understeeringirl

[understeeringirl]

glitch in time - loop three: day two.

summary: You wake up relieved, it was just a nightmare. But as every detail of the day repeats, denial spirals into panic. When the crash comes again, in a new corner, nothing can stop the gut-punching reality, and you retreat to your hotel room, trembling, whispering that it’s just a dream… knowing tomorrow it will all begin again. pairing: Lando Norris x Engineer!Reader warnings: racing accident / crash (graphic), grief, panic, intense emotional trauma, denial spiral, repetitive nightmare/loop structure, second person POV, anxiety, helplessness, paranoia

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You wake up to sunlight, thank god.

For a moment you don’t move at all. Just lie there, blinking against the pale wash of morning light bleeding through the curtains, heart pounding like you’ve been running. The sheets are twisted tight around your legs, damp with sweat, your throat dry. You stare at the ceiling, breathing shallow, trying to get your bearings.

The dream clings to you like smoke.

Images flash in fragments—metal screaming, fire, your own voice breaking over comms, the sound of someone shouting his name and then silence. So much silence. You squeeze your eyes shut, your stomach turning.

It felt real. Too real. Like you were actually there. Not the way dreams usually dissolve at the edges when you try to remember them. No—this one sits sharp and vivid in your skull, every detail burned in.

You drag a hand down your face, trying to shake it off. It was just a dream. That’s all. A stress dream. You’ve been working too hard, barely sleeping, running simulations in your head even after midnight. Your brain is fried. It makes sense it would conjure something horrific.

Still, your chest aches. You reach automatically for your phone on the nightstand. The urge to text him—just to check, just to be sure, just to see the little typing dots—is so strong your thumb hovers over his name in your messages. You stare at it for a long moment, breathing unevenly.

But what would you even say? Hi, good morning, had a nightmare where you died in flames, can you reassure me you’re alive?

Yeah. No. Insane.

You even type it out—morning, weird dream, you good?—but then sit there, staring at the words, your thumb hovering over send. Your heart pounds with the ridiculousness of it, like if you send it he’ll laugh and tease you forever. With a hard exhale, you delete the draft and drop the phone back onto the bed.

Instead, you force yourself into motion.

Shower. Steam curling around you while you let the water drum against your head, trying to rinse away the heaviness in your chest. Clothes. Makeup, just enough to look like you haven’t been up half the night. You pull your hair back, tie your lanyard around your wrist, go through the checklist of essentials.

Coffee downstairs. The bitter smell hits first, grounding, but when you wrap your hands around the paper cup your palms are still damp.

And then the lobby—two fans in McLaren caps laughing by the doors. They brush past you, exactly as they always do, their accents familiar. For a second, your stomach flips. You swear you’ve seen them before. You have, obviously, race weekend regulars, but something about the way the taller one adjusts his hat, the smaller one fumbling with the strap of her bag—it prickles at your skin.

Déjà vu.

You shake your head quickly, trying to shove it down. Just the dream. You’re rattled, that’s all.

The walk to the circuit, the shuffle of staff badges flashing at security, the same hum of early paddock bustle—it’s all so ordinary, so normal, and yet you can’t shake the strange edge to it, like you’re watching your own life on delay.

By the time you reach the garage, you almost feel steady again. Until—

“Morning, engineer.”

Your chest stutters.

He says it casually, same grin tugging the corner of his mouth, voice soft with that first-coffee haze. He doesn’t even look up right away, just rolls the bottle between his palms, then takes a sip like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like this moment is nothing.

But you know this moment.

The way the light cuts across the garage floor, catching in the scuffed orange of his trainers. The faint buzz of a drill somewhere deeper inside, someone laughing too loud near the pit wall. The way he leans—shoulder pressed against rubber, left foot braced just so, his wrist dangling loose with the condensation running down plastic onto his fingers.

All of it. You’ve seen it.

Your stomach knots.

“Hey,” you manage, voice thinner than you mean. Your own words echo in your head—because you remember them, remember saying them in the dream.

He doesn’t notice. He just tips his head back and swallows the water, throat working, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Big day,” he says around a half-yawn, exactly, exactly as before.

You grip your lanyard tighter, nails digging into your palm. It feels like some kind of test you didn’t sign up for. Like the universe is running lines from a script and daring you to call it out.

This is stupid. It’s a coincidence. People repeat themselves. It’s not—

“Don’t look so stressed already,” he adds, flashing a quick smile. “It’s barely nine.”

And that—god, that’s the line. The exact one. The air leaves your lungs in a rush, because you know you heard it before. The cadence, the teasing tilt of his voice. You’d swear on anything it happened already.

Your pulse is a drum in your throat.

You laugh, brittle, the sound scraping out of you. “Yeah,” you say. “Guess you’re right.”

But your skin crawls.

Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t notice. He just pushes off the tyres, drops his empty bottle into the recycling bin, and wanders deeper into the garage with that loose, careless gait. And you stand frozen, the memory overlaying reality like two mismatched transparencies, each moment snapping into place over the one before it.

The dream, you tell yourself. It was just a dream. But it’s not fading, it’s matching.

You try to shake it off. You force yourself into the rhythm of the day—the briefing, the laptop open in front of you, the endless chatter of engineers volleying back numbers and strategy points.

But every detail drags like a hook through your memory.

The couple in McLaren caps in the hotel lobby this morning. The way the older man laughed too loud at something you didn’t hear. You know it wasn’t new. You know his voice had the same rasp. You remember it from…from before. From your dream.

And in the meeting, when James cracked a joke about fuel loads, everyone laughed at the same moment. The same beat.

Your pen stilled in your hand.

You glanced around, searching for some glitch, some difference, anything. A coffee cup sitting on the wrong side of a laptop. A word misspoken. But it all lined up too neatly, the edges of reality folding into the memory that already lives in your head.

By lunch, your appetite is gone. You pick at a sandwich, staring down at your phone instead. You think about texting Lando, something stupid, just to see if he replies differently than you expect. But what would you even say? Hey, weird question, but did today already happen?

You put the phone down.

You tell yourself it’s fine. It was a dream. A vivid, disorienting nightmare. Of course it feels sharp around the edges, that’s how bad dreams work.

Still, the relief you felt this morning curdles into unease. Every laugh, every line, every sound you’ve already heard snaps into place like fate mocking you.

By the time you’re back in the garage, your hands tremble when you adjust a setting on the laptop. Lando’s voice filters through comms, bright and calm, joking with his race engineer. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Because you can still hear it, the silence after the crash. The crowd’s gasp. The way everything broke.

You shake your head, biting down hard on your cheek until you taste blood. No. This is fine. This is real.

And yet, your pulse spikes as the engines fire, because you know what comes next.

You stand by the car on the grid, headset hot against your ears, the air thick with burnt fuel and nerves. Usually, this moment hums with energy—the chaos before order, the ritual that settles once the lights go out.

But today, you can’t find your footing.

Because you’ve done this already.

You keep scanning the crowd, eyes darting from the blur of orange flags to the tight smile of a cameraman you swear you saw stand in that exact spot before. You catch yourself mouthing the words of the anthem because you already heard it. Every rise and fall of the notes slotting into memory like déjà vu’s cruel echo.

When the national anthem ends, your stomach flips. The exact same cheer, the exact same applause.

You hug your clipboard closer to your chest. It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just a dream bleeding into reality. You’re just tired. It’s fine.

You look at Lando. He’s strapped in, visor up, water tube dangling by his chin, nodding along to final instructions. He looks the same as he always does—calm in the eye of the storm. His eyes flick toward you briefly, and you can’t help it—you breathe.

He’s here. He’s fine.

You cling to that as the mechanics step back, the engineers clear out, and the formation lap begins. The crowd roars, and the engines swell. Your heart claws up into your throat.

“Car feels good,” Lando says casually over comms. “Balance is nice.”

Your knuckles go white on the clipboard. You heard him say that before. Not just once. In your dream. In that nightmare where everything went wrong.

You can almost predict his next words, because he already said them.

What if it wasn’t a dream?

You swallow hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes, and force yourself to breathe. This is reality. Dreams can’t hurt you.

And yet, every time he turns a corner, every time his voice crackles in your ears, it feels like watching a clock tick down toward something inevitable.

The lights will go out. The laps will blur. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you’ll lose him again.

You tell yourself it won’t happen. You tell yourself it can’t. You whisper it under your breath like a prayer.

But the dread sits heavier than hope.

The laps blur, a kaleidoscope of engine noise and telemetry, numbers scrolling across your screen like scripture you can’t decipher fast enough.

You keep waiting for it. For the dream to prove itself wrong.

Because in the nightmare—if that’s even what it was—it happened at Turn 9. A clean, sharp right-hander he always loved. He went wide, clipped the kerb, and the world broke.

But now, here he is, gliding through Turn 9 like nothing. Perfect line, tires singing, no hint of danger. He even laughs over the radio, a breathless grin in his voice:

“Tyres feel mint.”

You sag against the pit wall, lungs finally filling with air. Relief stings so hard it almost hurts. See? It was just a dream. Just your brain playing tricks on you. He’s fine.

And then—

Turn 13.

The moment happens too fast for thought, too slow for mercy. The rear snaps loose mid-corner, car twitching violently. He fights it—of course he does—but the grip never comes back. Orange paint flashes sideways, the sound of impact rips through your headset before your eyes can catch up. Metal against barrier, sparks like fireworks, the brutal crunch of speed ending too suddenly.

You don’t breathe. Can’t.

The garage erupts—mechanics leaping, voices shouting, radio calls overlapping—but all you hear is static. Static and the echo of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears.

This wasn’t in the dream. Not this corner. Not this lap. Not this way.

Your body refuses to believe it. Your brain scrambles for explanations: you’re still asleep, you’re imagining this, it’s not real, he’ll be fine, he always is, he always—

But the silence on the radio drags longer. And longer.

Until someone finally says his name. And he doesn’t answer.

You grip your headset so tightly it digs into your skull, and you whisper it again, softer, desperate—

“It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.”

But your hands are shaking. And you’re awake.

You collapse to your knees on the pit wall, clipboard forgotten, headset clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just a dream. Just a dream,” you whisper, voice cracking with each repetition.

Mechanics are shouting, radios are screeching, and somewhere someone is calling his name, but it’s like you’re underwater. The sound doesn’t reach you—it only vibrates in your bones, shaking your chest with the rhythm of panic.

You press your face into your hands, willing your eyes to shut, willing the world to fade. If you close them, maybe you’ll wake up again. Maybe you’ll open them tomorrow and it’ll be different. Maybe it’ll be a dream this time.

You can feel your lungs burn, your heart hammering so fast it could burst, and still the image plays behind your eyelids: the car sliding, metal crunching, sparks flying, him tumbling against the barrier, silence swallowing him whole.

“It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine,” you repeat, over and over, each word a desperate chant. But every syllable is a lie you can feel cracking in your throat. Because deep down, you know.

You can’t make it stop.

You curl into yourself, rocking slightly, whispering the same words like a prayer, like a mantra, like a shield against the truth you refuse to accept.

Hours later, you finally drag yourself back to your hotel room, each step feeling like wading through molasses. The echoes of the crash replay in your mind with every footfall. Every time you close your eyes, the metal screeches and sparks bloom behind your eyelids.

You lock the door behind you, leaning against it until your knees buckle, sliding down to sit on the floor. The room is quiet, too quiet, except for the dull hum of the air conditioner. Your hands are trembling so badly you can barely pull the sheets around your shoulders.

“It’s fine,” you whisper, voice raw and broken. “It’s just a dream. It has to be. Just a dream.”

You press your forehead to your knees, rocking slightly, trying to convince yourself. You replay the morning, the lobby, the garage, the grid—all of it. Each repeated detail a reminder that something is wrong, but you refuse to let it sink in. You clutch your phone, thumb hovering over his name, every fiber of you aching to reach out, but you can’t. Not yet. You can’t admit this is real.

You curl into yourself and rock a little more, whispering the mantra until your voice is hoarse. Sleep comes slowly, in fits, with nightmares tugging at the edges. And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, terrified voice whispers the truth: you’ll wake up tomorrow, and it’ll all begin again.

But for now, you hold onto the lie.

It’s just a dream.

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not really sure what to do with this story 😭😭😭 pls tell me your thoughts

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream @veythra @deeziee @sagestack @lalalalaland92 @didaaa4 @lost-library-of-violets

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! 💌

[understeeringirl]

glitch in time - loop two: day one

summary: You wake up still reeling from a nightmare so vivid it feels real — the crash, the terror, the hollow silence that followed. You tell yourself it’s impossible, that it was only a dream. But the McLaren-capped couple in the lobby, Lando leaning against the stack of tyres in the garage, the same jokes over comms — everything unfolds exactly as it did before. Every detail matches the nightmare, and by the time the crash happens again, there’s no escaping the realization: it’s happening again, and it’s all terrifyingly real. pairing: Lando Norris x Engineer!Reader warnings: racing accident / crash, grief, panic, intense emotional trauma, repetitive nightmare/loop structure, second person POV, anxiety, helplessness, confusion

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You wake up with your throat tight and your eyes sore, the kind of ache that lingers after crying yourself to sleep.

The crash is the first thing that floods your head.

It happened. You saw it. You heard the crunch of metal and the dead weight of silence over the radio. You’d stood in the paddock under the floodlights with your hands shaking so badly you could barely hold your tablet.

You swallow hard. The air in the hotel room feels too still. Too cold.

You reach for your phone.

The screen lights up — and your breath catches.

Sunday. 08:15 a.m.

The same Sunday.

You stare at it so long you forget to blink. The race was on Sunday. Yesterday. This can’t be—

No. You must have gotten the days mixed up. Or maybe you fell asleep watching old footage and your brain stitched it into something horrible. That has to be it. A nightmare, nothing more.

You push yourself out of bed, trying to shake it off.

The kettle clicks on. Steam curls in a tight spiral. You have the strange sense you’ve seen that before, but you don’t dwell on it.

It’s all… familiar. Too familiar.

You blink at the ceiling for a moment, convinced you’ve been here before. Not just in the same hotel, but in this exact second.

You push the thought away. Vivid dreams, maybe. You have them sometimes — ones so sharp they stick for days. This one must’ve been like that. The details are already fuzzy: the paddock, the crowd, the… crash. You shake your head. No.

You have a schedule to keep. Race day mornings are routine, comforting in their predictability. But as you pull on your team polo and tug your hair into a quick knot, you get the strangest sensation — like you’ve tied this ponytail exactly this way before. Like your fingers already know the motion too well.

You shake it off. Just a weird dream lingering. You must’ve dreamt this morning already.

In the lobby, you stop.

By the glass doors, a man and woman stand shoulder to shoulder, both wearing bright McLaren caps. The woman’s checking her phone, the man’s pointing out something in the distance. You’ve seen them before — here, exactly here, doing exactly this.

A wave of cold runs down your spine.

Down in the paddock, Lando’s leaning against a stack of tyres in the garage, a water bottle dangling from his fingers, helmet bag hanging from one wrist.

“Morning, engineer,” he says, just like before — same inflection, same smirk.

You stop short.

“You already said that,” you blurt before you can think.

He tilts his head. “Uh… no? It’s morning?”

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

The day presses forward in impossible precision. The rookie mechanic drops the same wrench. The same joke over comms makes you flinch with recognition. Someone plays the same pit wall song. Each repetition pricks at your mind. You try to shrug it off, to convince yourself it’s nothing. Your rational brain screams that dreams can be vivid. That it’s just stress. That your body is reading patterns that aren’t there.

But it all feels too perfect.

By the time you step into the garage, you still think it was just a dream. The crash — vivid, horrific — has already happened in your head. You keep telling yourself: It wasn’t real. Just a dream.

The McLaren-capped couple in the lobby, Lando leaning against the stack of tyres with the water bottle dangling from his fingers, the same jokes over comms — all of it prickles at your skin, but you push it aside. Coincidences. Your mind filling in the blanks.

You keep looking at the clock, at your surroundings, at Lando moving as he always does. Your stomach twists every time something aligns with the nightmare: the exact corner he’ll lose control on, the snap of carbon that you know is coming. You hate yourself for noticing. You hate that your brain already knows what’s next.

And then — it happens.

The corner. The contact. The violent spin. The sickening snap.

Your stomach drops. You can’t breathe. The tablet slips from your hands. Everything you’ve clung to — denial, hope, rationality — shatters in one terrible moment.

You stumble backward, pressed against the garage wall, shaking, chest tight, head pounding. The medics rush past, marshals waving frantically. You barely register it. All you can see is him.

The walk back to the hotel is a haze. Your legs feel like lead. Every sound echoes — distant engines, the hum of the streetlights, the faint chatter from early risers — and each one drags memories of the crash back into your chest like knives. You stumble through the lobby, ignoring the couple in McLaren caps, but their presence scratches at your mind. You know you’ve seen them, exactly like this, and it makes your stomach lurch again.

Up in your room, you sit on the edge of the bed, hands clutching the blanket. Your fingers dig into the fabric, as if grasping it could anchor you in reality. You try to breathe, slow your heart, convince yourself that it’s impossible, that it’s over, that it was only a dream. But your body refuses to listen. Your chest heaves, tears streak your face, and each sob feels like it’s shattering something inside you.

You replay the crash in your mind — the snap of metal, the way his car folded, the silence afterward. You see the exact angle of his helmet, the plume of smoke rising, the motionless shape that you know should be alive. Your thoughts spiral, colliding with each other: Was it a dream? Did it really happen? How can this be happening again?

Hours pass like minutes. You press your face to the pillow, your tears soaking through, your body trembling. The rational part of your mind whispers that it was a nightmare, but the evidence of your senses fights back — the taste of burnt rubber, the echoes of radio silence, the exact memories of the paddock, of Lando leaning against the stack of tyres, the McLaren couple in the lobby, the jokes, the comms, everything repeating.

You can’t sleep. Every time your eyelids close, the images and sounds return, sharper than before. Every sound outside — a car horn, a distant laugh, the creak of the hotel elevator — twists into a reminder of inevitability. You lie there, frozen and shaking, heart hammering, mind screaming, trying desperately to hold onto the thought that tomorrow will be different, that somehow, it won’t happen again.

