhelming need to release the pain that was threatening to consume her from the inside out.

You're just pathetic.

The words played on repeat in her mind, accompanied by the image of Lando's face as he'd delivered them. She'd seen disgust there, contempt, a kind of clinical detachment as he'd dissected her personality and found it wanting. No anger, which might have suggested passion of some kind. Just cold, calculated destruction delivered with the precision of a surgeon removing a tumor.

Y/N clutched her phone, considering calling Sophie, a good friend from work, or maybe her parents, or anyone who might be able to offer some comfort in this moment of complete devastation. But every time she started to dial, she stopped herself. What could she possibly say? That she'd had a fight with Lando and he'd said mean things to her? It sounded so trivial when reduced to simple terms, so childish and overdramatic.

She couldn't explain that he was her soulmate without revealing a secret she'd guarded for twelve months. Couldn't explain why his words carried more weight than anyone else's without admitting to the cosmic connection that made his rejection so much more devastating than ordinary cruelty.

And even if she could explain, what would be the point? Sophie would probably try to smooth things over, would suggest that Lando hadn't meant what he'd said, that he'd been drunk or angry or simply lashing out without thinking. But Y/N had seen his face. Had heard the conviction in his voice. He'd meant every word, had probably been thinking those things about her for fourteen months and had finally found an excuse to voice them.

The hunger clawed at her stomach, a sharp reminder that she'd only had wine at dinner, that her body was running on nothing but alcohol and adrenaline and heartbreak. But the thought of food made her feel sick. How could she nourish a body that housed a soul so fundamentally flawed that even the universe's perfect design couldn't make it lovable?

She rolled onto her side and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a spectacular view of London's skyline. The city glittered below her like a constellation of possibilities, millions of people living their lives, falling in love, being chosen, being wanted. And here she was, 54 floors above it all, completely alone with the knowledge that she was the exception to every rule about love and connection and human worth.

Somewhere out there, Lando was probably going to sleep without a care in the world, completely unaware that he'd just destroyed the person who was literally made for him.

Maybe he was right to be disgusted by her. Maybe the universe had made a mistake, had somehow paired her with someone so far out of her league that his natural instinct was to reject her entirely. Maybe she was supposed to be grateful that he'd never shown any romantic interest, that he'd saved them both from the cosmic embarrassment of a fundamentally mismatched pairing.

You suck the fucking joy out of every room you walk into.

The accusation felt particularly cruel because it contained just enough truth to burrow deep into her psyche and take root. She did guard herself carefully in social situations, did hold herself apart from the easy camaraderie that seemed to come so naturally to everyone else. But that was survival, not malice. That was the result of a childhood that had taught her that letting people see your real emotions was a guarantee that those emotions would be used against you.

Y/N pulled her knees to her chest and rocked slightly, a self-soothing motion she'd developed as a child when the fights between her parents got too loud, when the threats became too real, when the only comfort available was the comfort she could provide herself. The motion was automatic now, muscle memory that activated during times of extreme distress.

She thought about her therapist's words, about being the product of emotional unpredictability and conditional love, about how her nervous system had adapted to survive chaos by becoming hyper-independent and emotionally constipated. Her therapist would probably say that Lando's attack had triggered every abandonment wound she'd ever carried, and had activated the deepest core belief that she was fundamentally unworthy of love.

But knowing the psychological mechanisms didn't make the pain any less real. Understanding why she was broken didn't make her any less broken. And it certainly didn't change the fact that the person who was supposed to see past all her defenses, who was supposed to love her despite her flaws, had instead chosen to use those flaws as weapons against her.

The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Y/N watched the digital clock on her nightstand tick from 11:47 PM to midnight to 1:00 AM, each minute feeling like an eternity of pain that had to be endured. She tried closing her eyes, tried willing herself into unconsciousness, but every time she started to drift off, Lando's voice would echo in her mind with fresh cruelty.

You're completely incapable of human connection.

The words felt like a prophecy, a future written in stone. If she couldn't connect with her soulmate, if the person literally designed by the universe to complement her found her so repulsive that he felt compelled to destroy her, then what hope did she have of ever finding love or acceptance or even basic human warmth?

Around 2:00 AM, she gave up pretending to try to sleep and turned on her phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media feeds full of people living their apparently perfect lives. Happy couples posting anniversary photos, friends celebrating promotions, families gathered around dinner tables with genuine smiles. The images felt like they were from another planet, a world where people were capable of the kind of joy and connection that seemed permanently out of her reach.

She almost opened Instagram to look at Lando's profile, some masochistic part of her wanting to torture herself with images of him looking happy and carefree, probably already having forgotten about their fight entirely. But she stopped herself just in time, knowing that seeing his face would only make everything worse.

Instead, she found herself googling articles about soulmate connections, searching for some explanation of how the universe could have gotten things so wrong. The articles were full of romantic nonsense about instant recognition and unbreakable bonds, about soulmates who found each other across crowded rooms and knew immediately that they were meant to be together.

None of them mentioned what happened when your soulmate looked at you with disgust. None of them offered guidance for what to do when the person who was supposed to complete you spent over a year treating you like an unwelcome stranger. None of them acknowledged that sometimes the universe's grand design was nothing more than a cosmic practical joke played on people who were already damaged beyond repair.

Y/N threw her phone across the room, not caring when it hit the wall with a sharp crack that probably indicated a broken screen. The sound was satisfying somehow, a physical manifestation of the internal destruction she was experiencing. At least now her phone matched the rest of her life—broken and probably beyond repair.

