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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Fifteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, rising tension (not between Amelia and Lando), a lot of Oscar!!!!!

Notes — Bit longer than usual! I wanted to cover 3 races per chapter, but it's not worked out that way. So we're covering Bahrain and pre-Imola. This is going to be a long 2021 season, so... yeah, get ready for a lot of chapters lmao.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021

Bahrain

Amelia perched at the edge of a padded hospitality seat overlooking the circuit, knees tucked up slightly, elbows resting on them. The sun cast sharp glints off the tarmac as the F2 grid wound their way through the formation lap, engines whining as they lined up. Her gaze didn’t waver, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, tracking each car with sharp precision.

She’d missed the first sprint race that morning, buried in set-up notes with Max, buried in everything Max in general, really, but she’d made sure to find time for this one.

Her eyes followed car number 81 as it weaved through the final corner. Oscar.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was that had snagged her interest after watching her first F3 race with Max, only that it had. And now she was here, legs bouncing with unconcealed energy, eyes fixed on one driver who rose above the sea of talent.

A shadow cast itself across her legs.

She looked up.

Mark Webber. A polite smile, hands in his pockets like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

“Do Red Bull usually start sniffing around this early?” He asked, one eyebrow raised.

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “I don’t work for Red Bull anymore.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose a touch. “No?”

“No,” she said. “Just Max.”

He hummed, shifting his weight. “Alright… it’s a personal interest in my Oscar, then?”

She hesitated for a beat. “It’s… I don’t know. He’s very good. Talented.”

Mark studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing politics. That was what made her so bloody difficult to read. “Well, whatever you’re seeing,” he said eventually, “he’s locked into Alpine. Long-term. Management contract’s done. They’ve promised him a seat in 2023.”

Amelia didn’t react at first. She simply nodded, eyes back on the track as the lights began to count down. But something flickered behind her expression, something uncertain.

She’d been to the Alpine garage. She knew how things felt there. Knew what Fernando had told her over coffee and biscuits. The uncertain politics. The disorganisation. The fractured attention span of a team trying to be four things at once and pulling in opposite directions. It didn’t sit right.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just said, “Okay.”

Mark nodded. “Thought you’d want to know.”

She offered him a small nod in return, and then turned her eyes back to the track as the five lights went out.

Oscar’s launch was perfect.

Of course it was.

—

Lando was sitting on a low wall just outside the McLaren motorhome, nursing a smoothie and checking scrolling through Instagram when someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

He glanced up to see Mark Webber standing in front of him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Uh. Hey,” Lando said slowly, slightly weary, wondering if he’d done something to accidentally pissed him off.

Mark nodded at him once. “Got a question for you.”

Lando blinked. “Okay?”

“Why is your girlfriend obsessed with Oscar?”

Lando stared. “What?” he said eventually, like the words had taken a full second to download.

“Oscar Piastri,” Mark repeated, tilting his head toward the mini F2 paddock. “Your girlfriend. Amelia. She’s been watching him like a hawk all weekend. I thought she might be there on Red Bull’s behalf, but no.”

Lando blinked again, processing. Then he laughed. “Oh! Oh, Oscar. Yeah.” He nodded, shaking his head with a fond grin. “She’s, like, imprinted on him or something.”

Mark stared. “She’s what.”

“You know. Like a duckling.” Lando made a vague motion with his hand. “It’s harmless. She gets like this sometimes. Sees someone drive well and suddenly she’s emotionally invested in their entire career trajectory.”

Mark looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“She was like that with Nyck for a bit,” Lando added helpfully. “And Latifi for exactly one afternoon, until he missed an easy breaking zone.”

“...Right.” Mark said.

“Honestly, it’s kind of sweet,” Lando shrugged. “Means she cares. She’s not gonna steal him from you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Mark said, slowly and clearly. “I’m confused.”

“You’ve just gotta learn to roll with it,” Lando grinned, sipping his smoothie again like the conversation was over.

Mark just stood there for a moment longer, processing the oddity of it all, before muttering something under his breath and walking away.

—

iMessage — 1:40pm

Lando Norris Mark Webber is very concerned Am I supposed to be jealous of this Oscar bloke

The reply came almost instantly.

Amelia He has perfect apex management Do you think if I go and talk to him he’ll let me critique him

Lando Norris PLEASE go and critique the baby driver. I’m sure he’ll love that

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, still grinning.