But you know. You know, deep down.

Finally, exhaustion drags you under, but it’s not gentle. It’s thick, suffocating, and when darkness overtakes your consciousness, it carries the echo of his voice, faint but insistent:

“Stay with me.”

Your hands clench the sheets. Your body trembles even in unconsciousness. And somewhere beneath it all, a horrifying certainty settles: you will wake up again, and it will all happen again.

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Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream @veythra @deeziee

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! 💌

[understeeringirl]

glitch in time - loop one: day zero

summary: you wake up to a perfect race day, familiar and routine — but by night, everything breaks. the crash is fatal, and it repeats. over and over. and he doesn’t know you remember. pairing: lando norris x engineer!reader warnings: racing accident, death, graphic crash description, grief, heartbreak, second person pov, emotional trauma

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The first time you watched him die, you didn’t scream.

The world went silent instead — a kind of stillness that pressed against your eardrums until you thought they’d burst.

You saw the car twist, shatter, fold in on itself. Saw the halo spark. Saw the impact rattle the barriers.

You stood there, hands gripping the edge of the pit wall hard enough to ache, willing him to move.

He didn’t.

You thought that was the end.

You thought you’d carry it for the rest of your life.

You didn’t know the rest of your life would start over the next morning.

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You wake up to sunlight spilling across the hotel duvet, soft and golden, pooling in the folds of the sheets.

For a while, you just lie there, breathing in the stillness. The air conditioner hums low in the background, the sheets still warm from sleep.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand, but the ugly red numbers on the hotel alarm clock tell you it’s 8:15. Five hours until lights out. You don’t move yet. You let the moment stretch.

Your first thought is coffee.

Your second thought is him.

The shower is quick but unhurried, steam curling against the mirror until your reflection disappears. You twist your hair back in a low ponytail — practical, not glamorous — and go through the checklist without thinking: credentials lanyard, team polo, watch, the small battered notebook that lives in your back pocket during race weekends. The one full of telemetry numbers and half-drawn doodles you swear matter.

By the time you step into the elevator, the hotel smells faintly of toast from the breakfast buffet. A couple in McLaren caps glance at you and smile; you give them the polite one you save for strangers in the paddock. You wonder if they’ll be cheering for him today.

The paddock hums with that strange pre-race energy — loud, but not frantic yet. Mechanics lean over laptops, cables sprawled across the floor. Someone wheels a trolley of tyres past. The smell of fuel and hot rubber clings to the air like static.

You find him in the garage, leaning against a stack of tyres with a water bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s already in full race kit, helmet on the table, fireproofs peeking out from under his suit collar.

“Morning, engineer,” he says when he sees you, mouth tugging into that grin.

“Morning, liability,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

It’s always like this with him — easy, unthinking. You’re not together, not officially, but your orbits have always been tight. You’re the one who double-checks his seat padding, slips him the quiet data nobody else mentions. He’s the one who brings you coffee during long quali nights and pretends it’s nothing.

You talk about nothing — tyre temps, the weather, whether the catering today is inedible or just sad. He looks at you like the world is his. Like it always will be.

The hours before the race blur into a rhythm you know by heart.

Data checks. Tyre blankets. Radio tests. Someone shouts your name across the garage and hands you a clipboard; you scribble a number, sign it, pass it back. The smell of fuel is stronger now, sharper, like it’s settling into your lungs.

Every so often, you feel him at the edge of your vision — helmet on now, visor up, half-listening to his race engineer but glancing your way when no one notices. You pretend not to see. You’ve learned that pretending keeps things safe.

Then it’s time.

The car rolls out of the garage, nose first, tyres squealing lightly as they hit the sunlit asphalt. You follow with the others, headset already on, voices in your ears — too many, but you’ve learned to filter them out until it’s only his that matters.

The formation lap begins.

He weaves gently, scrubbing heat into the tyres. The sun catches on his helmet, making it flash like a signal only you can read. The grandstands are a blur of flags and shouting, but you’re focused on the numbers scrolling on the monitor in your hands — brake temps, delta, tyre pressure. All fine. All stable.

"Feels good," he says in your ear, voice smooth under the helmet.

You smile, even though he can’t see it. “Keep it that way.”

He chuckles. You can hear it. You feel it.

The grid tightens. Cars slot into their boxes, the world narrowing to the rumble of engines and the pop of the start lights overhead. Red. Red. Red.

You don’t know yet — can’t possibly know — that in less than two hours, you’ll be running down the pit lane with your headset hanging crooked around your neck, your own voice breaking in your throat as you beg someone to tell you he’s still breathing.

The lights go out and your body moves before your brain does, eyes tracking the blur of cars into Turn 1.

You hear him on the radio, voice steady but alive in that way it only is when he’s racing.

"Good launch. P12."

You don’t mean to smile — it just happens. The tension in your shoulders loosens a fraction, the way it always does when he makes it through the first lap clean.

By Lap 3, you’ve stopped clutching the pit wall tablet like it’s a lifeline. He’s holding pace. The numbers on your screen are green.

Lap 5, he takes the long way around in Turn 9, cheeky, patient, then —

"Yes, mate! That’s P11."

It’s stupid how much your chest warms at the sound of his laugh in your earpiece.

Lap 7, you catch him glancing toward your side of the pit wall on the main straight. Just for a second. The kind of thing you’d tease him for later, if you weren’t pretending your heart didn’t leap every time.

By Lap 10, you’ve let yourself believe — maybe just for today — that this race will be fine. That the knot in your stomach was wrong.

Lap 11, you notice the rear tyre temps creeping up faster than expected. Not red-zone, not yet — but the curve is sharper than it should be. You make a note on the tablet. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

"Tyres are starting to go," he says, and you pretend you didn’t already know.

Lap 13, the wind shifts. Literally. Gusts sweep across Sector 2, catching cars just enough to make their balance twitchy. Two drivers ahead make tiny mistakes, barely visible unless you’re looking for them. You’re always looking.

Lap 15, his delta slips a few tenths. He’s still fighting, still holding position, but the numbers on your screen are no longer an easy green — they’re edging amber.

"How’s the balance?" you ask over comms, trying to sound casual.

"Bit lively in the rear. Manageable."

Manageable. You hate that word.

Lap 17, the first yellow flag of the day. A spin two corners ahead, car stalled sideways across the apex. He threads through the debris like it’s muscle memory, his voice calm.

"Through. No damage."

Lap 19, you catch yourself watching the live feed instead of the data — watching him, not his numbers. His hands move quick over the wheel, adjusting, compensating. You think about telling him to box early. You don’t.

Lap 21, you check the forecast again even though you know it by heart. No rain. No excuses for the car to be moving like this. Your fingers drum on the console, not from nerves — you tell yourself — but from habit.

"Still manageable?" you ask.

"Still manageable," he replies. There’s a smile in his voice, but it’s not the same kind as at Lap 3. This one feels tighter, thinner.

Lap 23, his sector one is clean, but there’s a flicker of oversteer in sector two you only catch on the replay. He corrects so fast that the commentators don’t even mention it. Your stomach still drops.

Lap 24, another yellow. Two cars tangle a few turns ahead, the marshals waving frantically. He eases off, keeps clear, then pushes again, and you wish — for the first time all day — that he’d just slow down.

"Track’s slippery in four," you warn.

"Copy. Got it."

Lap 25, the gusts are back, sharper this time. You watch the telemetry spike, dip, spike. Your chest feels too small.

Lap 26, he’s behind a slower car, hunting for a way past. You’re already whispering don’t under your breath, even as you know he will. He always will.

Lap 27, he goes for it. The pass is clean — beautiful, even — but it puts him on the dirtier side of the track for the next corner.

Lap 28.

It happens so fast you almost miss the start of it.

One moment, he’s powering out of Turn 9, engine note clean and sharp through your headset. The next, there’s a twitch — so small the cameras barely catch it — the rear tyres skipping over a strip of uneven asphalt.

The correction is instant. Hands flick right, left, right again. You’ve seen him save worse. You’ve felt him save worse.

But this one is different. This one doesn’t stop.

The rear lets go entirely, the car’s nose snapping toward the inside barrier. The sound changes — higher, thinner — as if the air itself is screaming.

The first hit is sideways, a brutal thunk that sends carbon fibre shrapnel into the air like black confetti. The car spins from the rebound, slamming nose-first into the wall. That second impact is worse — a deep, sickening crunch that doesn’t sound like metal or carbon at all, but something inside you splitting open.

The world goes white for a second in the camera feed — smoke, dust, heat shimmer — before it clears to show what’s left: the car tilted at an ugly angle, wheels locked, one front tyre already rolling away across the runoff like it’s fleeing the scene.

Your headset is nothing but static.

"Lando?" you say, too fast, too sharp.

No answer.

"Lando, talk to me—"

Still nothing. The marshals are running now, but it feels like they’re moving through water, too slow, far too slow. Your own pulse is the only thing that feels fast, hammering so hard you can’t tell if you’re breathing anymore.

You don’t remember standing up.

One second you’re in your chair, headset pressed so tight to your ears it hurts, and the next you’re on your feet, leaning so far over the pit wall you can feel the concrete edge digging into your ribs.

The smoke hasn’t cleared. You can barely see the car. But you can see the corner workers waving frantically for medics, and that’s enough. Your hands are shaking. Your throat is raw.

"Please, please, please—" You’re not even aware you’re saying it out loud until someone grabs your elbow, trying to pull you back, but you twist away. If you let go, if you stop watching, you’re sure you’ll lose him for good.

The seconds stretch into minutes. Medics kneel by the car. Someone gestures for a fire extinguisher. The driver’s halo is coated in dust and foam.

Still no movement.

The moment you see the stretcher, your knees go out. It’s not graceful, it’s not slow — one blink and you’re on the floor of the garage, palms pressed to your face, as if covering your eyes could make the image of his helmet slumping sideways vanish.

Someone is saying your name. More than once. But it’s muffled, as if they’re speaking from underwater.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, brutal and irregular, and the dull roar of the crowd reacting to something you can’t see.

It takes you too long to realize the screens have cut to replay. You watch the crash again from three different angles, and each one carves a deeper wound:

The moment the rear lets go.

The way the wall doesn’t give.

The limp tilt of his head when the car finally stops.

By the time the official announcement comes, you already know.

And still — the words break you.

“…regret to inform…”

Your stomach heaves. You don’t remember the walk out of the paddock.

The world after that is wrong. It’s grey, and silent, and you keep thinking if you just look hard enough, you’ll see him turning the corner, helmet under his arm, grinning that stupid grin.

You close the door to your hotel room behind you with a soft click, the sound startling in the heavy silence.

The hallway’s dim light fades behind you as you lean against the door, your legs weak and trembling.

Every step you took from the paddock to here feels like it took years, though it was only minutes.

You don’t bother to take off your shoes or jacket. You sink down onto the edge of the bed, hands shaking as you bury your face in them.

Your breath comes out in ragged sobs that you try to smother, but the sound still fills the quiet room.

The room smells faintly of stale coffee and cheap hotel linen. You breathe it in, and it feels like choking.

Your phone is on the nightstand, the screen dark, but you’re afraid to check it.

You don’t want to see the messages you missed, the calls you didn’t answer.

You try to think of anything else. The way he smiled when you handed him his coffee that morning.

The sound of his voice in your headset just moments before the crash.

The warmth of his hand when you held it in the medical center.

But the memories feel like shards in your chest — beautiful and unbearable all at once.

Your limbs ache, your skin is clammy, and your body feels hollow.

You pull the blanket over you, but it does nothing to warm the cold that’s settled in your bones.

You lie back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling that feels too close, too unforgiving.

Sleep feels like a stranger you’re terrified to meet — but exhaustion is stronger.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyelids begin to flutter.

The darkness folds over you, soft and deep, like a whisper that tells you this is only the beginning.

And just before everything goes black, you hear the echo of his voice —

“Stay with me.”

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chapter one of my new series!! i've been missing bc i was on vacation but i'm back now and i'll be much more activee (hopefully!!) let me know your thoughts on this one!

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! 💌

[understeeringirl]

okay, so i want to write something weird (for lando obv). here are the options keeping me up at night:

- soulmate AU where everyone is born with a piece of telemetry that only makes sense when matched with someone else's. you're an engineer, he's a driver. and your data just matched.

-fake engineer AU where you snuck into the paddock as a dare and didn't expect lando norris to hand you a headset and go, "I trust you", leaving you too deep in the lie and looking at you like you hung the starts (you have no idea what a power unit is).

-time loop AU where he crashes. over and over again. and you're the only one who remembers, but every time you try to stop it, he just smiles like it's the first time.

-soulmates AU where your heart shows up in the radio when he's scared. nobody knows why, but there it is. your heartbeat, your panic, your calm. like it's always been his favorite sound.

which one should i write first? (aka please scream with me in the tags i’m going insane)

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! 💌

[understeeringirl]

Sunburnt hearts and soft apologies

Summary: You planned a quiet lunch by the sea — just you and him on vacation, no chaos, no cameras. But he never showed. Now the sun is setting, your phone’s on Do Not Disturb, and Lando’s finally remembered what he forgot. Too bad you’re not in the mood to make it easy for him.

n note: this is also lando in full “I fumbled the bag yesterday and now I will be the clingiest boyfriend alive” mode

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You’d been ready since 11:47.

Hair done, lashes curled, skin sun-kissed and glowing in that effortless “I just threw this on” way that actually took forty-five minutes and two outfit changes. The light linen dress fluttered just below your thighs, the one he always called his favorite — "You look like the sun in this, baby" — and you wore it because today was meant to be soft. Intimate. Special.

You’d booked the restaurant yourself, a little beachside spot hidden away at the edge of the resort. Private, quiet. The kind of place where time slowed down and no one recognized you both as the driver and the girl always stuck in the headlines with him. Just the two of you, ocean breeze and grilled fish and maybe wine, if he let himself relax for once.

This trip was supposed to be about that.

About you and him.

No schedules. No press. No paddock. Just space to be close again, like you hadn’t been in months.

You checked your phone again. 12:04.

No texts. No calls.

You gave him ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then thirty.

By the time your glass of water had gathered condensation and the couple at the next table had ordered and finished their appetizers, it was 1:26. And still — nothing.

You sat there until two. Watching the ocean. Trying not to cry in front of strangers. Holding onto the hope that he’d come flying down the walkway, face full of apologies and breathless excuses and a bouquet of those ugly hotel flowers he always gave you when he knew he’d messed up.

But he didn’t.

No call. No message.

Just silence.

You didn’t storm off. You walked slowly. Back through the lobby, up to the room, like if you moved too fast you might break the last thread holding you together.

The door to your suite was still locked from your exit this morning.

He hadn’t even come back.

You stared at the empty room for a moment — the crumpled covers on his side of the bed, the open balcony doors letting in sea air — and then let out a quiet laugh. Not a funny one. The tired kind. The kind you exhale when you realize that even in paradise, you can still be forgotten.

You pulled off your dress with shaking fingers, kicked off your sandals, and dug through your suitcase for your favorite bikini. Not the one he liked. The one you liked. The one that made you feel good without anyone else’s opinion.

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb. Left it facedown on the bed. Took your book. Your towel. Your silence.

And you walked to the beach.

You’d been there since a little past two-thirty, stretched out beneath the dipping sun, letting the heat bake away the disappointment.

The ache of waiting had dulled into a cold, quiet resentment. Not screaming. Not dramatic. Just that awful, familiar sense that you cared more. Again.

You turned another page, even though you hadn’t processed the last three.

And then you heard him.

The sand shifting behind you. Footsteps. That voice.

“Baby,” Lando called out, cheerful and lazy, like he hadn’t missed anything. “There you are.”

You didn’t move.

He plopped down beside you, hair a little windblown, sun high on his cheeks. Golf shirt unbuttoned at the collar. That ridiculous boyish smile tugging at his lips like this was just a regular afternoon.

“I was looking for you everywhere,” he said, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder before flopping onto his side to face you. “Missed you.”

You kept your sunglasses on. Turned a page. Didn't even glance at him.

Lando blinked. “Hey... you okay?”

You finally closed the book, marking the page with one finger. Then turned to face him, voice flat.

“We were supposed to have lunch. Remember?”

His expression faltered for half a second. Confusion knitting his brows. “Lunch?”

You just stared.

Then: “I booked a table. I told you yesterday. Noon. Beachside. The one you said looked cute when we walked by it. I waited for two hours, Lando.”

Silence.

You watched it hit him in real time — the realization, the memory, the regret.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls. “Babe, I— I went to the range early, just for an hour. I was gonna be back in time. I lost track of time. I didn’t even bring my phone. I’m so— fuck, I’m sorry.”

You turned your face back to the sea.

“You said this trip was about us,” you said, quietly. “You promised we’d slow down. That we’d get space to breathe together. I planned something small and special, just for once. And you didn’t even notice when you missed it.”

Lando’s whole demeanor shifted. Gone was the breezy, golf-stoned smile. He reached out, hand resting carefully on your ankle, thumb brushing soft circles against your skin.

“I didn’t mean to forget you,” he said, gently. “I just… I messed up. I was in my head, and I thought we had all week, and I didn’t realize how late it got.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in closer, his voice softer now. “Look at me?”

You did. Slowly. Carefully. Eyes unreadable behind your sunglasses.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, full sincerity in his voice now. “I was stupid. Selfish. And you’re right — this trip is supposed to be about us. So let me fix it. Please.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just let the sound of the waves carry your frustration out with the tide. You were still angry — hurt, even — but some part of you, the part that loved him stupidly, the part that wanted to forgive him, was already cracking.

“I don’t want grand gestures,” you said finally, your voice barely above the breeze. “I just wanted you to show up.”

He nodded. “I will. Starting now.”

And for the first time all day, you let him kiss you.

Not because he earned it yet — but because you needed it.

Because you still wanted this to be your trip.

His lips brushed yours, hesitant and soft — like he knew he didn’t deserve it, not really, but he couldn’t help himself. You let him, just for a second. Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be wanted, even if you weren’t sure you felt seen.

When he pulled back, he smiled like it meant something had shifted. Like everything was fine now.

You didn’t smile back.

You laid down again on your towel, sunglasses still on, arms crossed gently over your chest.