The tears came in waves throughout the night, sometimes subsiding to a trickle that allowed her to catch her breath, sometimes returning with such force that she had to bury her face in her pillow to avoid disturbing her neighbors. Her throat became raw from crying, her eyes swollen to the point where she could barely see, her chest tight with the effort of breathing around the constant sobs.

She'd cried before—had cried when her parents threw her out of the house, had cried when that boy in school humiliated her, had cried during those first terrifying weeks in London when everything felt foreign and hostile. But this was different. This was the kind of crying that came from complete hopelessness, from the realization that the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally had instead chosen to confirm every terrible thing she'd ever believed about herself.

Around 3:00 AM, she found herself thinking about her grandmother from her father's side, the woman who had tried so hard to break up her parents' marriage. Maybe the old woman had been right all along. Maybe Y/N's mother wasn't worthy of the family name, and maybe Y/N had inherited that unworthiness, had carried it in her DNA like a genetic curse that made her fundamentally unlovable.

The thought sent her into a fresh spiral of anguish, because even her parents—damaged and cruel as they had been—had at least loved each other enough to fight for their relationship. Her father had been willing to threaten his own mother to protect his marriage, had chosen his wife over his family of origin when forced to make that decision.

But Y/N had never inspired that kind of devotion in anyone. Had never been worth fighting for, never been worth choosing, never been worth protecting. Even her soulmate, who should have been programmed by the universe to cherish and defend her, had instead chosen to tear her apart at the first opportunity.

Y/N made a decision in that moment, lying in her bed at 3:17 AM with tears streaming down her face and her heart breaking in ways she didn't know were possible. She would never tell him. Would never give him the opportunity to reject her knowing what she really was to him. Would never put herself through the devastation of watching him realize that even the universe's perfect design couldn't make her lovable.

She would carry this secret to her grave, would love him from afar with the knowledge that it would never be returned, would never be acknowledged, would never be anything more than a source of endless pain.

Because that's what broken people did. They protected others from their damage, even when it destroyed them in the process.

Even when it meant spending eternity loving someone who thought they were fundamentally unworthy of love.

Even when it meant accepting that maybe, just maybe, everyone who had ever told her she was worthless had been right all along.

The decision brought no peace, only a cold kind of resignation that settled into her bones like winter frost. She would continue to attend gatherings where he was present, would continue to pretend that his presence didn't affect her, and would continue to guard the secret that was slowly killing her from the inside out.

By 4:00 AM, her body had begun to rebel against the sustained emotional assault. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, her breathing had become shallow and rapid, and her heart was racing like she'd just run a marathon. The physical symptoms only added to her distress, creating a feedback loop where her body's stress response made her more anxious, which in turn made her body react more severely.

She tried the breathing exercises her therapist had taught her, tried to ground herself by focusing on physical sensations like the texture of her sheets and the temperature of the air against her skin. But nothing worked. The panic was too strong, the emotional pain too overwhelming for any coping mechanism to penetrate.

As the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn, Y/N realized that she hadn't stopped crying for a single moment in the past seven hours. Her body was dehydrated, her head was pounding, and her chest felt like someone was sitting on it. But still the tears came, as if her body was trying to expel the poison of Lando's words through her eyes.

The hunger had evolved from a dull ache to sharp, stabbing pains that made her curl into an even tighter ball. But the thought of food still made her nauseous. Her body was running on pure emotional adrenaline, sustained by nothing but grief and the wine that was probably still circulating through her system.

Around 5:30 AM, she heard her neighbors beginning to stir—the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the distant hum of morning news programs, the everyday sounds of people starting their normal days. The normalcy of it all felt surreal, like she was watching life happen from behind glass, separate and excluded from the simple pleasure of routine human existence.

Y/N tried one more time to force herself to sleep, pulling her duvet over her head and squeezing her eyes shut. But behind her closed lids, all she could see was Lando's face as he'd delivered his final judgment, the clinical detachment with which he'd dissected her personality and found it lacking.

You're just fundamentally, irreparably broken.

The words had taken on a life of their own, echoing through her mind with the persistence of a song stuck on repeat. They felt true in a way that made her stomach clench with despair, true in a way that made every breath feel like an act of defiance against the obvious fact that she shouldn't exist, shouldn't take up space in a world where she clearly didn't belong.

By 6:00 AM, something in her body had reached its breaking point. The sustained emotional trauma, combined with the lack of sleep, lack of food, and lingering alcohol in her system, had created a perfect storm of physical distress. Her heart was racing so fast she could hear it pounding in her ears, drowning out all other sounds. Her breathing had become so shallow and rapid that she was starting to feel lightheaded.

And then, suddenly, she couldn't breathe at all.

The panic attack hit her like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming in its intensity. Her chest seized up completely, as if someone had wrapped steel bands around her ribs and was tightening them with each passing second. Her heart rate spiked even higher, so fast that she was convinced it would burst from the strain. Her hands went numb, her vision started to blur, and her entire body was consumed with the absolute certainty that she was dying.

This was it. This was how it would end. Alone in her expensive apartment, destroyed by the cruelest words her soulmate could devise, dying of a heart attack at twenty-seven because her body had finally given up under the weight of a lifetime of emotional trauma.

With the last rational thought she could manage, Y/N grabbed her cracked phone from where she'd thrown it against the wall and dialed 999 with trembling fingers that barely obeyed her commands.

"Emergency services, what's your emergency?"

"I think... I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped into the phone, her voice barely recognizable even to herself. "I can't breathe... my heart is racing... I think I'm dying."

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