Oscar Piastri, whether he knew it or not, had just gained the most intense silent sponsor in all of Formula 1.

—

Oscar had just unclipped his helmet when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned, still half in his overalls, hair damp with sweat, and found himself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar woman who was wearing a white skirt, a T-Shirt with a lion and the number 33 on it, and sneakers that looked like they had a smudge of orange marker on the side. She also had a clipboard tucked under one arm, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and an unreadable expression fixed on her face.

"Uh—hi?" he offered, polite and cautious.

"You're Oscar Piastri," she said, more like a statement than a question.

He blinked. “Yeah…?”

She nodded once, then added, "You braked too late into Turn 4. Could’ve gained three tenths if you’d taken a wider entry and stayed tighter on exit. But your apex work in Sector 3 was perfect."

Oscar stared at her. “I—thanks?”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “You’re consistent. Calm under pressure. Don’t overcorrect. You keep your steering inputs clean, which is rare for a driver at this level.”

“…Okay.”

“And you’re doing that in a car that under-rotates on entry. That’s even more impressive.”

Oscar looked around as if someone might confirm whether this was real, if anyone else was seeing this happen. “Are you… scouting me or something? My manager—”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Oh.” He said. There was a pause. “Right,” he said again, more awkward now. “Cool.”

Amelia squinted at him. “Have you spoken to your engineers about your differential settings? You’re losing too much on cold tyres, especially first lap out of the pits.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I guess I could mention that. I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You should.” She told him.

Another pause. “…Who are you, exactly?” He asked on a wince.

She smiled at him. “Amelia Brown. I work with Max Verstappen.”

Oscar’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh. Oh. I knew I recognised you.”

She nodded, glanced at her clipboard. “You’re fast.”

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off toward the Red Bull garages, clipboard swinging at her side.

Oscar stood there for another full thirty seconds before one of his engineers passed him and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just— yeah. Hey, can who should I talk to about my differential settings?”

—

Oscar was adjusting the straps of his shoes when someone nudged his elbow.

He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit.

“Hey,” Lando Norris said, all cheeky grin and casual posture. “You Oscar?”

Oscar scrambled to stand properly, knocking into the side of the pit wall in the process. “Yeah! Uh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I’m Oscar. Piastri. You’re—uh. Obviously.”

Lando chuckled. “Relax, mate. Just wanted to say good luck in the feature. Great win yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed, ears already starting to go pink. “It’s… really cool to meet you.”

Lando grinned wider. “Appreciate it. My girlfriend’s actually the big fan.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, folding his arms. “She’s a bit obsessed with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh… what?”

Lando held back a laugh. “Not like that. Jesus. No, look, Amelia. That’s my girlfriend.”

Oscar’s brain stalled for a full second. “…Oh. I knew that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Look, she’s mostly with Max on race weekends, but if you spot her lingering around your garage, don’t freak out. She’s just… a bit fixated at the minute. It’ll pass.”

Oscar straightened a little, finally finding his footing. “I’m not freaked out. I mean—it’s kind of nice, actually. Having someone that smart in my corner.”

Lando’s smile softened. “Helpful, ain’t it?”

Oscar nodded.

“Shame she’s Max’s on race weekends,” Lando added dryly, nudging Oscar with his elbow. “But she’s mine the rest of the time, so I win.”

Oscar laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Tell her thanks for the advice, by the way. Make some adjustments and I’ve already noticed a difference.”

“I will,” Lando said, already turning to leave. “Don’t let her scare you too much.”

“No promises,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

—

Lando sat on the edge of the halo, half in his car, helmet perched on the shelf behind him. He was tapping one foot, not even aware he was doing it, gaze flicking back and forth between the screens in front of him.

Then he looked up; felt her before he saw her.

Amelia ducked in under the divider flap like she’d done a hundred times. One of the engineers gave her a small nod of hello, and no one moved to stop her.

Lando stood up automatically.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve of his fireproofs, adjusting the zip at his collar. The kind of quiet, grounding touch that could settle a world spinning too fast.

Then, softly, “I love you. Do well. Be safe.”

He leaned down, and she kissed him; gentle and steady and just long enough to make his knees threaten to go out from under him.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s grin was crooked and dazed. “Love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw.

—

The Red Bull garage was settling into that uniquely pre-race stillness; that suspended hum of controlled chaos. Final checks. Monitors flickering. Tyre blankets off. Nothing wasted, not a second nor a movement.