Lando stayed sitting, facing you, awkward in the sand now, his golf tan sharp against his neck. “Do you want to talk about it more?”

“No,” you said, and you meant it.

You didn’t want to talk. Not yet. You didn’t trust your voice — not when it might crack, not when it might beg him to hold you just to feel okay again. You didn’t want to explain why you’d spent two hours sitting alone at a table watching the sky shift above you while other couples leaned into each other and clinked glasses and shared things.

You didn’t want to tell him how stupid you felt — getting all dressed up for a boy who couldn’t even remember what day it was, let alone something you’d told him twice.

You didn’t want to say it hurt, because of course it hurt, and if he didn’t already know that, maybe he didn’t know you as well as you thought.

So you didn’t talk.

You let him sit beside you for a few minutes, quiet now, fingers fidgeting in the sand like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Eventually, he stood up. “I’ll be back,” he said, softly. “I’m gonna fix it.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t look. Just let the sun press down on you, and tried not to cry again behind your sunglasses.

It was past seven when you finally walked back up to the room. The sky had gone golden, and the resort was quiet, drowsy with the lull before dinner. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the beach, but the exhaustion hit hard once the anger cooled. You woke up with the book face-down beside you and a faint ache behind your ribs.

The room was different when you returned.

Cleaned up. Dimly lit. The sliding doors to the balcony were open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. A soft playlist hummed low from the speaker — something familiar and sweet, something he always put on when he wanted to slow you down.

And there, on the little terrace table, sat two plates. Covered dishes. A wine bucket with the bottle he knew you liked. Candles flickering in mason jars. Two hotel bathrobes hung over the backs of the chairs, his effort at ambiance.

Lando was by the counter, barefoot in swim trunks and an old t-shirt, looking nervously between the food and his phone like he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or a terrible one.

When he saw you, he lit up — but carefully.

“You came back,” he said, like you might still turn and leave.

You nodded, quiet. “I sleep here, too.”

He smiled a little. “Fair.”

You stood in the doorway for a moment, not sure whether to be moved or just more tired. The gesture was sweet. A little clumsy, maybe, but it was something. A way of saying he hadn’t just forgotten and moved on. A way of trying.

“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for,” he said quickly, gesturing to the plates. “So I ordered both your favorite pasta and the fish you liked yesterday. You can have both. Or neither. Or I can go down and get something else, seriously, I don’t care. I just— I wanted to show you I’m sorry.”

You exhaled. “It’s not just the lunch.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s the fact that you planned something for us and I didn’t show up. That I wasn’t paying attention. That it keeps happening — me not seeing what matters to you until it’s already too late.”

That stunned you a little — the fact that he said it. That he got it.

You stepped slowly onto the balcony, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I felt invisible today.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I hate that I made you feel that way.”

You sat, finally, and looked at the food. You weren’t starving — your stomach had been too full of anger all day — but it smelled good. And you wanted to want this. Wanted to feel like the two of you could still get it right.

He sat across from you and poured you a glass of wine, careful not to overfill it the way he usually did when he was distracted. His hands were steady now. Present.

“I don’t want you to think I take you for granted,” he said after a minute. “I know I get caught up in stupid shit. Racing. Work. My own head. But I love you, and I don’t forget that. I just… forget to show it sometimes. And I’m really fucking sorry.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Watched the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes at first. The way he looked older than usual, less boyish, like he’d felt the weight of today too.

And slowly, finally, something unknotted in your chest.

“I don’t need all this,” you said softly, gesturing at the setup. “I just need you to notice me. To show up. That’s all I ever want.”

“I’ll do better,” he promised.

And you believed him.

Not because of the candles or the pasta or the playlist — but because for once, he looked like he was really here.

You reached for his hand across the table.

“I’m still mad at you,” you said, but your fingers curled around his.

“I know,” he smiled, and squeezed back. “But you’re here. And that means everything.”

Dinner had been slow.

Not awkward — not anymore — but gentle. Like walking barefoot after a storm, careful not to step on anything sharp. You picked at the fish, twirled your fork through the pasta, let the wine settle your nerves. Lando didn’t push. He just stayed close, filling the silence with soft hums and little stories from the day, testing the waters every so often with a smile or a brush of your ankle under the table.

Eventually, you both cleaned up. Slipped into the familiar rhythm of folding towels, brushing teeth side by side like everything was normal again — except it wasn’t. Not entirely. The wound had closed, but the skin still ached beneath it.

By the time you curled into bed, the room dim and quiet, your body heavy from the sun and wine, Lando was already waiting — shirtless, blanket folded neatly over his lap, one arm tucked behind his head. His eyes found yours the moment you switched off the lamp.

He opened his arms like muscle memory. “C’mere.”

You hesitated for a second. Just a breath. Then slid into his side, cheek pressed against his chest, heart slow but still full of ache.

He kissed the top of your head. “Still mad?”

You sighed. “A little.”

“Good,” he murmured. “You should be.”

You glanced up at him. “That’s new.”

He shrugged a little, the movement rustling the sheets. “You’re not wrong. I did forget. I wasn’t thinking. I fucked up. I can’t expect you to get over it in an afternoon.”

There was a beat of quiet. The kind that sits between people who love each other too much to let it break.

“I was really excited, you know,” you whispered. “About today.”

“I know.”

“I wanted it to feel like… us again. Not just the version of us that fits in between his races and her work and a hundred unread texts.”

Lando was quiet for a second. Then: “I think I forgot how much you do for me.”

That made your chest ache in a different way. The kind that softened.

“I don’t need a thank-you every time I plan something,” you said, voice small. “But I need to feel like you see it. Like you see me.”

His fingers brushed along your spine, slow and warm. “I do. I swear I do. I just… I forget how lucky I am sometimes. To have you. To be chosen by you. And I think I let myself believe you’ll always be waiting, no matter how late I am.”

Your throat tightened.

“I always want to wait for you,” you said. “But I don’t want to feel like I have to.”

Lando shifted, pulling you fully into his chest, burying his nose into your hair.

“You don’t. I swear. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I hope you’ll still choose me. Even when I’m a dumbass.”

You let out a tiny laugh against his skin. “You are.”

“I know.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know that too.”

You tilted your chin up. Found his lips. Kissed him slow, sleepy, and forgiving.

It didn’t fix everything. But it said enough for tonight.

He kissed you back like a promise.

Then again, on your cheek. Your jaw. The tip of your nose. One more on your temple, soft as a secret.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, fingers curling around yours under the covers, “I’m all yours.”

And this time, you believed him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up to a camera flash.

Not a paparazzi one — no, that would be easier to handle.

This one is closer. Personal. Annoyingly domestic.

“Are you taking pictures of me right now?”

Lando freezes mid-snap, phone in hand, crouched by your side of the bed like a gremlin. He grins, wide and unrepentant. “You looked cute. Don’t bite me.”

You groan, dragging a pillow over your head. “You’re insane.”

“Only for you,” he says, already setting your sleeping face as his new lock screen.

You peek out from under the pillow. “That’s a terrible angle.”

“Nope,” he shrugs, tossing the phone onto the nightstand and crawling into bed beside you. “It’s perfection. Pure art. You should thank me.”

You roll away from him, burying your face into the blanket. “You’re so annoying.”

His arms wrap around your waist immediately. “I love when you’re grumpy. You look like a tiny storm cloud.”

“You forgot our lunch yesterday.”

“I deeply regret forgetting our lunch yesterday,” he says, already kissing your bare shoulder. “I’ve been haunted by it all night. I think I saw your disappointed face in my dreams.”

You sigh, but you don’t pull away.

“Do you want breakfast in bed?” he asks, suddenly perking up. “I’ll go down and get it. I’ll carry the tray like a butler. Shirtless. With a flower in my teeth.”

“No, I want ten more minutes of sleep,” you mumble.

He kisses your neck again. “Okay. But then we’re going to the beach. I booked us the nicest cabana. I bribed a guy with a Rolex to get it.”

“You don’t own a Rolex.”

“I do now. His name was Luca. He was very persuasive.”

You can’t help it — you laugh. Just a little.

And he beams, like it’s the biggest achievement of his career.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re halfway through your fruit bowl on the beach when he brings you a cocktail.

“Lando, it’s 10:45 a.m.”

“Which is basically noon in vacation time,” he says, plopping down dramatically beside you, wearing those swim trunks you once said made him look hot — and he has never let you live it down.

You take the glass anyway.

He rests his chin on your shoulder. “Have I mentioned you’re the most beautiful woman alive today?”

“You mentioned it six times while I brushed my teeth.”

“Well, it’s still true.”

You sip your drink, trying not to smile. “You’re laying it on very thick.”

“I’m making up for lost time. Yesterday I was a moron. Today I’m a man in love.”

You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. “Are those two different people?”

He gasps. “Wow. That was cruel. Hot, but cruel.”

You lean back on the lounger, stretching your legs out over his lap. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he groans, pressing a kiss to your ankle. “God, I’m so lucky. I’m so—wait, don’t move. I need a picture of this.”

You glare at him. “Put the phone down.”

“I just—this lighting—baby, please—”

“Lando.”

“Okay, okay! I’m just going to remember it with my brain like a normal person.”

You close your eyes, letting the sun hit your skin, but even behind your eyelids you can feel him staring.

“Are you staring at me right now?”

“Hard.”

“You’re insane.”

“Only for you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cabana he booked is perfect.

Tucked at the far end of the beach, half-shaded by palm trees and curtained in white linen that flutters in the breeze. A cooler sits off to the side, stocked with drinks and chocolate-covered fruit he must’ve begged the staff for. There’s even a little portable speaker softly playing one of your shared playlists — all low vocals and ocean sounds, nothing loud enough to intrude.

You’re lying side by side now, under the canopy, your bikini straps tucked down to avoid tan lines, your book abandoned on your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy shapes into your thigh like he’s drawing constellations.

It’s been quiet for almost half an hour.

You’re both just… breathing. For once.

He shifts a little, rests his chin on your shoulder from where he’s curled into your side. “Wanna know something?”

“Hmm?”

“I was gonna ask you to marry me this week,” he says softly, voice full of playful drama. “But then I forgot lunch, so now I have to push it back until you like me again.”

You laugh — really laugh this time — and shove him gently. “You’re impossible.”

“Untrue. I’m a man of substance. I brought you cold strawberries.”

You reach for one and pop it in your mouth. “You’re forgiven for another thirty minutes.”

He gasps. “My sentence has been reduced!”

You smile, watching the sun shift higher in the sky, the breeze licking at your skin. Lando looks different in this light — soft, freckled, less like the world-famous version of himself and more like the boy who once sat with you on the edge of a dock and asked if you ever got scared of the future.

He’s watching you now with that same expression.

“What?” you ask, nudging his foot with yours.

He shrugs, shy for once. “Just thinking about how pretty you are.”

“Still making up for yesterday?”

“Maybe,” he admits, grinning. “But also… no. I just don’t say it enough. And I want to say it more.”

You tilt your head, eyes softening. “You can show it, too. Doesn’t always have to be words.”

He nods. “Like this?”

He kisses your shoulder, then the spot just below your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your knee, for no reason at all.

You shake your head fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know.”

You roll onto your side to face him, folding your arm under your head. His hand comes to rest on your hip, grounding you.

“This trip still feels like ours,” you whisper, almost like a secret.

“It is,” he promises, his voice steady now. “I’m here. I’m not missing another second.”

You believe him.

And for the first time since you got here, it doesn’t feel like you’re waiting for him to catch up to you.

You’re here — together.

Golden hour catches in his curls. The sound of the tide pulls in, then back out again. Somewhere on the beach, a kid laughs. But here, in the stillness of this moment, it’s just you and him, and the kind of quiet that feels like love.

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a small fic just because i felt like i abandoned this account 😭😭 im actually working on a new fic (very long by the way) but im kinda stuck and low on inspiration so.... ill try to finish soon but no promises ❤️❤️

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! 💌

[understeeringirl]

this is my first time on your blog, and i gotta say that your ballerina x kimi fic hit home real hard.

i was a dancer too, for 10 years i was the principal ballerina of my class. i was a natural, i didn't need to count to perform, i could dance by ear and i exceeded where others didn't. but the only thing that kept me from achieving distinctions everywhere was my body and my brain. i was too fat. too muscular. too confident. too cocky. too short. blessed with beautiful feet and a perfect arch but cursed with 'laziness' and a fear for pain.

i was my principle's favourite student. she raised me, twice a week, every month, every year, for a decade. she sang my praises, compared other girls to me, and yet berated me the most. body shamed and told i was too much.

your fic brought back 10 year's worth of emotions, and i can say this is one of the only fics i've ever read that's managed to make me cry. props to you for your creativity, and your talent in writing. keep it up, i look forward to reading more

i don’t even know how to thank you for this message. i felt every word. the ballet world has this way of building you up and breaking you down all at once, and your experience hits so close to home.

i danced for 13 years, and i loved it with everything in me. i’d spend hours at the studio, obsessing over details, practicing until my feet bled. and for what? to be told i was too much. too loud. too soft. too strong. the world is cruel, and people are crueler. and still, we danced anyway.

your message reminded me why i wrote this fic in the first place. to hold space for girls like us. who gave so much, loved so deeply, and still had to carry the weight of not being “right” enough. thank you for sharing this with me. i’m so so honored it resonated with you. 🤍

-N

[understeeringirl]

kimi x ballet dancer 🩰

Hold Your Form

Summary: You’ve always been graceful — a dancer, a performer, a symbol of control. Kimi’s always been precise — composed, driven, the golden boy of the paddock. You grew up in parallel, with shared summers and Christmases, nods in the hallway of your father’s house. There were rules then. There are more now. Warnings: explicit content, injury, mental health struggles, secret relationship, family tension, angst, mature themes, raw intimacy Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x fem!ballet dancer!toto's daughter!reader Word count: 13.0k (im so sorry i got carried away)

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The studio is quiet long after the music fades.

Just the dull throb in your heel. The creak of the marley floor beneath your weight. The thin hum of the fluorescent light above, flickering like it’s on its last breath.

You’re on your knees, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. Sweat trails slowly down the back of your neck, soaking into the collar of your worn rehearsal leotard. The mirror in front of you is cracked near the edge — a spiderweb you keep forgetting is there until it catches the light just right.

You press your palms flat to the floor. Exhale. Try again.

Up.

Rise through the spine. Shoulders low. Chin lifted. Weight balanced. You move because movement is the only thing that makes sense. You dance because stillness feels worse. And this studio — bare, cold, dimly lit — is the only place that’s yours.

The music starts again. A low swell of piano, melancholic and familiar. Your body answers it before your mind can.

A développé into arabesque. A tight fouetté. Your ankle screams as you pivot too hard, too fast — the same ankle that’s been taped and retaped and begged to hold out just one more week.

You don’t stop. You never stop.

Pain is part of the process. Pressure is performance. And you’ve spent your entire life chasing perfection until it bled.

The leap sequence nearly unravels you.

Halfway through the last jump, you mistime your landing — left foot slightly off-center, the jolt searing through your hip and curling up your spine. You stumble.

But you don’t fall.

You breathe through it, hold your form, and let the music pull you forward.

When the final note dies, your legs give out with it.

You collapse to the floor in a slow, breathless heap — legs folded beneath you, forehead resting gently on the backs of your hands. Chest heaving. Eyes stinging. Limbs shaking with something that’s not quite exhaustion and not quite heartbreak but somewhere just between.

You don’t cry.

You just lie there, waiting for your heartbeat to slow.

The cold creeps in fast once you stop moving.

Your sweat-damp skin prickles. The floor chills the side of your face. Your left foot pulses in time with the ache in your ribs — the same ribs you bruised last week in a lift rehearsal that dropped you three seconds too early and three inches too far.

You should get up. Shower. Stretch. Ice.

Instead, you curl into the silence like it might give you something back.

You’ve been running on fumes for weeks — rehearsals, prep work, press, sponsor shoots, your next performance on the West End creeping closer like an unforgiving deadline. Your company director called your most recent performance “precise but cold.” You haven’t stopped thinking about that since.

Cold. That’s what you’re afraid of becoming.

Your phone buzzes where it’s buried in your bag across the room. You don’t move. You know who it is. Or you hope you do.

You don’t let yourself look.

Not yet.

Instead, you close your eyes, and you let yourself think about him.

Kimi Antonelli, who’s always been still where you’re spinning.

He’s not here. Not yet. But the thought of him lives in the studio walls like a ghost.

You think of the last time you saw him — the hotel in Monaco. The way he looked at you like he already knew what you were about to say before you said it.

You’d told him you needed space. That the season was starting. That your father couldn’t know.

You’d watched the understanding flicker behind his eyes like headlights in the dark.

And he hadn’t argued. He’d just nodded once and kissed your forehead like it meant goodbye.

You wish it had hurt more. You wish it had hurt less.

You wish it hadn’t felt like love.

Another breath. Another minute passed.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, legs trembling beneath you. 

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you check it.

kimi: i'm in monaco. 9pm. if you want me.

Your breath catches. Just for a second. It’s not a question. Not a plea. It’s an open door.

You don’t answer. The message blinks on your screen again, an unrelenting pulse that refuses to be ignored.

Twenty-three letters, eight words. No punctuation, no smiley face, no explanation. Just a time and a place — and a thread of hope tangled somewhere beneath the surface.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You want to say something. Anything. But your fingers freeze mid-air like they’re afraid to betray too much.

You put the phone down and look around the studio instead — the pale scuffs on the floor where your feet have traced the same patterns a thousand times, the faint scent of rosin lingering in the air, the cracked mirror where the light catches like a fractured dream.

Everything here is so precise. So exact. Every line, every movement, every breath measured and accounted for.

You’re not sure how to be anything but exact.

Perfection isn’t a goal — it’s a lifeline.

If you can hold your form, keep your balance, control every muscle, then maybe — just maybe — the chaos outside these walls won’t seep in. The expectations. The pressure. The ache that you’re not allowed to admit.

You run your hands over the bruises on your ribs again, careful not to press too hard. You remember the sting of that last rehearsal, the way your partner’s grip had faltered just enough to throw off the timing. You remember the silent frustration in your instructor’s eyes when you stumbled through the final lift.