Max sat low in the cockpit of the RB16B, suit zipped, gloves halfway on, helmet resting beside him. His eyes were locked forward, watching but not really seeing the telemetry screen across from him.

GP crouched at his side, tablet balanced against his knee. “Steering feedback still alright after FP3?”

“Yeah,” Max said, barely blinking. “No pull on the straights anymore.”

“Rear end?”

“Still twitchy through ten,” Max replied. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m having to correct.”

GP nodded, tapping the screen. “We can tweak the diff map slightly, smooth it out mid-corner.”

Max didn’t answer immediately, just flexed his fingers inside the glove.

Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried.

Amelia.

She didn’t need to say anything; Max’s head turned the second she appeared at the edge of the garage. She had a MV33 jacket thrown loosely over her shoulders, a data sheet in one hand, iPad in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, sunglasses on her head despite the garage shadows, and ear defenders around her neck.

“Steering sorted?” she asked, skipping hello.

Max nodded. “Almost. GP’s dialling it in.”

GP gave her a glance over his tablet. “You here to give me more setup notes?”

“No,” she said dryly, flipping her iPad around and showing Max a highlighted map of sector times. “You’re a tenth down in sector two. Get that under control.”

Max took the tablet from her, scanning. “Shit. I can sort that, yeah.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t be struggling on that part of the track in the first place.”

GP snorted. Max handed it back with a smirk.

Amelia took a step closer, arms folded now, eyes flicking over Max’s face. She tilted her head. “You nervous?”

He looked at her for a moment, like he wanted to say no. Then he just nodded once. “A little.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “Good. You should be. You’re about to start a season-long war with a seven-time world champion.”

GP side-eyed her. “Amelia.” He warned quietly.

She ignored him, eyes firmly on Max. “Just remember, you have the car. You have the talent. Just put it all together.”

He glanced up at her then. Her expression hadn’t shifted; calm, focused, familiar. Grounding.

GP looked between them and stood up, giving them space. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t let him spiral,” he added, aiming that at Amelia.

“I’m the one who built the spiral,” she muttered.

Max breathed out a quiet laugh.

Then Amelia broke the silence. “I’ll be at pit wall with GP during the race. Nothing else I can do with the car until afterwards anyway. Don’t fuck it up, trust the strategy.”

“I’ll try.”

As she turned to walk out, Max called after her. “Amelia?”

She glanced back.

“If I can’t—”

“You can,” she cut in, with the blunt certainty of someone who refused to consider any other possibility.

Max blinked once. Then nodded.

GP returned with the headset. “You alright now?”

Max exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

—

The lights went out, and the grid thundered into motion.

Amelia flinched slightly at the roar. Twenty cars launched toward Turn 1, and already her eyes were scanning; Max on pole, Lando P9. A clean start. Good. Clean was all she could ever ask for.

Max’s start was near-perfect; no wheel-spin, held the lead into the first corner. But Lewis was there. Always there. Breathing down his neck like more of an inevitability than a challenge.

Her stomach flipped.

Lap 5. Max radioed about rear grip. She already knew. She could see it in his lines, a little hesitation through Turn 10, just a touch of overcorrection. She scribbled something on her iPad, handed it off to GP without a word, let him relay the information to Max.

On the screen, she watched Lando pick off Charles. Nice. Brave. She smiled softly.

Lap 13. Bottas boxed. Mercedes going aggressive. Amelia tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Lap 14. “Box, Max. Box now.”

The pit stop was clean. Not the fastest, but smooth. Max rejoined behind Hamilton. The chase began.

Lap 28. She was quiet now, arms crossed. Watching Lewis manage his tyres like some kind of magician, Max clawing back the delta.

Lap 31. Lando passed Daniel. Amelia’s stomach swooped with pride. Forgotten, he’d worried. As if.

Lap 38. GP’s voice came in sharp over the comms; “Purple Sector Two, Max. Good job.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. She was holding her breath now.

Lap 45. Hamilton dove in. The final phase began. Max had the advantage. But not for long.

Lap 53. Two laps to go.

Max took the lead with a stunning overtake around the outside of Turn 4. Amelia’s heart leapt.

But he ran wide. Track limits. The order came like a whisper, a curse; “Give it back.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” she whispered.

Lap 56. Final lap. Hamilton led. Max was there, nearly pushing him through every corner, but it wasn’t enough.

The flag waved.

Hamilton won.

Max finished P2.

Lando P4 — a breath away from the podium.

GP exhaled beside her, already offering reassurances. "It's only round one. We'll get them next time."

She nodded. She believed it. But still.

Still.

—

Amelia found him on the balcony of their shared hotel room, one leg propped on the low wall, still in a McLaren team hoodie, curls damp from a rushed shower. He looked up when she slid the door open.

“Hey baby,” he said, soft and tired.

Amelia didn’t say anything at first. She just walked over, reached for his hand, and tugged him gently toward her.

He didn’t resist. Just leaned into her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest.

“P4,” she mumbled.

He laughed quietly. “I know.”

“You were amazing.”

He let out a long breath, arms looping around her back. “Felt good. Car was sharp today. We had more in it, maybe, but... yeah. I’m happy.”

Amelia leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You should be. You outdrove your teammate, held your own against the Ferraris.”

Lando grinned at her. “You gonna make me a trophy?”

She frowned. “No. Why would I do that? You didn’t win.”

He snorted, kissed her forehead. “Yeah. Good thing I’m patient.”

“You are,” she agreed. “That’s why you’re doing so well.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the hush of midnight Bahrain, the warm breeze brushing past them. Her hand found the edge of his hoodie, fingers sliding underneath to touch warm skin.

“You looked good today,” he said softly. “On the pit wall, working hard.”

She nodded. “I really feel like I’ve found my place there.”

“And Max?” He asked.

She paused. “He was… good. Disappointed. But he’s focused. It’ll come.”

Lando hummed, then pulled her closer, swaying them gently. “Chances of me winning before he does this year?”

Amelia looked up at him, amused. “Slim to none, unfortunately.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But it’d make you smile, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And then I’d be crucified for sitting on Max’s pit wall and smiling at another drivers win.” She told him.

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and sweet. When they finally pulled apart, Amelia cupped his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Completely.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Cool. So… we celebrating with cake or sex?”

Amelia blinked. “Both?”

Lando laughed, pulling her back inside. “You’re perfect.”

—

Following the first race of the season, Amelia got sick.

It started slowly, just a scratch in her throat, a little bit more fatigue than usual, but by the second day back in the UK, it hit her like a truck.

Fever. Shakes. Headache. Nausea. The works.

She tried to power through it, of course. She was Amelia. She didn’t do sick days. But when she nearly passed out standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, Lando had carried her back to bed, tucked the covers up around her chin, and handed her a glass of water with a stern but incredibly gentle, “You’re not moving for the rest of the day, okay?”

It was awful for her.

And somehow, somehow, it was worse for Lando.

He hovered. Kept her topped up with expensive coffee and water, made a heroic effort in the kitchen (which resulted in some aggressively average tinned soup, but it was warm and made with love), and sat with her on the sofa, leaning back against her, giving her the exact amount of deep pressure that she needed since she felt so out of sorts.

He ran cool cloths over her forehead, whispered soft reassurances when her fever spiked in the middle of the night, and called his mum every few hours for advice on what more he could do to help her feel better.

Now, on day three, she was finally stable enough to sit upright without swaying. The lights were low, the flat was quiet, and she was curled into Lando’s side on the couch, her face smushed against his bare chest as Pretty Woman played softly on the TV in front of them.

He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and the other was moving up and down her thigh absently. She snuffled a little, still congested and gross, and pushed herself impossibly closer to his warmth.

Safe. Comfortable. At peace.

—

Max showed up mid-afternoon on the Thursday.

“Did you rob a pharmacy?” Amelia croaked from the couch, her voice still rough with congestion as she blinked blearily over the edge of her blanket.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a dramatic thud. “Maybe.”

Inside was everything she could possibly need; throat lozenges, vitamin C gummies, a fresh box of tissues, eucalyptus balm, electrolyte drinks, chocolate buttons (“for morale,” he’d muttered), and even a miniature hot water bottle shaped like a bear.

Amelia stared at it all. “Did the girlfriend that you’re still lying to help you with this?”

“No,” Max said quickly. “Okay yes. But I picked the bear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he shot back, tugging off his jacket and flopping unceremoniously onto the living room floor. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

That was how they ended up there, Max stretched out on Lando’s living room rug with his laptop open, Amelia curled up under a blanket beside him with tissues stuffed up her sleeve like someone’s grandma, hunched over notes and telemetry data.