You should be angry. You should be disappointed.

But instead, you feel… hollow.

A breath catches in your chest.

You think of Kimi.

You think of how he moves through his world — steady, unshakable, like a rock in the middle of a river. You wonder if he ever feels the same crackling tension beneath his skin, the relentless need to be perfect, to never let the team down, to hide what’s really going on underneath.

When you close your eyes, you see him standing at the edge of the track — hands in his pockets, watching the chaos of the pit lane with quiet focus. The way his brow furrows when he’s thinking too hard. The softness in his eyes when he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a world full of noise.

You want to believe that maybe he understands.

But you’re not sure if you can trust yourself to be vulnerable.

Because vulnerability means losing control. And losing control means falling apart.

You straighten your spine and breathe out slowly.

You are a dancer. You hold your form.

No matter what.

You sit back down slowly, legs stretched out in front of you. Your hands find the ribbons at your ankles, fingers stiff and a little numb.

The knot on the left foot is too tight. It always is — you tie it harder to compensate for the weakness, like pressure will keep the pain in place.

It takes you three tries to undo it.

The satin peels away from your skin with a soft rip, the fabric sticking to dried sweat and rosin. The box of the shoe is crushed and warped, the inside darkened where blood has seeped into the lining over time.

You slide it off, and the ache hits immediately — deep and throbbing.

Then the other.

With both shoes off, your feet look almost inhuman — blistered, calloused, swollen at the joints. Your pinky toe on the left is split open again. You touch it without flinching. Pain, but expected.

Next comes the bandage wrap.

You unwind it slowly, methodically, like if you move too fast everything might unravel all at once. The tape pulls against your skin with a stinging tug.

Underneath: more bruising, blooming up the side of your foot like ink in water. A bone-deep ache you’ve been ignoring all week.

You flex your toes. They barely move.

Your throat tightens.

You tell yourself you’ll ice it when you get home. You’ll rest it. You’ll be smart. You’ll stop pushing for one goddamn day.

But you know you won’t.

Because you already want to run the piece again.

You press your thumb into the underside of your foot, just below the arch, until you see stars.

The pain grounds you.

The checklist starts in your head, involuntary.

You breathe in and count to eight. Exhale on five. Again.

The pain is information. It means you’re still here.

You reach for your pointe shoes.

You tuck your toes into the shoe, careful, and begin to lace the ribbons with methodical precision.

Right foot first. Two loops around the arch, cross at the ankle, under, over, tie. Left foot second — slower this time, because of the swelling. You adjust the tension three times before the knot feels right. Secure. Balanced.

You flex. Rise onto demi-pointe. Test your weight.

It’s not perfect — the pain is sharp. But it’s enough.

You step to center.

This time, there’s no music. Just the internal metronome that’s lived inside you since you were six years old.

Five… six… seven…

You begin.

First position. Arms low, fingers relaxed, but not soft. Elongate the spine, hips aligned, knees over toes. Watch the arches. Right leg extends, gliding into tendu, up to passé. Brush through the floor. Close. Again. Left. Close. Hold. Control the turnout. Then arabesque. Stronger this time. Arm out. Chin lifted. Plié, then a controlled rise into relevé. Control. Control. Control. Spot. Turn. Again. Pirouette. Land. Again. Higher. Again. Cleaner.

You run the adagio from memory — legs slicing air, arms floating like breath. Each movement feeds the next.

Your back is a violin string pulled tight. Your left ankle aches like it’s being wrung out, but your port de bras is beautiful. The line is there. You feel it.

You don’t skip the grand jeté.

You throw yourself into it — full extension, right leg reaching, left trailing behind like a ribbon. Your foot hits the floor like thunder.

There’s a shock up your leg. A warning.

You don’t listen.

You finish with the coda. Quick beats. Assemblé. Sissone. Your lungs are burning. Your hair sticks to your neck. Your vision flares at the edges.

But your hands are in fifth. Your spine is tall. You hold the final position.

You hold and hold and hold.

Until your knees give. Until your hands meet the floor. Until you can’t remember if this is triumph or collapse.

You rip the ribbons loose with shaking fingers. The shoes come off with a soft thud, followed by a hiss through clenched teeth.

Your toes are bleeding again.

You touch one blister with the tip of your nail. It flares red. You breathe in like it’s air.

Still not good enough.

But better.

You don’t hear the door open.

Not over the ringing in your ears, not over the sound of your own breath — shallow, uneven, panicked in a way you won’t admit aloud.

But when you finally lift your head, he’s there.

Leaning against the doorframe.

Kimi.

He’s dressed down — black hoodie, hands in the pockets, cap pulled low like he’s trying to disappear into the shadows. But you’d recognize the outline of him anywhere. That stillness. That calm. That strange, infuriating softness.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just looks at you like he’s seeing straight through the sweat and the pain and the mess you’ve made of yourself.

You want to say something. Anything. A joke, maybe. Something sarcastic and half-hearted to pretend this doesn’t feel like a collision you’ve been skidding toward for months.

But your throat closes before the words can rise.

His eyes drop to your feet. To the blood. The bruises. The half-unraveled ribbons curled against the floor like petals left out in the rain.

He pushes off the wall slowly.

Walks toward you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

And when he finally sinks to the floor beside you — silent, careful, warm — you don’t flinch.

You just breathe.

He watches you for a long time, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, quiet, just above a whisper.

“Didn’t answer me.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

He glances down at your hands — still curled on the floor like you’re not sure what they’re allowed to hold. His eyes flick to your ankle, then back to your face.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

You huff a breath through your nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Kimi’s lips twitch. Barely. “You left the door unlocked.”

You don’t remember doing it. But you don’t deny it.

For a moment, the silence stretches again — not heavy, not awkward. Just there. The kind that says everything you’re both too scared to.

And then, softer:

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, voice catching.

“I know,” he says. “But you didn’t answer. So I came anyway.”

Kimi shifts beside you, just enough to rest his elbows on his knees, hands still in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s looking down at the floor now, at the scuffed lines you’ve carved into it over the years. The places where the marley’s peeled slightly. The dent near center where you always land your turns.

“How long were you watching?” you ask, eyes still on your hands.

“A while.”

You nod slowly, shame crawling up your throat like smoke. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You wouldn’t have.”

His eyes flick to yours at that — not sharp, but steady. “You looked like you’d disappear if someone touched you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So instead you ask, “Why did you come?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even skeptical. It’s just quiet. Honest.

Kimi shrugs, and for a moment, he looks younger than you remember. More boy than myth.

“You didn’t say no.”

That makes your chest ache. Stupid, stupid boy.

You could break his heart without even meaning to.

You close your eyes and lean your head back against the mirror. The glass is cool, unforgiving. It stings where it touches the bruise blooming behind your ear.

“Nothing’s changed, Kimi.”

“I know.”

“My dad still—”

“I know.”

“And yours—”

“I know.”

His voice cuts through, not loud, but certain. Final.

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you again — and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” he says. “Just… you’re here. And I’m here. And I needed to see you.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter: “Is that allowed?”

Your throat tightens.

“No,” you whisper. “But I needed to see you too.”

Kimi shifts closer — not enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. His presence. The comfort of it. The way he’s always been a little too calm, a little too steady, like the world spins differently for him.

He’s always been safe.

And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Neither of you said it, but you both knew the truth lingering just beneath the surface.

The phone buzzed with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

Your father’s voice echoed in your mind: “You’re on the brink of something big. Don’t let distractions ruin it.”

Kimi’s eyes searched yours, soft but guarded.

“We can’t,” he finally whispered.

You nodded slowly.

“It’s not just us,” you said. “It’s everything around us.”

The racing world watching his every move. The ballet company counting on you to be flawless.

Your parents’ unspoken warnings.

Their hopes tied to your discipline.

And then, the fear — that love, as fierce as it felt, could fracture everything you’d both worked so hard to build.

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand briefly.

“But maybe someday…”

Kimi’s breath hitched.

“Maybe.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The summer heat had clung to the walls all day, thick and golden, turning the corners of the house syrupy-slow. The windows were cracked just wide enough to let in the smell of cut grass and rubber from the backyard — remnants of an afternoon spent at the go-kart track, where Kimi had beaten every lap record by a mile and you had clapped the loudest.

Your socks were mismatched and still dusted with chalk from the porch railing where you’d practiced pirouettes, spinning until your vision blurred and Kimi yelled at you to slow down before you cracked your skull open.

Now, in the quiet of the kitchen, you sat on the counter, your legs swinging softly beneath you. An ice pack rested on your knee, wrapped in some paper towels. Kimi stood across from you, rummaging through the fridge like he lived there — which, in some ways, he did.

“You shouldn’t turn like that on concrete,” he muttered, holding up a bottle of water in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry yogurt in the other. “It’s not a studio.”

You shrugged. “You shouldn’t take the chicane flat out with a bent axle. But here we are.”

He snorted. “Fair.”

The fridge door closed with a soft thud, and he crossed the room to hand you the water. You took it, your fingers brushing his for half a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Your hair was damp from a shower. Kimi’s hoodie was two sizes too big and clung to his shoulders in a way that made him look more grown than he was. There was grease under his nails. A small blister near your big toe.

He looked at your knee again, frowning.

“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you should keep doing it.”

You watched him for a moment. Noticed how the corner of his mouth twitched when he was worried. How his hands fidgeted with the label on the water bottle.

“You care too much,” you murmured.

“Yeah, well,” he said, glancing at you, “you don’t care enough.”

Another silence. Not uncomfortable — just quiet. Summer-evening soft.

Then Kimi pulled his hoodie over his head, the motion awkward and clumsy.

He held it out to you.

“For your ice pack,” he said. “So it doesn’t soak through.”

You blinked. “You’ll freeze walking home.”

“I’m not walking.”

“Still.”

“Just take it.”

You did.

The hoodie smelled like engine oil and something warmer — not quite cologne, not quite sweat. Just him.

You wrapped the ice pack in it and held it to your knee. The cotton was warm. Soft.

When you looked up again, Kimi wasn’t watching the hoodie. He was watching you — like he didn’t know what to say next, but maybe wanted to anyway.

Kimi sat beside you on the counter after handing you the hoodie. Close, but not touching. His shoulder nearly brushed yours every time he shifted, and your heart responded like a metronome speeding up with each inch of space that dissolved.

Outside, the sun was almost gone. The air was stained pink and gold through the open blinds, and cicadas had started their chorus. It felt like the world had paused — just the two of you in this kitchen that had grown you both.

“I saw the way you landed today,” he said suddenly. “During that spin.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You were watching?”

He nodded. “You always try to finish with your arms too wide. You lean out of the turn.”

You gawked at him. “Since when do you know anything about pirouettes?”

He smirked, almost proud. “I don’t. But I’ve seen you do it like a thousand times. I notice stuff.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at your bruised knee, the one throbbing under the melting ice pack, and the hoodie now wrapped around it.

“It’s dumb,” you said, quieter. “I knew the surface was bad. I just wanted to… get it right.”

Kimi leaned back on his palms, legs swinging beside yours. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Push too hard when no one’s watching.”

You tilted your head, studying him. He was only fourteen, but something about the way he said it made your throat sting — like he already knew what it meant to want something so badly it hurt.

“I don’t want to fall behind,” you murmured.

He looked over at you.

“You won’t.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. Like he couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t great.

You looked away first. Too much. Too much.

From the other room, you could hear the low murmur of your parents talking. The TV humming under their words. Safe, distant.

You kicked your heels softly against the cabinet. “You leave for France again next week, right?”

“Yeah. Karting camp.” A pause. “I hate leaving.”

You swallowed. “I hate when you leave.”

And there it was — not a confession. Not yet. But something that hovered at the edge of becoming one.

Kimi glanced down at his hands, thumbs brushing over a small blister on his palm. “It’s only three weeks.”

“Still.”

You didn’t know what you were asking for. You just knew you didn’t want him to go. Or maybe, more honestly, you didn’t want to be the one left standing in the empty kitchen, watching the door close behind him.

When you finally slid off the counter, your knee protested with a sharp pinch. You winced.

Kimi stood up too, reaching a hand out on instinct — fingers hovering just above your arm like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.

You looked at him. He looked back.

Your fingers brushed — light as a breath.

Neither of you moved away.

It was quiet. So, so quiet.

“Keep the hoodie,” he said.

You smiled. “It’s like a thousand sizes too big.”

He shrugged. “You’ll grow into it.”

You didn’t know then that you’d keep it for years. That you’d tuck it into dance bags and under pillows and carry it through more cities than you could count.

You didn’t know yet what kind of stitch that moment would become.

But it held.

And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next message comes weeks later, just after midnight.

kimi: p10. couldn’t focus. can’t sleep. your light’s still on.

You stare at the screen. He’s not wrong — the soft glow from your apartment window is the only thing keeping the Monaco skyline company.

You type and delete a dozen replies.

Finally, you send one.

come up. quietly.

You don’t pace while you wait — you just sit in the dark, wrapped in your robe, your ankle elevated on a pillow and an ice pack dripping onto a towel.

The knock comes three minutes later. Sharp. Hesitant.

You open the door.

Kimi’s still in his team hoodie, damp hair curling at the ends. His jaw’s tight, knuckles scraped. There's a look in his eyes like he’s already half-undone.

Neither of you speak.

The door clicks closed behind him, muffling the sounds of the world outside.

Kimi stands still for a heartbeat, the tension coiled in his shoulders so tight you could see the strain. Then his hands find your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, breath hitching.

He shakes his head slowly, voice low and rough, “I couldn’t stay away. Not tonight. Not after today.”

You swallow hard, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the city beyond your window.

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to find something — reassurance? Forgiveness? Permission?

“Why now?” you ask, voice barely steady.

“Because I need this,” he confesses, voice cracking just slightly. “I need you. Not just as a distraction. Not just for comfort. I need… us. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

Your fingers tremble as they brush the back of his neck, tracing the line where sweat mixes with freshly washed hair.

“Then don’t stop,” you breathe.

He smiles — small, vulnerable — and leans in slowly. His lips hover over yours, warm and tentative.

“May I?” he murmurs.

You nod, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea.

The first kiss is gentle, searching. His mouth softens against yours, exploring the shape of your lips like he’s memorizing every curve and contour.

Your hands thread through his damp hair, holding him closer, grounding him — grounding yourself.

A breath later, his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You part willingly.

The kiss deepens, slow and steady at first, then more urgent as the years of frustration and unspoken feelings unravel between you.

You pull back for air, foreheads resting together.

“God, you smell like the track,” you tease softly.

He chuckles, breath warm against your skin. “And you smell like rosin and tears.”

You grin despite yourself.

His hands slide under your shirt, trailing fire across your ribs. You shiver under his touch — part cold from the night air, part anticipation.

“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” he says, voice a rough whisper.

You shake your head.

He lifts your shirt over your head slowly, reverently, exposing skin flushed pink from your dance and the heat building between you.

His hands roam your back, sliding down to cup your hips.

You press into him, breath hitching when his mouth follows the line of your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Your heart stutters.

His lips find the swell of your breast, nipping gently.

You moan, arching into him.

His hands slide lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your leggings.

You tense at the cold air against your heated skin but relax into his touch.

He slides your leggings down, revealing the smooth skin of your thighs.

He looks up, eyes dark and searching.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You nod, voice husky, “I want this.”

His mouth claims yours again — slower, deeper, more desperate.

When he finally enters you, it’s both fire and ice, overwhelming and grounding all at once.

His rhythm is unsteady at first — like he’s afraid to break the fragile moment — but soon he finds a steady pace, deep and sure.

You wrap your legs around his hips, holding on tight, nails digging into his shoulders as the tension that’s built over months snaps free.

Your breaths mix, ragged and loud in the small room.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs between thrusts.

“And I’m yours,” you answer, voice breaking.

His hands grip your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if trying to erase the distance between you.

You lose yourself in the sensation — the way his skin feels against yours, the warmth spreading through your body, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person left in the world.

When you come — together, messy and beautiful — the world stills for a moment.

He collapses beside you, forehead resting on your shoulder.

The room is thick with quiet — the kind that follows something too big for words.

Kimi’s fingers move slowly, tracing the line of your spine, as if memorizing every inch.

You turn your head to look at him, eyes searching, hesitant.

“This… this was supposed to be different,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinks, then smiles, a little sad, a little gentle. “How?”

You take a breath, trying to find the right words. “I thought the first time would be easier. Less… complicated.”

He nods slowly, understanding. “Yeah. Not sneaking around. Not risking everything.”

You glance down, heart pounding. “But maybe that’s why it matters.”

He brushes your hair back, thumb grazing your cheek. “Because it’s real. Because it’s ours.”

A pause, heavy and warm.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “Not about you — about everything else. What happens if someone finds out?”

He tightens his hold on your hand. “Then we deal with it. Together. But until then…”

He leans in, voice low. “This stays between us. No one else.”

You bite your lip, nodding.

“I don’t want to lose what we have. Even if it’s hidden. Even if it’s just these moments.”

He smiles, a promise in his eyes.

“We’ll protect it. Keep it safe.”

You laugh softly. “Our little secret.”

His smile widens.

“Exactly. And if anyone asks? We pretend it never happened.”

You rest your head on his chest.

“God, this is messy.”

He wraps his arms around you.

“But it’s perfect for us.”

You close your eyes.

“First time, secret love. Makes it ours.”

“Forever,” he whispers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake to the sound of rain.

Not the kind that lashes or screams — just a soft patter against the windowpane, steady and soothing. A metronome of sorts. You blink slowly, trying to find your bearings.

The sheets are warm. Your legs are tangled with his.

Kimi’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, slow and steady, his arm slung loosely around your waist like it found its place in the night and refused to let go. His hoodie is half-off your shoulder, your own shirt nowhere to be seen. The air smells faintly of sweat and sleep and the ghosts of something you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

For a moment, you don’t move.

There’s peace in this. In the quiet. In the way your name sounds different when he says it — less like a question and more like a tether.

You shift slightly, trying not to wake him. But he stirs anyway, his hand brushing absentmindedly over your spine.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravel from sleep.

Your throat catches. “Hi.”

He doesn’t open his eyes — just pulls you closer.