They worked in a familiar rhythm; Amelia with her sharp, observant critiques and Max with his quiet nods, letting her voice guide the direction. She sounded like hell, sniffly and hoarse and congested, but her mind was still as razor-sharp as ever, and Max didn’t miss the way she caught every subtle shift in his sector times, every inconsistency in brake response.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “I know.”

They kept at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and the flat was soaked in golden light. Max had just asked about tyre degradation when Amelia stopped responding.

He turned to look, and there she was—head tipped against the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, tissues still clutched in one hand. Out cold, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with fever.

Max sighed softly, closing the laptop with a quiet snap. “Stubborn zusje,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stood.

The front door clicked open a second later.

Lando stepped in, looking wrecked from a day of intense training, hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Max still there, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

Max jerked his chin toward Amelia. “She insisted on coming back to work. I told her she was still sick. She told me she wasn’t. So I drove here instead of dragging her to Milton Keynes.” He gave a small laugh. “She made it three hours. Then passed out mid-sentence.”

Lando dropped his gym bag with a quiet thud and crossed to the couch. He crouched beside Amelia, fingers gently brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “Jesus. She really doesn’t know how to stop, does she?”

“Her only flaw,” Max said, grabbing his own bag. “Take care of her, yeah? I need her sharp again by Imola.”

Lando adjusted the blanket up around her shoulders, gaze never leaving her face. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks for watching out for her, man.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod and let himself out with a parting, “Later.”

Lando waited a beat, listening to the quiet, before slipping his arms under Amelia’s knees and shoulders. She stirred the moment she was lifted, letting out a tiny groan and curling instinctively into his chest.

“You’re home?” she murmured, voice rough and small.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And now we’re going to bed. Proper bed.”

She hummed, already half-asleep, nuzzling into his neck. “Still feel like shit. But I love you.”

He chuckled, arms tightening around her. “Love you too. Can’t believe you actually wanted to drive to Milton fucking Keynes like this.”

“Would’ve been fine,” she mumbled, stubborn as ever.

And then, right on cue, she dissolved into a coughing fit that tore through her chest and effectively killed her argument.

Lando didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Yeah. Super convincing, babe.”

She sniffled, still curled against him. “Shut up.”

—

It was sometime past midnight. The lights were low, the sheets tangled around their legs, and the soft hum of the street barely made it through the slightly open window.

Amelia lay on her side, head tucked into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He was warm beneath her, skin soft and comforting, his voice a quiet murmur above her head.

“…and then Jon made me do this set of banded sprints that absolutely murdered my quads,” he was saying, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles along the bare skin of her arm. “Swear I almost fell flat on my face in the gym. And then we had the simulator session, but I kept getting distracted ‘cause the brakes were feeling off, like they were biting too soon.”

She didn’t say anything, just listened, eyelids heavy but not quite ready to let go of the moment. There was something in the way he spoke, like he didn’t even realise how animated his hands got when he was into something. Like he didn’t know his voice softened a little when he said her name, even in passing. Like he didn’t realise how easy it was to love him.

“Baby?” he asked quietly, glancing down when she didn’t answer.

She blinked up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’m listening, Lan. Promise.”

—

Imola

Teams were setting up, media outlets milling around, and the familiar hum of power tools being tested echoed through the paddock. Amelia wandered a little ahead of Lando, distracted by the sight of a familiar dog trotting toward her through the crowd.

“Roscoe!” She grinned, crouching just in time to be enthusiastically tackled by the massive bulldog. His tail thumped against her legs as she scratched behind his ears.

“Hey, kid,” came a low, warm voice from above her.

She looked up, and there was Lewis, hands tucked into his Mercedes jacket, sunglasses perched atop his head, watching her with a soft but unmistakably distant look.

She rose slowly, brushing fur off her trousers. “Hi. I like his new collar. It’s so cute,” she said lightly.

Lewis glanced down at Roscoe, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you.”

There was a moment of quiet, just slightly too long. The smile dropped from Amelia’s face.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Lewis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.

Lando caught up, hovering behind her. “Baby…” he said gently, tone a soft warning.

She looked back at him, frowning. “He is!”

Lando’s jaw jumped at the slight tremble in her tone, his gaze moving back to Lewis, a dark warning on his face.

Lewis’ gaze was steady but guarded. “I can’t help it, Amelia. You’re working with Max now, yeah?” His eyes flicked to her, searching, almost like he was trying to measure her response. “And that… that does change things. You, working with my biggest rival.”