You lie there like that for a while. No words. Just skin on skin and the storm outside and the fragile ache of something too delicate to touch.

Eventually, you prop yourself up on one elbow, brushing the hair from his forehead. His lashes flutter. His eyes open — soft blue, still heavy with sleep — and find yours.

You expect tension. Regret. Panic.

But instead, he smiles. Crooked. Barely there. Real.

“Didn’t dream it,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips.

You look down, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “We probably shouldn’t have.”

“Probably,” he agrees. But there’s no apology in his voice. Just fact.

You glance at the clock. Too early for the world to care yet. But soon.

Kimi watches you. “You okay?”

You nod, but it’s not entirely convincing.

He catches your hand. Intertwines your fingers. Waits.

“I just…” You swallow. “This felt too good. Which means it’s going to hurt later.”

“Don’t think about later,” he says. “Not yet.”

You lie back down beside him. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, anchoring you there.

For a moment, it works.

For a moment, you believe you can exist here — in the softness between two storms.

But you know better. You always do.

Eventually, someone will knock. Or call. Or see.

Eventually, you’ll be back in your studio, bleeding through satin. He’ll be in a press conference, half-listening.

Eventually, you’ll have to pretend again.

But right now?

You close your eyes. Let yourself be held. Reality can wait.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The afternoon light cuts through the blinds in slats, painting the tiled floor with soft gold. You sit at the small table in one of Kimi’s shirts — still too big — with your legs tucked beneath you, eyes unfocused, fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug.

He moves around the kitchen in quiet rhythm, frying an egg, slicing toast, glancing back at you every few seconds like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still real.

The apartment smells like butter and burnt edges. Something warm. Something almost domestic.

You haven’t said much since you woke up wrapped around each other, legs tangled and skin hot, whispered secrets lingering between heartbeats. But that moment’s folded away now, somewhere behind your ribs. This one is quieter. Sadder. More real.

He sets a plate down in front of you — eggs, strawberries, toast. Your stomach turns at the sight of it.

You manage a half-smile. “You made lunch.”

Kimi shrugs. “I know you didn’t eat last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine.”

You run a fingertip over the rim of the mug. It’s not worth fighting about — not when the ache in your thighs still hums like a secret and his scent is still clinging to your skin. Not when you’re both trying not to look too closely at what this means.

You take a sip of coffee. “We should talk about it.”

His jaw tenses. “About last night?”

You nod.

Kimi lowers himself into the chair across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table. “Okay.”

You pick at a corner of the toast but don’t bring it to your mouth.

“It changes things,” you say softly.

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. “But not everything.”

You glance up.

“I don’t regret it,” he adds, firm, like he needs you to know. “Not a second.”

“I don’t either.”

Silence stretches. The clock ticks loud above the sink.

“But we can’t…” You trail off, trying to find the edges of the truth. “We can’t do this again. Not unless we’re ready to tell people. And I’m not.”

“I know,” he says. “Me neither.”

The admission shouldn’t sting. But it does.

You glance down at the plate. Still untouched.

He notices.

“Eat something,” he murmurs.

“I’m not hungry.”

Kimi leans back slightly, eyes steady on yours. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

You tense. “I’m not—”

“I mean it,” he cuts in gently. “You don’t have to be perfect here. Just… take care of yourself. Please.”

You reach for a strawberry, fingers shaking slightly. You press it to your lips, hesitate — then put it back down.

“I’m trying,” you whisper.

“I know.”

He doesn’t push. Just reaches for your hand, threads his fingers through yours on the table between you. A tether.

“I hate hiding,” you admit after a minute. “But I’m more afraid of what happens if we stop.”

Kimi swallows hard. “Then we don’t stop. Not really. We just… slow down.”

You look at him. His hair’s still damp. There’s a scratch on his neck from your nails. His eyes are soft.

“This stays between us,” you say. “Just ours.”

“Just ours,” he repeats, quiet and sure.

A pause.

Then, almost a smile: “Though you’ll need to stop stealing my shirts. Someone’s gonna notice.”

You breathe a small laugh. “I’ll wear a different one next time.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Next time.

It lingers in the air between you — warm, terrifying, inevitable.

And when you finally take a bite of the toast, even if it’s just a little, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For months, it worked.

Not perfectly. Not easily. But it worked.

There are mornings when you wake with the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin — a warmth that fades too fast with the rising sun and the relentless demands of rehearsals. Nights when he calls quietly, voice rough from hours spent on the radio, asking if you’re still awake. Brief moments stolen between schedules, whispered promises passed beneath breathless exhales.

You live in those pockets of time — hidden from the world, wrapped in a fragile bubble of secrecy.

There are rules, unspoken but fiercely held:

No public displays beyond a glance or a brush of fingers. No mentions in interviews or social media. No photos, no whispers, no slip-ups. No talking about the future. No letting yourselves hope.

Because you both know — you have to keep it this way.

You tell yourself it’s enough.

You tell yourself if you stay careful, if you navigate the calendars like tightrope walkers, if you are shadows sliding between glaring lights, you can keep the fragile peace.

But someone will get hurt.

You were never supposed to cross this line.

Not you — the daughter of Toto and Susie Wolff. Raised in a world where perfection is mandatory, where every move is measured, every word weighed. A life scripted around discipline, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to excellence. Your parents watch with pride and high expectations, ready to catch you if you stumble, but unflinching when it comes to keeping distractions at bay.

And not him — Kimi Antonelli, the golden boy Marco and Elisabetta have watched grow from a kart prodigy to a Formula 1 star in the making. His life is a machine of precision and speed, and his family knows the cost of even the smallest misstep. They shaped him to be unbreakable, untouchable, unyielding.

Your families have intertwined for years. Childhood friends. Shared holidays. The easy camaraderie of two paths forever linked.

That closeness is allowed. Encouraged even.

But not this closeness.

Not the stolen kisses in empty hallways.

Not the nights tangled in sheets, pretending the world doesn’t exist outside those four walls.

Not the way your hands find each other in a crowded room and linger just a moment too long.

It starts with whispers — cautious, tentative.

Then come the conversations behind closed doors, the hushed warnings from your parents who see the danger but don’t know how to stop it.

“It’s a delicate time for both of you,” your father says once, voice low but firm.

“You’re both young,” your mother adds softly, though her eyes hold steel.

“Careers like yours don’t forgive mistakes.”

His parents echo the same: focus, discipline, no distractions. Racing is a world of fractions and milliseconds — there’s no room for doubt, no room for heartbreak.

No one ever says forbidden, but the message is clear.

The unspoken boundary between what is allowed and what will ruin everything.

So you stay quiet.

Careful.

You build a secret world beneath the surface — one where your love can exist without the weight of expectations, without the crushing pressure of legacy and ambition.

But the weight is there, nonetheless.

Every stolen text is a risk.

Every late-night call a gamble.

Every secret meeting an act of rebellion.

And over time, the careful balancing act begins to falter.

His replies grow shorter, colder. His focus fractures like the cracks in a windshield, the kind you try to ignore until the glass finally shatters.

You push yourself harder, rehearsing longer, eating less, chasing perfection like a lifeline. The ache behind your ribs is a dull reminder — pain is easier to handle than the emptiness you feel without him.

You both pretend.

Pretend the silence isn’t growing.

Pretend the distance between your words isn’t expanding.

You hold onto the moments — the brief touches, the shared glances, the secret kisses — like lifebuoys in a storm.

But the storm is relentless.

Neither of you has the courage to ask the question hanging between you like a guillotine.

How much longer can you keep living this half-truth?

How long before the walls you built come crashing down?

And if those walls fall — what will be left?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Monaco paddock is a swirling storm of noise and light — engines roaring in the distance, teams shouting last-minute orders, reporters weaving between groups, cameras clicking and flashing relentlessly. The salty breeze from the Mediterranean carries the scent of gasoline, expensive cologne, and freshly brewed coffee.

Your father, Toto, stands near the team motorhome, his posture radiating that unmistakable mix of authority and pride. His arm rests possessively around your shoulders as he laughs and chats with sponsors, journalists, and team personnel alike. Every few moments, his hand slides to your back, steady and reassuring, like he’s silently reminding the world that this is his daughter — his golden girl.

“This is my girl,” he says loudly enough for the nearby press to hear, voice booming with pride. “Tough as nails and twice as graceful. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her soon. Just wait.”

You force a smile, nodding as you stand beside him, feeling the weight of his attention like both armor and cage. You know he means well — he’s proud of you, of your ballet career, of everything you’ve achieved. But there’s a part of you that aches beneath the surface. The part that wishes you could just be yourself, away from the spotlight, away from the expectations.

Your eyes scan the crowd, searching for Kimi. You spot him near the garage, tucked in the shadows with his signature calm, but there’s a tension in his stance today — a nervous energy you recognize. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, cap pulled low, trying to disappear among the chaos.

You want to go to him, to tell him everything’s going to be okay, but Toto’s arm around you is firm, his presence a tether.

You give him a quick nod, heart pounding.

Not now. Not here.

You turn back to your father, who’s currently chatting animatedly with a sponsor, but you catch the way his eyes flicker over you — pride, yes, but also a protective vigilance. He’s not just your dad; he’s one of the most powerful men in the paddock, and he wants the world to see his daughter shining bright. He doesn’t know about you and Kimi. He can’t know.

You’re not sure he’d ever approve.

The idea of hiding your feelings, of sneaking around, feels like a bittersweet ache in your chest. But the risk of everything unraveling — the potential fallout with your families, your careers, the impossible expectations — it’s too high.

The crowd thickens, and Toto’s grip tightens on your shoulder just as he turns toward you with a broad grin.

“You should come to the hospitality tent for some lunch,” he says, voice rich with invitation and pride. “I want everyone to meet you properly. Show them the star we’re all backing.”

“I’ll catch up with you later, Dad,” you say softly, pulling your hand free. “I… I need some fresh air.”

His eyebrows knit in mild concern, but he nods, not pressing.

You slip away, weaving through clusters of people toward Kimi. The press and staff parts for you both like a small sea, but the pressure doesn’t let up.

When you finally reach the small alcove behind the garage, you both exhale.

The crowd thins behind the garage, leaving you both in a pocket of shadow and cool metal walls. The noise from the paddock feels miles away — distant engines, shouted orders, the hum of busy people.

You lean against the wall, chest heaving slightly, heart racing faster than usual. Kimi steps closer, the scent of his aftershave mixed with the sharp tang of race fuel swirling between you.

His eyes search yours, dark and fierce, holding a storm of emotions you’ve both been burying for months.

“I hate pretending,” you whisper, voice fragile but raw.

“Me too,” he breathes back.

Before you can think twice, his hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The world narrows to the heat of his body, the slick press of lips against yours — tentative at first, like testing water — then deepening with an urgency that’s been building for too long.

His mouth moves with slow fire, demanding and gentle all at once, like he’s memorizing every curve of your lips, every sigh that escapes you.

Your hands slide up under his hoodie, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

A sharp breath catches as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking for entrance.

You part willingly.

The kiss turns hungry — lips and tongues dancing, slow and messy, desperate and careful all at once.

You cling to him, the heat of the secret pressing down, thrilling and terrifying.

Time seems to slow as you lose yourself in the stolen moment, hidden away from prying eyes.

When you finally break apart, breathless and flushed, Kimi rests his forehead against yours.

“We have to be careful,” he murmurs, voice thick with need.

You nod, heart pounding.

“But right now,” you say, voice husky, “I just want to forget everything else.”

He smiles, dark and fierce.

“Me too.”

The moment you pull away, the cool Monaco air suddenly feels too sharp against your flushed skin. You glance around — the paddock is slowly waking back up, footsteps echoing off the concrete, voices drifting closer.

Kimi’s hand finds yours instantly, fingers weaving tight with yours, grounding you in the chaos.

“We need to move,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the main corridor where a small group of team members is approaching.

You nod, heart hammering. Every step feels louder than it should, every breath too loud.

He pulls you toward a narrow service door tucked behind a row of stacked tires — a back exit only a few people use. Your stomach twists with the risk, but you follow without hesitation.

Kimi crouches low, motioning you down beside him. For a moment, you both just freeze, listening.

A crew member’s laughter bounces down the hallway — a reminder that this world you live in is always watching, always waiting.

After the sound fades, Kimi peeks out, then pulls you inside the dim corridor.

You both move quickly, shadows slipping along the walls.

His hand never leaves yours.

“Think anyone saw us?” you whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze stays sharp, scanning every corner.

“Doesn’t matter. We can’t get caught. Not now.”

Your heart squeezes at the weight behind those words.

As you reach the next corner, Kimi presses you back against the wall — his body shielding yours like a shield.

His lips find your ear, breath warm and electric.

“Promise me,” he says, voice low, “this stays between us.”

You swallow, nodding.

“I promise.”

You stay pressed together for a heartbeat longer, the heat of his body steadying you.

Then, silently, you slip out the side door into the bright chaos of the paddock, swallowed again by the world — but holding your secret close.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The studio is cold, the overhead lights casting sharp reflections on the marley floor. The scent of rosin mingles with the faint musk of sweat and wood polish. You stand at center, your body taut, muscles coiled like springs ready to release.

Beside you, your partner watches with steady eyes, prepared to lift you in perfect unison. His hands are strong and sure, but the flicker of concern in his gaze when they catch your left ankle unsettles you.

Madame Clémence stands near the barre, a silent sentinel with eyes like hawks, arms folded over a lean frame. Her voice cuts through the quiet.

“Remember your épaulement — the slight turn of the head and shoulders must complement the extension of the arm. It’s not just movement; it’s storytelling.”

You nod, trying to focus beyond the dull, persistent throb radiating from the joint that’s been taped and wrapped for weeks now.

“Flex your foot fully en dehors,” your partner reminds softly, his voice a grounding tether. “And keep your core engaged through the lift.”

You breathe in deeply, rising onto demi-pointe, the ankle protesting fiercely but holding — barely.

The music swells softly: a waltz in triple time, delicate yet demanding.

You start the pas de deux sequence, moving through port de bras with controlled fluidity — arms curving like waves, fingers precise, wrists relaxed.

Your partner lifts you for the grand jeté en l'air. You press into his grip, trusting, even as a sharp spike of pain shoots up your calf.

You arch into the lift, chin high, eyes focused on the far mirror.

Madame Clémence's voice rings out. “Stronger line! Extend through the hips! Point your toes more — like a line of fire!”

You force the turnout, the rotation of your hips struggling against the tightness in your ankle.

Landing is the hardest part.

You hit the floor — pointe then demi-pointe — but the weight shifts unevenly, a jarring pulse ripping through the joint.

Your partner’s eyes widen again, a silent alarm.

“Steady,” you murmur, gritting your teeth.

Clémence steps forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

“Control, always control,” she says. “The audience doesn’t see pain, only grace.”

You swallow, barely able to meet her gaze.

The next sequence demands fouettés — fast turns with one leg whipping around, hips rotating explosively.

You begin, spotting the mirror, arms steady.

But the ankle falters.

You stumble mid-turn, your balance threatening to betray you.

“Non!” Madame's voice is sharp, slicing the air.

You catch yourself, cheeks burning.

The music continues relentlessly.

Your body is a battleground.

Pain laces through every step, every extension, every lift.

After the final pose — an elegant arabesque — you collapse softly into your partner’s arms.

Your breaths come fast, ragged.

Madame Clémence's eyes hold a flicker of concern, but her voice remains clipped.

“Enough for today. Ice it immediately. No excuses.”

You nod, voice tight.

Slipping off your pointe shoes, you peel back the wrappings.

The skin beneath is raw, bruised purple and mottled, swelling pronounced.

You flex your toes — sharp, searing pain radiates like fire.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying out.

You gather your things and retreat to the changing room.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you sit on the bench, carefully peeling off your thighs.

The ankle is swollen, hot to the touch, the skin stretched tight like a fragile drum.

Your breath hitches.

Opening the small mirror above the sink, you study the damage.

The bruises are darker than last week. The swelling has spread.

Opening night is less than two weeks away.

You close your eyes.

The pressure — from your company, from your coaches, from your own relentless drive — crushes down.

You must perform. You must be perfect.

But your body is failing you.

The fear curls in your gut like a storm.

If you push too hard, the injury could end you.

But if you don’t, you risk losing everything you’ve worked for.

Your phone vibrates in your bag.

A message from Kimi: Thinking of you.

You clutch the phone tightly, drawing a shaky breath.

For now, you’ll keep going.

One more rehearsal.

One more step.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lunch is held at a sun-drenched restaurant tucked into the cliffs just above Monte Carlo. The table is long, white linen stretched to its ends. Waiters move like clockwork, refilling glasses of sparkling water and rosé.

Your father is beaming — all big laughs and proud hand gestures.

“To the two stars of the future,” Toto says, raising his glass. “One in the paddock, one on the stage. You’re making us very proud.”

Kimi sits across from you, tie askew, smile polite. He hasn’t met your eyes once since you arrived.

Beside you, Susie squeezes your hand gently. Her diamond bracelet catches the light. “How’s the rehearsal schedule going, darling?”

���Grueling,” you say, too sweetly. “But that’s the job.”

“She’s stronger than ever,” your father chimes in. “Did you see the article in Le Monde last week? ‘The prodigy with posture like glass.’”

Marco laughs. “Posture like glass — what does that even mean?”

“Fragile, maybe,” Kimi mutters under his breath.

You catch it. Barely.

But it lands. Hard.

Across the table, his mother watches the exchange like she’s seen it before.

She sips her wine slowly, says nothing.

“And you, Kimi,” Toto asks, always proud. “You’re getting dangerously fast out there. Some of the guys on the team are calling you ‘baby Schumacher.’”

You watch Kimi bristle — just a flicker. Then it’s gone.

“I’m trying,” he says. “It’s just hard to keep focused with all the press lately.”

“Let them talk,” Marco says. “You let the lap times do the answering.”

“Exactly,” Toto adds. “No distractions. Keep your eye on the prize.”

Susie cuts in gently. “And remember to rest. You’re both pushing hard. Too hard, maybe.”

You shift in your seat.

The ankle throbs under the tablecloth, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You press your knee against the leg of the table to ground yourself.

Kimi finally looks at you.

It’s only a second.

But it says everything.

You’re both exhausted. Both cracking beneath the weight of trying to be invincible for the people who love you most.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re still on the floor, legs stretched out, breathing through your teeth. The ankle’s worse today. You knew it would be.

Clémence doesn't speak right away. She stands near the barre, arms crossed, sharp gaze fixed on you like she’s counting your bones.

“I asked you to stay,” she says at last. Her tone is flat. Neutral in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You sit up straighter, trying to mask the wince. “I know.”

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not landing clean,” she says finally. “The port de bras is tight. And the adagio? You rushed the phrasing. Again.”

You don’t respond. Just nod once, eyes fixed on your water bottle.

“I don’t want excuses,” she continues, walking closer. Her heels click with that perfect, terrifying rhythm — like a metronome of judgment. “But I do want the truth.”

You look up. “It’s manageable.”

“Is it?” she arches a brow. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you nearly snapped your own ankle on the landing.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I’ve seen you dance at your peak,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “This is not that.”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s temporary.”

She crouches down to your level — something she rarely does.

“I know the signs, mon ange,” she says. “Tight turns, locked jaw, compensating with your upper body. You’re favoring the right ankle. You’ve been doing it for days. You think I don’t notice?”

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” she says. “And lying to me won’t change that.”

There’s a pause. You stare at the floor.

“I know how badly you want this,” Clémence says more softly. “I know how long you’ve been preparing. But the opening is twelve days away, and I am not sending a principal dancer onstage if she’s going to break in half halfway through the coda.”

Your heart stutters.

“I won’t,” you insist.

“Not if the ankle gives. And right now?” She sighs. “It will.”

You feel the sting at the back of your eyes.

“I’m not asking to be coddled,” you say. “I just want the chance.”

“I’m not denying you the chance,” Clémence replies. “I am warning you: the opportunity is already yours. But if you walk onstage like this — wounded, stubborn, half-masked — you will lose it.”

She stands.

“You need to tell me how bad it is. Or you need to see the company physio. Today.”

You clench your hands into fists against the floor.

“I’ll manage.”

She watches you a beat longer.

“Managing is not the same as dancing,” she says. “And if you can’t tell the difference soon, you won’t be doing either.”

She turns and walks out of the room.

Her heels echo down the hallway.

You don’t move.

Your breath catches — not because of the pain this time, but because you know she’s right.

Later that day, the changing room is quiet — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the plastic of your ice pack crinkling under your fingers, your ankle burning with its slow throb. You sit on the bench, towel still looped around your neck, leotard damp with sweat. Your hair's falling out of its bun, but you haven't moved in fifteen minutes.

Then:

“Hey.”

You flinch.

Kimi leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, cap pulled low over his brow. He’s still tan from testing in Barcelona, a little more grown-looking than the last time you saw him in person. But the eyes are the same.

Steady. And only ever soft when they’re looking at you.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What are you doing here?”

“Summer break,” he shrugs. “Thought I’d stop by.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He shrugs again, like rules have never applied to him. “Your dad’s in Italy with the team. My mom thinks I’m getting groceries.”

You roll your eyes. “So this is your version of sneaking out?”

He smiles, that lopsided grin that still makes your stomach flip.

“No,” he says. “This is my version of checking in.”

He walks over slowly — his sneakers squeaking slightly against the floor. You try to sit up straighter, try to pretend like the pain in your ankle doesn’t make your stomach twist.

He sees right through it.

“Can I?” he asks, already crouching down.

You nod.

Gently, he lifts your leg into his lap and unwraps the towel. His fingers brush the swelling, the bruises. He frowns.

“Still bad?” he asks, voice low.

You nod once.

“I shouldn’t even be rehearsing anymore,” you say, trying for a light tone. “But if I stop now, I’ll just freeze.”

Kimi doesn’t say anything at first. Just traces one finger over your sock, where the bruising blossoms under the thin cotton.

“I hate this,” he says finally. “I hate that you’re in pain and nobody’s doing anything about it.”

You exhale. “It’s the job.”

“No,” he snaps, looking up at you. “It’s not. The job is dancing. Not breaking.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s two days. I just have to get through two more days.”

His hand curls gently around your shin.

“Why didn’t you tell me it got this bad?”

You pause. Then, quieter: “Because if I did, you’d try to fix it. And you can’t.”

He sits back slightly, resting his hands on his knees.

“I wish I could,” he says. “I wish I could take all of this off you.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Kimi looks up at you again, this time with that particular look — the one only you know, the one that means he’s barely holding back.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says. “I know we’re hiding everything. I know your dad can’t know. I know the timing sucks. But I’m here.”

You nod again, but your hands twist in your lap. “It’s not just the pain. It’s the pressure. The company, the expectations, my name, his name. All of it. It’s so loud. Sometimes I can’t breathe.”

Kimi reaches forward, takes your hands in his.

“You can breathe here,” he whispers. “With me.”

It breaks something in you.

Your eyes sting.

And then you lean forward — into him, into the safety of his arms, into the smell of sunscreen and motor oil and summer.

You bury your face in his neck, and he holds you like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Because he has.

Because this — you and him, in the space between careers and chaos — has been real for months now. Even if it’s secret. Even if it’s fragile.

His hand strokes the back of your head, slow and steady.

“We’ll get through this,” he murmurs. “And when it’s done… when you’re standing on that stage and they’re all on their feet, I’ll be right there. Clapping the loudest.”

You laugh against his collarbone. “Louder than my mom?”

“Louder than both your parents.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“Promise?”

He cups your cheek, eyes dark and sure.

“Promise.”

You kiss him — soft, slow, nothing like the desperation of Monaco. Just warm. Familiar. Home.

When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’ll be brilliant,” he says.

“I hope so.”

“You will. And I’ll be the idiot with flowers outside the stage door.”

You smile, even as your ankle pulses and your lungs tighten.

For a second, everything feels possible again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the dressing room is thick with hairspray and nerves.

You sit beneath the lights of the mirror, head tilted back slightly as the company stylist pins the final rhinestone into your hair — the bun slick, tight, immovable. A crown of delicate pearls rests on your scalp like it’s been welded to your bones. The collar of your costume grazes the skin on your neck.

You haven’t looked down at your ankle since you wrapped it. You’re afraid if you do, you won’t be able to stand back up.

There’s a half-eaten banana on the table beside you. A protein bar you peeled open and never touched. Water bottle. Painkillers you didn’t take — not yet, not until the last possible second. 

You flex your toes inside the pointe shoes. The left one screams.

You breathe through it.

The company’s principal calls out five-minute warnings from the hallway. Your partner is stretching near the door, checking their alignment in the mirror. You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.

Your hands shake as you adjust your bodice. The silk trembles under your fingers.

One of the corps dancers slips a folded tissue into your palm. You don’t know who. You don’t open it. You just hold it.

Your name is being whispered down the corridor.

“Lead’s ready?”

“She’ll be brilliant.”

You stand.

The stylist gives you one last glance. Her hands rest briefly on your shoulders — a silent good luck.

You nod. Step out.

The hallway is warm with foot traffic and the muffled sounds of the overture swelling through the old wooden walls. Your shoes click on the floor as you pass by the wings, the gauze of your skirt fluttering behind you like smoke.

And there — standing in the shadows just past the fly rail, barely visible beneath a baseball cap and dark jacket — is him.

Your breath catches.

Kimi.

He’s not supposed to be back here. You don’t know how he got past security. You don’t care.

He doesn’t step into the light. Just watches.

His eyes find yours instantly, and you swear your heart stops.

You take a shaky step toward him — careful, cautious, like one wrong move will crack the world wide open.

He leans in just enough to brush the backs of his fingers against your wrist.

“You ready?” he whispers.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles — the soft kind, the one that only ever belongs to you.

“You’ll be transcendent.”

You want to kiss him. You want to say I’m scared, I’m hurting, don’t leave when it’s over.

Instead, you whisper: “Wish me luck.”

“I already did,” he says. “Six times.”

The stage manager calls for places.

You squeeze his hand once.

And then you turn.

You step into the wings. You roll your shoulders back. You square your spine.

Your partner joins you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. You feel the floor under your toes, hear the low hush of the orchestra, the rustle of velvet curtains, the hush before the world tilts on its axis.

The stage lights warm your cheeks before you even move.

You close your eyes.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

You are a dancer.

You are your body, your breath, your bruises.

You are light and blood and flame.

And when the curtain rises — for just a second — the pain falls away.

The stage lights swallow you whole.

The moment you step out into them, the crowd disappears. The noise fades. The weight lifts.

All that’s left is light.

You move through the choreography like a ghost — no, like a storm that’s learned how to be quiet. Each act unfurls in a blur of silk and breath: the opening solo, a flurry of precise allegros; the group number, where you and the corps dancers pulse like one living creature; the mid-act interlude, soft and sweeping, like a lullaby built of bone.

You hit every cue. Every extension is high. Every turn sharp. You don’t miss your marks, not once.

But your ankle is holding on by a thread.

Every landing sends fire up your leg. Every lift feels like a crack in the dam.

You can’t show it. You don’t show it.

Because this is opening night. Because people are watching. Because your family, Kimi, is somewhere in the darkness, and you want him to see you — not the pain, not the bruises — just you, shining.

By the final act, your lungs burn like paper.

And then — the pas de deux.

Just you and your partner. Just your breath and the swell of the orchestra.

You bow your head. Raise your arms.

Begin.

The first lift is flawless. Your partner’s hands are sure, steady — you fly for a breathless second, suspended midair like you belong nowhere else. The audience gasps.

You land clean. Barely.

The pain lances through your leg like a scream.

Don’t buckle. Don’t show it.

The duet continues. You fall into the cradle hold. He turns you. Your foot skims the floor like a brushstroke.

Another sequence: échappé, arabesque, hold.

Your vision blurs. You grit your teeth.

The third lift is the test.

It’s the one you couldn’t stick all week. The timing too tight. The balance too fragile.

You hit it.

Dead center. Arm extended, chin lifted, toes perfect.

The house goes silent.

You hear your own breath in your ears.

And then—

The final turn.

You prep from fifth. Pirouette. One, two— snap.

A white-hot tear tears up your leg. Your ankle gives, for just a second. Long enough to know it’s done.

But you don’t fall.

You land. Barely. You use the momentum of the turn to twist into the final pose. One leg extended behind, arms in a gentle arc, eyes to the rafters like you’ve just risen from the earth.

And you hold.

You hold your form.

Your partner’s hand clasps yours in the blackout.

You don’t rise when the curtain falls.

Your partner tugs your hand, gentle at first. Then again, more firmly.

“Hey. Come on. Bows.”

You try. You really do.

But your leg doesn’t move.

The pain is white-hot, not sharp anymore but deep — a gnawing, searing, bone-deep wrongness that radiates from your ankle up through your hip. You blink at it like it’ll disappear if you focus hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Your chest tightens. Your breath shortens.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

That’s when everything changes.

Your partner drops to his knees beside you, panic setting in fast. The noise backstage is swelling — applause, shouting, someone yelling for props — but it’s all muffled behind the ringing in your ears.

“She’s hurt!” your partner calls out, voice cracking. “She’s not getting up!”

Feet scramble. Someone shouts for the stage manager. Someone else for the ballet mistress.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

But your vision is blurring fast.

“I can’t feel my foot,” you murmur. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t move it.”

Your teacher is there in seconds, crouching down, eyes scanning your form like she already knows what she’s about to find.

“Sweetheart,” she says, too calm. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to speak. Your voice comes out raw. “Left ankle. Landed on it during the turn. Snapped.”

Your partner’s hand is still around yours. He’s squeezing it so tightly your knuckles pop.

The stage crew clears space. A medic is already pushing through. Someone covers you with a towel — not for warmth, but to give you privacy. But your tights are soaked through now, and the left shoe is beginning to swell visibly around the ribbons.

“Do not take it off yet,” the medic warns, already cutting the elastic just above the knot. “Not until we stabilize it.”

You nod. You’re shaking.

“Where’s her family?” your teacher calls out. “Can someone find Toto? Now?”

Everything starts happening fast.

You're lifted — not carried like a dancer, but hauled like something fragile. You grip the arm of the medic so tightly your nails break skin.

Someone holds your head up. Someone else slides the shoe off in one slow motion.

And that’s when you scream.

The pain detonates like a landmine. You see white. You taste iron. You nearly black out.

You're on a stretcher now. They’re running. The hallway blurs past. Bright fluorescents. Cold tile. Stagehands stepping back in shock.

“Kimi,” you whisper, throat raw. “Get Kimi.”

No one hears you. Or maybe they do and think you’re delirious.

The ambulance doors swing open.

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Now, in the cold sterility of a private hospital room, your world is being dismantled one sentence at a time.

You’re half-laid on the exam table, your leg propped and wrapped. Your pointe shoe had to be cut off. Your tights, too. Your sweat is still drying on your back, your stage makeup smeared beneath your eyes. But you don’t feel any of it.

Not compared to what the doctor is saying.

“—a full fracture of the talus, likely aggravated by multiple microtears and stress over time. Ligament damage as well, medial and lateral. We’re also seeing cartilage trauma from repeated impact.”

A pause.

Toto stands behind the doctor, but you don’t have to look at him to feel the pressure rolling off his frame. Still. Quiet. Not breathing.

You stare at the ceiling.

“The recovery window is long. One year, maybe more. And… even then, there’s no guarantee of return to pre-injury condition.”

Return to pre-injury condition.

That’s medical speak for you might never dance again.

The doctor continues talking, but you’ve stopped hearing him. Every syllable since that one sentence has become noise. Dull. Unreachable.

Your mother is sitting in the chair by your side, frozen. Her fingers barely move where they hover near your hand.

Toto hasn’t said a word.

The doctor leaves with soft instructions and a thin smile you don’t return.

And then, silence.

No one knows what to say. The room feels too bright. Too clean. Too final.

You take a slow, shaky breath.

“I…” your voice cracks. “I finished the piece.”

Toto closes his eyes.

“I landed the lift,” you whisper, like it might undo everything. “He caught me. I was steady.”

Your mother presses her lips together, blinking fast.

“I was fine.”

And then it breaks.

“I was fine, Papa—I was fine—!”

He kneels beside you before you can stop him, hands reaching for yours, strong and shaking all at once.

“I know,” he says softly, eyes burning. “You were brilliant, baby. You were perfect.”

You start sobbing like your lungs forgot how to breathe.

You bend forward, forehead pressed into your fists, voice shredded.

“No—no, no, no—this can’t—”

You feel his arms around you, pulling you in, whispering your name.

But nothing helps.

Because you didn’t just lose a show. You lost everything. Everything you built. Everything you bled for. Everything that made sense.

And then—

Through the choking, through the panic—

“I want Kimi.”

The words come raw. Unfiltered.

Your mother stiffens.

Toto’s arms tighten instinctively.

You lift your head, eyes wild and brimming.

“I want Kimi,” you say again, almost begging. “Please—please, I just need him—”

Toto goes still.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe.

He knows.

You see it in his eyes.

He knows, now.

He puts it all together — the Monaco paddock glances, the quiet retreats, the unexplained tension, the hoodie in your bag that was never yours.

But he doesn’t yell.

He just looks at you like you’ve broken something sacred.

Your voice breaks again.

“Please.”

And even though it shatters him, he nods.

He stands slowly. Silent.

Leaves the room to make the call.

And you curl into the sterile sheets, waiting for the only person who might still feel like home.

The door bursts open before you can even realize someone’s coming.

“Kimi,” you cry out, voice shattering as the walls you’ve built crumble all at once.

You’re gasping, sobbing, chest tightening so hard it feels like you can’t breathe.

Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you reach out — desperate, pleading.

He’s there immediately, sliding to his knees beside you, pulling you close with an urgency that makes your heart stutter.

His arms wrap around you like he’s trying to hold every broken piece together.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady.

You bury your face in his neck, shoulders shaking as tears fall freely — not caring who hears, not caring about anything but the raw ache inside.

“I’m so sorry,” you manage to choke out between sobs, voice cracking. “I… I wanted to be stronger. I didn’t want this to happen.”

Kimi presses his forehead to yours, eyes glistening with his own fear and heartbreak.

“Hey,” he whispers, “don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands claw at his shirt like a lifeline, like letting go means losing everything.

“But I’m broken,” you sob. “How can I ever dance again? How can I be me if I can’t—”

He shakes his head, voice fierce with quiet certainty.

“You’re not broken. You’re still you. And I’ll be with you every step, no matter what.”

The tears keep coming, hot and relentless, as you tremble against him.

Your whole body feels like it’s unraveling — grief, fear, frustration tangled so tightly it hurts.

“I’m scared, Kimi. So scared,” you whisper, voice raw.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m scared too. But we’re not alone.”

He brushes your damp hair back, thumb stroking your cheek like a silent promise.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

Your breath catches at that.

For the first time in hours, maybe days, you let yourself lean fully into the safety of his arms.

Your sobs quiet just a little, heart still pounding like a drum but no longer drowning.

He holds you close, whispering your name, grounding you in the storm.

And somehow, even in the mess and the fear, you feel—barely—the faintest flicker of hope.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The surgery was intense and the recovery even more so. Every day brought new challenges — aches that ran deep in your bones, muscles that refused to cooperate, and the quiet frustration of learning to trust your body again. But you never faced it alone.

Kimi was there from the very start, refusing to leave your side even for a moment. His steady presence was a shield against the fear and uncertainty. When the pain became unbearable, his hand found yours, his voice low and calm, a tether pulling you back.

“We’re going to get through this. Together,” he said one night, eyes never leaving yours.

And you believed him.

Your families—already closely intertwined by years of shared history, pride, and friendship—became the solid foundation beneath your feet. Your father, once fiercely protective, had softened completely when he saw how Kimi cared for you — how he was patient and unwavering. The two families blended seamlessly, like old friends and new kin, meeting over meals filled with laughter, teasing, and endless support.

At those dinners, stories flowed easily—of races won and lost, of rehearsals that tested limits, of physical therapy sessions where progress was hard-earned but celebrated. The kids ran around, their joy infectious, while the adults shared glances that said, without words, “We’re here. We’ve got this.”