Amelia shook her head, the confusion and frustration beginning to bubble up inside her. “I’m just doing my job.” Her voice cracked a little, an undercurrent of hysteria creeping in. “I don’t want things to get weird between us. Please, don’t make it weird.”

Lando’s voice cut through softly from behind her. “Amelia…” he murmured, a note of concern threading through his tone. He knew how much Lewis meant to her, knew how much this was tearing her up, but it was only inevitable, wasn’t it?

Amelia didn’t turn to look at him, her focus solely on Lewis now, her pulse racing. “I’ve always looked up to you,” she continued, a little more frantic. “And you have always been so nice to me. I don't want to lose you in my life just because I'm working for Max. Nothing’s changed except that I’ve got a job to do now.”

Lewis sighed, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he took in her words. He glanced away for a moment, processing everything before settling his gaze on her. “It’s just hard, kid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Seeing you with him, knowing what that means for me, for my team…”

“I’m not picking sides,” she snapped a little more forcefully than she intended, the frustration now bubbling over. “I’m not picking anyone. I’m picking myself. I always have. And that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Lewis.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the tension hung thick in the air, with only the soft panting of Roscoe breaking the silence. Lewis seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, kid,” he said finally, his voice softer. “I get it. I’ll get over it. I just… selfishly wish you’d chosen Mercedes, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice steadier now.

As Amelia bent down to give Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, zusje,” Max called, strolling to to them in his usual Red Bull jacket and skinny jeans. “I’ve been looking for you. GP’s waiting on us,” he told her.

Amelia huffed softly, brushing down her skirt. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” she turned to Lando, leaned in to kiss him, feeling his hand squeeze hers lightly in response.

“See you soon, baby,” Lando murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before his attention shifted to Max, who was already gesturing for her to follow him.

Amelia turned to Lewis, her expression softening just a touch as she gave him a small wave. “Take care, okay?”

Lewis looked back at her, his eyes still carrying a trace of the tension that had been there before, but his voice was more measured this time. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

But just as she was about to turn away, she caught the faintest flicker of something in Lewis’ expression; a mix of caution, hesitation, and maybe a hint of something else — she hated that she couldn’t tell.

Max, noticing the look from behind her, turned his head sharply. His gaze locked with Lewis’ for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, a brief and subtle challenge.

Lewis didn’t flinch but held Max’s gaze, the tension hanging in the air like a low hum before Max spoke up, his voice casual but his body language firm.

“Let’s go, Amelia,” Max said, his hand gently guiding her away from the pair of them.

As they started walking, Lando took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them leave. “Christ. Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered under his breath.

Lewis, still standing in the same spot, let out a long sigh, the edge of his frustration softened but still there. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, his voice low as he looked after the pair of them.

—

Lando and Amelia had found a quiet spot in the paddock, away from the bustling journalists and photographers. It was early afternoon, the Italian sun still high, but the relentless rush of the morning had started to wind down.

They sat together at one of the outdoor tables, with the faint sounds of conversations and laughter filling the air. Amelia took a bite of her sandwich, eyes scanning the surroundings lazily. The day had been full of interviews, photos, and the usual whirlwind of the F1 circus, but now she could finally give herself a moment to relax.

Lando sat across from her, munching on his lunch, eyes flickering between his phone and Amelia. After a moment, he looked up, a playful grin on his face.

“You know,” he started, a teasing edge in his voice, “you’ve got a rating on WAGFASH for today’s outfit.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What’s the rating?”

“Nine,” he said, smugly.

She glanced down at her outfit; a white, low-waisted rara skirt paired with a baby tee emblazoned with an Italian flag and her little orange gem belly button piercing. “Huh. Not bad.” She said, slightly proud of herself. “I should comment and say thank you.”

But as she rifled through her handbag, her expression turned into one of mild panic. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Lando asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve lost my iPad!” she exclaimed, voice rising slightly.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lando N. Ok who has it?

Esteban O. Not me, mate.

Pierre G. Haven’t seen it!

George R. Yeah mate, not seen it today, sorry.

Mick S. You told me to just leave it if I saw it.

Lando N. You fucking what? Are you serious? Where did you see it?

Mick S. I gave it to the Alpine kid!

Lando N. What fucking Alpine kid?

Mick S. Pastry?

Lando N. Oh thank god. You’re lucky, Schumacher. She likes him.

George R. There’s an Alpine driver called Pastry? LMAO

Lando N. Piastri.

George R. Not as fun.

NEXT CHAPTER

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