Your ballet career didn’t vanish; it evolved. You learned to move with grace and care, listening to your body as it healed, celebrating every small victory — a pain-free step, a controlled turn, a balanced pose. It wasn’t the career you had dreamed of before the injury, but it was yours, reshaped by resilience and love.

Kimi’s racing soared too. You cheered from the stands, heart bursting with pride as he claimed victories that were as much yours as his. Together, you built a life where two demanding worlds coexisted — each success a shared triumph, each challenge met hand in hand.

Life found a quieter rhythm, filled with mornings bathed in soft sunlight, slow breakfasts that stretched into laughter, and evenings spent tangled in blankets and whispered conversations. The chaos of the past settled into something steady, something real.

One evening, as the city lights blinked awake, you sat side by side on the couch, fingers entwined, hearts beating in easy rhythm.

Kimi looked at you with that easy smile, the one that always made your heart skip. “Watching you dance again... it’s honestly the best thing I’ve seen.”

You shrugged, a small grin tugging at your lips. “I’m not the same as before. But I’m okay with that.”

He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. “We’ve been through so much. But here we are. Still standing. Together.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of it all lift a little. “No more hiding. No more pretending. I want everyone to know us.”

His grin got wider, warm and real. “They’re going to know. And honestly? I’m proud of it. Proud of us.”

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around his. “My family, your family — they’re all in. It feels right. Feels like home.”

He pulled you close, voice low but sure. “We’re done running. This is our life, messy and real.”

You sighed, content, certain. “I love it. I love you. Completely.”

He smiled, his voice a promise that echoed through the quiet room. “Forever. Always.”

And in that moment — away from the noise, the pressure, and the expectations — you knew you had everything. Not perfection, but something infinitely better: unwavering love, fierce loyalty, and a home built in each other’s arms.

Together, you held your form.

Always.

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this is a special one for me. if you got this far, thank you so much, it means the world to me. i used to be a dancer my whole life. before things got too real and dreams were crushed, i used to find solace in pointe shoes and ripped thighs. i know it's messy, but i poured my heart out in this one, hope you liked it.

this one's for you, isa.

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! ❤️

[understeeringirl]

i read your kimi fic and nearly cried , it was such a masterpiece thank you so much for the effort !!

i did dance when i was younger up until i was nine and i fell in love with it , shortly after we moved away and i havent danced since. im terrified that it will bring more harm than good beacause i definitely dont have the figure for it and am no where near fleixible , but i cant help but hope that i could maybe start again

everything’s possible!! don’t stop yourself from doing something you love just because you think you’re not fit for it. i know how you feel, and it’s hard to start again, but if it’s something that you’ve been thinking about and will make you happy, i’d say go for it!! the sky’s the limit ⭐️ and also thank you so much! i’m so glad you liked it

[understeeringirl]

Hold Your Form

Summary: You’ve always been graceful — a dancer, a performer, a symbol of control. Kimi’s always been precise — composed, driven, the golden boy of the paddock. You grew up in parallel, with shared summers and Christmases, nods in the hallway of your father’s house. There were rules then. There are more now. Warnings: explicit content, injury, mental health struggles, secret relationship, family tension, angst, mature themes, raw intimacy Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x fem!ballet dancer!toto's daughter!reader Word count: 13.0k (im so sorry i got carried away)

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The studio is quiet long after the music fades.

Just the dull throb in your heel. The creak of the marley floor beneath your weight. The thin hum of the fluorescent light above, flickering like it’s on its last breath.

You’re on your knees, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. Sweat trails slowly down the back of your neck, soaking into the collar of your worn rehearsal leotard. The mirror in front of you is cracked near the edge — a spiderweb you keep forgetting is there until it catches the light just right.

You press your palms flat to the floor. Exhale. Try again.

Up.

Rise through the spine. Shoulders low. Chin lifted. Weight balanced. You move because movement is the only thing that makes sense. You dance because stillness feels worse. And this studio — bare, cold, dimly lit — is the only place that’s yours.

The music starts again. A low swell of piano, melancholic and familiar. Your body answers it before your mind can.

A développé into arabesque. A tight fouetté. Your ankle screams as you pivot too hard, too fast — the same ankle that’s been taped and retaped and begged to hold out just one more week.

You don’t stop. You never stop.

Pain is part of the process. Pressure is performance. And you’ve spent your entire life chasing perfection until it bled.

The leap sequence nearly unravels you.

Halfway through the last jump, you mistime your landing — left foot slightly off-center, the jolt searing through your hip and curling up your spine. You stumble.

But you don’t fall.

You breathe through it, hold your form, and let the music pull you forward.

When the final note dies, your legs give out with it.

You collapse to the floor in a slow, breathless heap — legs folded beneath you, forehead resting gently on the backs of your hands. Chest heaving. Eyes stinging. Limbs shaking with something that’s not quite exhaustion and not quite heartbreak but somewhere just between.

You don’t cry.

You just lie there, waiting for your heartbeat to slow.

The cold creeps in fast once you stop moving.

Your sweat-damp skin prickles. The floor chills the side of your face. Your left foot pulses in time with the ache in your ribs — the same ribs you bruised last week in a lift rehearsal that dropped you three seconds too early and three inches too far.

You should get up. Shower. Stretch. Ice.

Instead, you curl into the silence like it might give you something back.

You’ve been running on fumes for weeks — rehearsals, prep work, press, sponsor shoots, your next performance on the West End creeping closer like an unforgiving deadline. Your company director called your most recent performance “precise but cold.” You haven’t stopped thinking about that since.

Cold. That’s what you’re afraid of becoming.

Your phone buzzes where it’s buried in your bag across the room. You don’t move. You know who it is. Or you hope you do.

You don’t let yourself look.

Not yet.

Instead, you close your eyes, and you let yourself think about him.

Kimi Antonelli, who’s always been still where you’re spinning.

He’s not here. Not yet. But the thought of him lives in the studio walls like a ghost.

You think of the last time you saw him — the hotel in Monaco. The way he looked at you like he already knew what you were about to say before you said it.

You’d told him you needed space. That the season was starting. That your father couldn’t know.

You’d watched the understanding flicker behind his eyes like headlights in the dark.

And he hadn’t argued. He’d just nodded once and kissed your forehead like it meant goodbye.

You wish it had hurt more. You wish it had hurt less.

You wish it hadn’t felt like love.

Another breath. Another minute passed.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, legs trembling beneath you. 

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you check it.

kimi: i'm in monaco. 9pm. if you want me.

Your breath catches. Just for a second. It’s not a question. Not a plea. It’s an open door.

You don’t answer. The message blinks on your screen again, an unrelenting pulse that refuses to be ignored.

Twenty-three letters, eight words. No punctuation, no smiley face, no explanation. Just a time and a place — and a thread of hope tangled somewhere beneath the surface.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You want to say something. Anything. But your fingers freeze mid-air like they’re afraid to betray too much.

You put the phone down and look around the studio instead — the pale scuffs on the floor where your feet have traced the same patterns a thousand times, the faint scent of rosin lingering in the air, the cracked mirror where the light catches like a fractured dream.

Everything here is so precise. So exact. Every line, every movement, every breath measured and accounted for.

You’re not sure how to be anything but exact.

Perfection isn’t a goal — it’s a lifeline.

If you can hold your form, keep your balance, control every muscle, then maybe — just maybe — the chaos outside these walls won’t seep in. The expectations. The pressure. The ache that you’re not allowed to admit.

You run your hands over the bruises on your ribs again, careful not to press too hard. You remember the sting of that last rehearsal, the way your partner’s grip had faltered just enough to throw off the timing. You remember the silent frustration in your instructor’s eyes when you stumbled through the final lift.

You should be angry. You should be disappointed.

But instead, you feel… hollow.

A breath catches in your chest.

You think of Kimi.

You think of how he moves through his world — steady, unshakable, like a rock in the middle of a river. You wonder if he ever feels the same crackling tension beneath his skin, the relentless need to be perfect, to never let the team down, to hide what’s really going on underneath.

When you close your eyes, you see him standing at the edge of the track — hands in his pockets, watching the chaos of the pit lane with quiet focus. The way his brow furrows when he’s thinking too hard. The softness in his eyes when he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a world full of noise.

You want to believe that maybe he understands.

But you’re not sure if you can trust yourself to be vulnerable.

Because vulnerability means losing control. And losing control means falling apart.

You straighten your spine and breathe out slowly.

You are a dancer. You hold your form.

No matter what.

You sit back down slowly, legs stretched out in front of you. Your hands find the ribbons at your ankles, fingers stiff and a little numb.

The knot on the left foot is too tight. It always is — you tie it harder to compensate for the weakness, like pressure will keep the pain in place.

It takes you three tries to undo it.

The satin peels away from your skin with a soft rip, the fabric sticking to dried sweat and rosin. The box of the shoe is crushed and warped, the inside darkened where blood has seeped into the lining over time.

You slide it off, and the ache hits immediately — deep and throbbing.

Then the other.

With both shoes off, your feet look almost inhuman — blistered, calloused, swollen at the joints. Your pinky toe on the left is split open again. You touch it without flinching. Pain, but expected.

Next comes the bandage wrap.

You unwind it slowly, methodically, like if you move too fast everything might unravel all at once. The tape pulls against your skin with a stinging tug.

Underneath: more bruising, blooming up the side of your foot like ink in water. A bone-deep ache you’ve been ignoring all week.

You flex your toes. They barely move.

Your throat tightens.

You tell yourself you’ll ice it when you get home. You’ll rest it. You’ll be smart. You’ll stop pushing for one goddamn day.

But you know you won’t.

Because you already want to run the piece again.

You press your thumb into the underside of your foot, just below the arch, until you see stars.

The pain grounds you.

The checklist starts in your head, involuntary.

You breathe in and count to eight. Exhale on five. Again.

The pain is information. It means you’re still here.

You reach for your pointe shoes.

You tuck your toes into the shoe, careful, and begin to lace the ribbons with methodical precision.

Right foot first. Two loops around the arch, cross at the ankle, under, over, tie. Left foot second — slower this time, because of the swelling. You adjust the tension three times before the knot feels right. Secure. Balanced.

You flex. Rise onto demi-pointe. Test your weight.

It’s not perfect — the pain is sharp. But it’s enough.

You step to center.

This time, there’s no music. Just the internal metronome that’s lived inside you since you were six years old.

Five… six… seven…

You begin.

First position. Arms low, fingers relaxed, but not soft. Elongate the spine, hips aligned, knees over toes. Watch the arches. Right leg extends, gliding into tendu, up to passé. Brush through the floor. Close. Again. Left. Close. Hold. Control the turnout. Then arabesque. Stronger this time. Arm out. Chin lifted. Plié, then a controlled rise into relevé. Control. Control. Control. Spot. Turn. Again. Pirouette. Land. Again. Higher. Again. Cleaner.

You run the adagio from memory — legs slicing air, arms floating like breath. Each movement feeds the next.

Your back is a violin string pulled tight. Your left ankle aches like it’s being wrung out, but your port de bras is beautiful. The line is there. You feel it.

You don’t skip the grand jeté.

You throw yourself into it — full extension, right leg reaching, left trailing behind like a ribbon. Your foot hits the floor like thunder.

There’s a shock up your leg. A warning.

You don’t listen.

You finish with the coda. Quick beats. Assemblé. Sissone. Your lungs are burning. Your hair sticks to your neck. Your vision flares at the edges.

But your hands are in fifth. Your spine is tall. You hold the final position.

You hold and hold and hold.

Until your knees give. Until your hands meet the floor. Until you can’t remember if this is triumph or collapse.

You rip the ribbons loose with shaking fingers. The shoes come off with a soft thud, followed by a hiss through clenched teeth.

Your toes are bleeding again.

You touch one blister with the tip of your nail. It flares red. You breathe in like it’s air.

Still not good enough.

But better.

You don’t hear the door open.

Not over the ringing in your ears, not over the sound of your own breath — shallow, uneven, panicked in a way you won’t admit aloud.

But when you finally lift your head, he’s there.

Leaning against the doorframe.

Kimi.

He’s dressed down — black hoodie, hands in the pockets, cap pulled low like he’s trying to disappear into the shadows. But you’d recognize the outline of him anywhere. That stillness. That calm. That strange, infuriating softness.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just looks at you like he’s seeing straight through the sweat and the pain and the mess you’ve made of yourself.

You want to say something. Anything. A joke, maybe. Something sarcastic and half-hearted to pretend this doesn’t feel like a collision you’ve been skidding toward for months.

But your throat closes before the words can rise.

His eyes drop to your feet. To the blood. The bruises. The half-unraveled ribbons curled against the floor like petals left out in the rain.

He pushes off the wall slowly.

Walks toward you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

And when he finally sinks to the floor beside you — silent, careful, warm — you don’t flinch.

You just breathe.

He watches you for a long time, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, quiet, just above a whisper.

“Didn’t answer me.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

He glances down at your hands — still curled on the floor like you’re not sure what they’re allowed to hold. His eyes flick to your ankle, then back to your face.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

You huff a breath through your nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Kimi’s lips twitch. Barely. “You left the door unlocked.”

You don’t remember doing it. But you don’t deny it.

For a moment, the silence stretches again — not heavy, not awkward. Just there. The kind that says everything you’re both too scared to.

And then, softer:

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, voice catching.

“I know,” he says. “But you didn’t answer. So I came anyway.”

Kimi shifts beside you, just enough to rest his elbows on his knees, hands still in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s looking down at the floor now, at the scuffed lines you’ve carved into it over the years. The places where the marley’s peeled slightly. The dent near center where you always land your turns.

“How long were you watching?” you ask, eyes still on your hands.

“A while.”

You nod slowly, shame crawling up your throat like smoke. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You wouldn’t have.”

His eyes flick to yours at that — not sharp, but steady. “You looked like you’d disappear if someone touched you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So instead you ask, “Why did you come?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even skeptical. It’s just quiet. Honest.

Kimi shrugs, and for a moment, he looks younger than you remember. More boy than myth.

“You didn’t say no.”

That makes your chest ache. Stupid, stupid boy.

You could break his heart without even meaning to.

You close your eyes and lean your head back against the mirror. The glass is cool, unforgiving. It stings where it touches the bruise blooming behind your ear.

“Nothing’s changed, Kimi.”

“I know.”

“My dad still—”

“I know.”

“And yours—”

“I know.”

His voice cuts through, not loud, but certain. Final.

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you again — and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” he says. “Just… you’re here. And I’m here. And I needed to see you.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter: “Is that allowed?”

Your throat tightens.

“No,” you whisper. “But I needed to see you too.”

Kimi shifts closer — not enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. His presence. The comfort of it. The way he’s always been a little too calm, a little too steady, like the world spins differently for him.

He’s always been safe.

And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Neither of you said it, but you both knew the truth lingering just beneath the surface.

The phone buzzed with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

Your father’s voice echoed in your mind: “You’re on the brink of something big. Don’t let distractions ruin it.”

Kimi’s eyes searched yours, soft but guarded.

“We can’t,” he finally whispered.

You nodded slowly.

“It’s not just us,” you said. “It’s everything around us.”

The racing world watching his every move. The ballet company counting on you to be flawless.

Your parents’ unspoken warnings.

Their hopes tied to your discipline.

And then, the fear — that love, as fierce as it felt, could fracture everything you’d both worked so hard to build.

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand briefly.

“But maybe someday…”

Kimi’s breath hitched.

“Maybe.”

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The summer heat had clung to the walls all day, thick and golden, turning the corners of the house syrupy-slow. The windows were cracked just wide enough to let in the smell of cut grass and rubber from the backyard — remnants of an afternoon spent at the go-kart track, where Kimi had beaten every lap record by a mile and you had clapped the loudest.

Your socks were mismatched and still dusted with chalk from the porch railing where you’d practiced pirouettes, spinning until your vision blurred and Kimi yelled at you to slow down before you cracked your skull open.

Now, in the quiet of the kitchen, you sat on the counter, your legs swinging softly beneath you. An ice pack rested on your knee, wrapped in some paper towels. Kimi stood across from you, rummaging through the fridge like he lived there — which, in some ways, he did.

“You shouldn’t turn like that on concrete,” he muttered, holding up a bottle of water in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry yogurt in the other. “It’s not a studio.”

You shrugged. “You shouldn’t take the chicane flat out with a bent axle. But here we are.”

He snorted. “Fair.”

The fridge door closed with a soft thud, and he crossed the room to hand you the water. You took it, your fingers brushing his for half a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Your hair was damp from a shower. Kimi’s hoodie was two sizes too big and clung to his shoulders in a way that made him look more grown than he was. There was grease under his nails. A small blister near your big toe.

He looked at your knee again, frowning.

“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you should keep doing it.”

You watched him for a moment. Noticed how the corner of his mouth twitched when he was worried. How his hands fidgeted with the label on the water bottle.

“You care too much,” you murmured.

“Yeah, well,” he said, glancing at you, “you don’t care enough.”

Another silence. Not uncomfortable — just quiet. Summer-evening soft.

Then Kimi pulled his hoodie over his head, the motion awkward and clumsy.

He held it out to you.

“For your ice pack,” he said. “So it doesn’t soak through.”

You blinked. “You’ll freeze walking home.”

“I’m not walking.”

“Still.”

“Just take it.”

You did.

The hoodie smelled like engine oil and something warmer — not quite cologne, not quite sweat. Just him.

You wrapped the ice pack in it and held it to your knee. The cotton was warm. Soft.

When you looked up again, Kimi wasn’t watching the hoodie. He was watching you — like he didn’t know what to say next, but maybe wanted to anyway.

Kimi sat beside you on the counter after handing you the hoodie. Close, but not touching. His shoulder nearly brushed yours every time he shifted, and your heart responded like a metronome speeding up with each inch of space that dissolved.

Outside, the sun was almost gone. The air was stained pink and gold through the open blinds, and cicadas had started their chorus. It felt like the world had paused — just the two of you in this kitchen that had grown you both.

“I saw the way you landed today,” he said suddenly. “During that spin.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You were watching?”

He nodded. “You always try to finish with your arms too wide. You lean out of the turn.”

You gawked at him. “Since when do you know anything about pirouettes?”

He smirked, almost proud. “I don’t. But I’ve seen you do it like a thousand times. I notice stuff.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at your bruised knee, the one throbbing under the melting ice pack, and the hoodie now wrapped around it.

“It’s dumb,” you said, quieter. “I knew the surface was bad. I just wanted to… get it right.”

Kimi leaned back on his palms, legs swinging beside yours. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Push too hard when no one’s watching.”

You tilted your head, studying him. He was only fourteen, but something about the way he said it made your throat sting — like he already knew what it meant to want something so badly it hurt.

“I don’t want to fall behind,” you murmured.

He looked over at you.

“You won’t.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. Like he couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t great.

You looked away first. Too much. Too much.

From the other room, you could hear the low murmur of your parents talking. The TV humming under their words. Safe, distant.

You kicked your heels softly against the cabinet. “You leave for France again next week, right?”

“Yeah. Karting camp.” A pause. “I hate leaving.”

You swallowed. “I hate when you leave.”

And there it was — not a confession. Not yet. But something that hovered at the edge of becoming one.

Kimi glanced down at his hands, thumbs brushing over a small blister on his palm. “It’s only three weeks.”

“Still.”

You didn’t know what you were asking for. You just knew you didn’t want him to go. Or maybe, more honestly, you didn’t want to be the one left standing in the empty kitchen, watching the door close behind him.

When you finally slid off the counter, your knee protested with a sharp pinch. You winced.

Kimi stood up too, reaching a hand out on instinct — fingers hovering just above your arm like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.

You looked at him. He looked back.

Your fingers brushed — light as a breath.

Neither of you moved away.

It was quiet. So, so quiet.

“Keep the hoodie,” he said.

You smiled. “It’s like a thousand sizes too big.”

He shrugged. “You’ll grow into it.”

You didn’t know then that you’d keep it for years. That you’d tuck it into dance bags and under pillows and carry it through more cities than you could count.

You didn’t know yet what kind of stitch that moment would become.

But it held.

And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next message comes weeks later, just after midnight.

kimi: p10. couldn’t focus. can’t sleep. your light’s still on.

You stare at the screen. He’s not wrong — the soft glow from your apartment window is the only thing keeping the Monaco skyline company.

You type and delete a dozen replies.

Finally, you send one.

come up. quietly.

You don’t pace while you wait — you just sit in the dark, wrapped in your robe, your ankle elevated on a pillow and an ice pack dripping onto a towel.

The knock comes three minutes later. Sharp. Hesitant.

You open the door.

Kimi’s still in his team hoodie, damp hair curling at the ends. His jaw’s tight, knuckles scraped. There's a look in his eyes like he’s already half-undone.

Neither of you speak.

The door clicks closed behind him, muffling the sounds of the world outside.

Kimi stands still for a heartbeat, the tension coiled in his shoulders so tight you could see the strain. Then his hands find your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, breath hitching.

He shakes his head slowly, voice low and rough, “I couldn’t stay away. Not tonight. Not after today.”

You swallow hard, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the city beyond your window.

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to find something — reassurance? Forgiveness? Permission?

“Why now?” you ask, voice barely steady.

“Because I need this,” he confesses, voice cracking just slightly. “I need you. Not just as a distraction. Not just for comfort. I need… us. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

Your fingers tremble as they brush the back of his neck, tracing the line where sweat mixes with freshly washed hair.

“Then don’t stop,” you breathe.

He smiles — small, vulnerable — and leans in slowly. His lips hover over yours, warm and tentative.

“May I?” he murmurs.

You nod, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea.

The first kiss is gentle, searching. His mouth softens against yours, exploring the shape of your lips like he’s memorizing every curve and contour.

Your hands thread through his damp hair, holding him closer, grounding him — grounding yourself.

A breath later, his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You part willingly.

The kiss deepens, slow and steady at first, then more urgent as the years of frustration and unspoken feelings unravel between you.

You pull back for air, foreheads resting together.

“God, you smell like the track,” you tease softly.

He chuckles, breath warm against your skin. “And you smell like rosin and tears.”

You grin despite yourself.

His hands slide under your shirt, trailing fire across your ribs. You shiver under his touch — part cold from the night air, part anticipation.

“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” he says, voice a rough whisper.

You shake your head.

He lifts your shirt over your head slowly, reverently, exposing skin flushed pink from your dance and the heat building between you.

His hands roam your back, sliding down to cup your hips.

You press into him, breath hitching when his mouth follows the line of your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Your heart stutters.

His lips find the swell of your breast, nipping gently.

You moan, arching into him.

His hands slide lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your leggings.

You tense at the cold air against your heated skin but relax into his touch.

He slides your leggings down, revealing the smooth skin of your thighs.

He looks up, eyes dark and searching.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You nod, voice husky, “I want this.”

His mouth claims yours again — slower, deeper, more desperate.

When he finally enters you, it’s both fire and ice, overwhelming and grounding all at once.

His rhythm is unsteady at first — like he’s afraid to break the fragile moment — but soon he finds a steady pace, deep and sure.

You wrap your legs around his hips, holding on tight, nails digging into his shoulders as the tension that’s built over months snaps free.

Your breaths mix, ragged and loud in the small room.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs between thrusts.

“And I’m yours,” you answer, voice breaking.

His hands grip your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if trying to erase the distance between you.

You lose yourself in the sensation — the way his skin feels against yours, the warmth spreading through your body, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person left in the world.

When you come — together, messy and beautiful — the world stills for a moment.

He collapses beside you, forehead resting on your shoulder.

The room is thick with quiet — the kind that follows something too big for words.

Kimi’s fingers move slowly, tracing the line of your spine, as if memorizing every inch.

You turn your head to look at him, eyes searching, hesitant.

“This… this was supposed to be different,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinks, then smiles, a little sad, a little gentle. “How?”

You take a breath, trying to find the right words. “I thought the first time would be easier. Less… complicated.”

He nods slowly, understanding. “Yeah. Not sneaking around. Not risking everything.”

You glance down, heart pounding. “But maybe that’s why it matters.”

He brushes your hair back, thumb grazing your cheek. “Because it’s real. Because it’s ours.”

A pause, heavy and warm.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “Not about you — about everything else. What happens if someone finds out?”

He tightens his hold on your hand. “Then we deal with it. Together. But until then…”

He leans in, voice low. “This stays between us. No one else.”

You bite your lip, nodding.

“I don’t want to lose what we have. Even if it’s hidden. Even if it’s just these moments.”

He smiles, a promise in his eyes.

“We’ll protect it. Keep it safe.”

You laugh softly. “Our little secret.”

His smile widens.

“Exactly. And if anyone asks? We pretend it never happened.”

You rest your head on his chest.

“God, this is messy.”

He wraps his arms around you.

“But it’s perfect for us.”

You close your eyes.

“First time, secret love. Makes it ours.”

“Forever,” he whispers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake to the sound of rain.

Not the kind that lashes or screams — just a soft patter against the windowpane, steady and soothing. A metronome of sorts. You blink slowly, trying to find your bearings.

The sheets are warm. Your legs are tangled with his.

Kimi’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, slow and steady, his arm slung loosely around your waist like it found its place in the night and refused to let go. His hoodie is half-off your shoulder, your own shirt nowhere to be seen. The air smells faintly of sweat and sleep and the ghosts of something you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

For a moment, you don’t move.

There’s peace in this. In the quiet. In the way your name sounds different when he says it — less like a question and more like a tether.

You shift slightly, trying not to wake him. But he stirs anyway, his hand brushing absentmindedly over your spine.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravel from sleep.

Your throat catches. “Hi.”

He doesn’t open his eyes — just pulls you closer.

You lie there like that for a while. No words. Just skin on skin and the storm outside and the fragile ache of something too delicate to touch.

Eventually, you prop yourself up on one elbow, brushing the hair from his forehead. His lashes flutter. His eyes open — soft blue, still heavy with sleep — and find yours.

You expect tension. Regret. Panic.

But instead, he smiles. Crooked. Barely there. Real.

“Didn’t dream it,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips.

You look down, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “We probably shouldn’t have.”

“Probably,” he agrees. But there’s no apology in his voice. Just fact.

You glance at the clock. Too early for the world to care yet. But soon.

Kimi watches you. “You okay?”

You nod, but it’s not entirely convincing.

He catches your hand. Intertwines your fingers. Waits.

“I just…” You swallow. “This felt too good. Which means it’s going to hurt later.”

“Don’t think about later,” he says. “Not yet.”

You lie back down beside him. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, anchoring you there.

For a moment, it works.

For a moment, you believe you can exist here — in the softness between two storms.

But you know better. You always do.

Eventually, someone will knock. Or call. Or see.

Eventually, you’ll be back in your studio, bleeding through satin. He’ll be in a press conference, half-listening.

Eventually, you’ll have to pretend again.

But right now?

You close your eyes. Let yourself be held. Reality can wait.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The afternoon light cuts through the blinds in slats, painting the tiled floor with soft gold. You sit at the small table in one of Kimi’s shirts — still too big — with your legs tucked beneath you, eyes unfocused, fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug.

He moves around the kitchen in quiet rhythm, frying an egg, slicing toast, glancing back at you every few seconds like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still real.

The apartment smells like butter and burnt edges. Something warm. Something almost domestic.

You haven’t said much since you woke up wrapped around each other, legs tangled and skin hot, whispered secrets lingering between heartbeats. But that moment’s folded away now, somewhere behind your ribs. This one is quieter. Sadder. More real.

He sets a plate down in front of you — eggs, strawberries, toast. Your stomach turns at the sight of it.

You manage a half-smile. “You made lunch.”

Kimi shrugs. “I know you didn’t eat last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine.”

You run a fingertip over the rim of the mug. It’s not worth fighting about — not when the ache in your thighs still hums like a secret and his scent is still clinging to your skin. Not when you’re both trying not to look too closely at what this means.

You take a sip of coffee. “We should talk about it.”

His jaw tenses. “About last night?”

You nod.

Kimi lowers himself into the chair across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table. “Okay.”

You pick at a corner of the toast but don’t bring it to your mouth.

“It changes things,” you say softly.

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. “But not everything.”

You glance up.

“I don’t regret it,” he adds, firm, like he needs you to know. “Not a second.”

“I don’t either.”

Silence stretches. The clock ticks loud above the sink.

“But we can’t…” You trail off, trying to find the edges of the truth. “We can’t do this again. Not unless we’re ready to tell people. And I’m not.”

“I know,” he says. “Me neither.”

The admission shouldn’t sting. But it does.

You glance down at the plate. Still untouched.

He notices.

“Eat something,” he murmurs.

“I’m not hungry.”

Kimi leans back slightly, eyes steady on yours. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

You tense. “I’m not—”

“I mean it,” he cuts in gently. “You don’t have to be perfect here. Just… take care of yourself. Please.”

You reach for a strawberry, fingers shaking slightly. You press it to your lips, hesitate — then put it back down.

“I’m trying,” you whisper.

“I know.”

He doesn’t push. Just reaches for your hand, threads his fingers through yours on the table between you. A tether.

“I hate hiding,” you admit after a minute. “But I’m more afraid of what happens if we stop.”

Kimi swallows hard. “Then we don’t stop. Not really. We just… slow down.”

You look at him. His hair’s still damp. There’s a scratch on his neck from your nails. His eyes are soft.

“This stays between us,” you say. “Just ours.”

“Just ours,” he repeats, quiet and sure.

A pause.

Then, almost a smile: “Though you’ll need to stop stealing my shirts. Someone’s gonna notice.”

You breathe a small laugh. “I’ll wear a different one next time.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Next time.

It lingers in the air between you — warm, terrifying, inevitable.

And when you finally take a bite of the toast, even if it’s just a little, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For months, it worked.

Not perfectly. Not easily. But it worked.

There are mornings when you wake with the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin — a warmth that fades too fast with the rising sun and the relentless demands of rehearsals. Nights when he calls quietly, voice rough from hours spent on the radio, asking if you’re still awake. Brief moments stolen between schedules, whispered promises passed beneath breathless exhales.

You live in those pockets of time — hidden from the world, wrapped in a fragile bubble of secrecy.

There are rules, unspoken but fiercely held:

No public displays beyond a glance or a brush of fingers. No mentions in interviews or social media. No photos, no whispers, no slip-ups. No talking about the future. No letting yourselves hope.

Because you both know — you have to keep it this way.

You tell yourself it’s enough.

You tell yourself if you stay careful, if you navigate the calendars like tightrope walkers, if you are shadows sliding between glaring lights, you can keep the fragile peace.

But someone will get hurt.

You were never supposed to cross this line.

Not you — the daughter of Toto and Susie Wolff. Raised in a world where perfection is mandatory, where every move is measured, every word weighed. A life scripted around discipline, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to excellence. Your parents watch with pride and high expectations, ready to catch you if you stumble, but unflinching when it comes to keeping distractions at bay.

And not him — Kimi Antonelli, the golden boy Marco and Elisabetta have watched grow from a kart prodigy to a Formula 1 star in the making. His life is a machine of precision and speed, and his family knows the cost of even the smallest misstep. They shaped him to be unbreakable, untouchable, unyielding.

Your families have intertwined for years. Childhood friends. Shared holidays. The easy camaraderie of two paths forever linked.

That closeness is allowed. Encouraged even.

But not this closeness.

Not the stolen kisses in empty hallways.

Not the nights tangled in sheets, pretending the world doesn’t exist outside those four walls.

Not the way your hands find each other in a crowded room and linger just a moment too long.

It starts with whispers — cautious, tentative.

Then come the conversations behind closed doors, the hushed warnings from your parents who see the danger but don’t know how to stop it.

“It’s a delicate time for both of you,” your father says once, voice low but firm.

“You’re both young,” your mother adds softly, though her eyes hold steel.

“Careers like yours don’t forgive mistakes.”

His parents echo the same: focus, discipline, no distractions. Racing is a world of fractions and milliseconds — there’s no room for doubt, no room for heartbreak.

No one ever says forbidden, but the message is clear.

The unspoken boundary between what is allowed and what will ruin everything.

So you stay quiet.

Careful.

You build a secret world beneath the surface — one where your love can exist without the weight of expectations, without the crushing pressure of legacy and ambition.

But the weight is there, nonetheless.

Every stolen text is a risk.

Every late-night call a gamble.

Every secret meeting an act of rebellion.

And over time, the careful balancing act begins to falter.

His replies grow shorter, colder. His focus fractures like the cracks in a windshield, the kind you try to ignore until the glass finally shatters.

You push yourself harder, rehearsing longer, eating less, chasing perfection like a lifeline. The ache behind your ribs is a dull reminder — pain is easier to handle than the emptiness you feel without him.

You both pretend.

Pretend the silence isn’t growing.

Pretend the distance between your words isn’t expanding.

You hold onto the moments — the brief touches, the shared glances, the secret kisses — like lifebuoys in a storm.

But the storm is relentless.

Neither of you has the courage to ask the question hanging between you like a guillotine.

How much longer can you keep living this half-truth?

How long before the walls you built come crashing down?

And if those walls fall — what will be left?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Monaco paddock is a swirling storm of noise and light — engines roaring in the distance, teams shouting last-minute orders, reporters weaving between groups, cameras clicking and flashing relentlessly. The salty breeze from the Mediterranean carries the scent of gasoline, expensive cologne, and freshly brewed coffee.

Your father, Toto, stands near the team motorhome, his posture radiating that unmistakable mix of authority and pride. His arm rests possessively around your shoulders as he laughs and chats with sponsors, journalists, and team personnel alike. Every few moments, his hand slides to your back, steady and reassuring, like he’s silently reminding the world that this is his daughter — his golden girl.

“This is my girl,” he says loudly enough for the nearby press to hear, voice booming with pride. “Tough as nails and twice as graceful. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her soon. Just wait.”

You force a smile, nodding as you stand beside him, feeling the weight of his attention like both armor and cage. You know he means well — he’s proud of you, of your ballet career, of everything you’ve achieved. But there’s a part of you that aches beneath the surface. The part that wishes you could just be yourself, away from the spotlight, away from the expectations.

Your eyes scan the crowd, searching for Kimi. You spot him near the garage, tucked in the shadows with his signature calm, but there’s a tension in his stance today — a nervous energy you recognize. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, cap pulled low, trying to disappear among the chaos.

You want to go to him, to tell him everything’s going to be okay, but Toto’s arm around you is firm, his presence a tether.

You give him a quick nod, heart pounding.

Not now. Not here.

You turn back to your father, who’s currently chatting animatedly with a sponsor, but you catch the way his eyes flicker over you — pride, yes, but also a protective vigilance. He’s not just your dad; he’s one of the most powerful men in the paddock, and he wants the world to see his daughter shining bright. He doesn’t know about you and Kimi. He can’t know.

You’re not sure he’d ever approve.

The idea of hiding your feelings, of sneaking around, feels like a bittersweet ache in your chest. But the risk of everything unraveling — the potential fallout with your families, your careers, the impossible expectations — it’s too high.

The crowd thickens, and Toto’s grip tightens on your shoulder just as he turns toward you with a broad grin.

“You should come to the hospitality tent for some lunch,” he says, voice rich with invitation and pride. “I want everyone to meet you properly. Show them the star we’re all backing.”

“I’ll catch up with you later, Dad,” you say softly, pulling your hand free. “I… I need some fresh air.”

His eyebrows knit in mild concern, but he nods, not pressing.

You slip away, weaving through clusters of people toward Kimi. The press and staff parts for you both like a small sea, but the pressure doesn’t let up.

When you finally reach the small alcove behind the garage, you both exhale.

The crowd thins behind the garage, leaving you both in a pocket of shadow and cool metal walls. The noise from the paddock feels miles away — distant engines, shouted orders, the hum of busy people.

You lean against the wall, chest heaving slightly, heart racing faster than usual. Kimi steps closer, the scent of his aftershave mixed with the sharp tang of race fuel swirling between you.

His eyes search yours, dark and fierce, holding a storm of emotions you’ve both been burying for months.

“I hate pretending,” you whisper, voice fragile but raw.

“Me too,” he breathes back.

Before you can think twice, his hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The world narrows to the heat of his body, the slick press of lips against yours — tentative at first, like testing water — then deepening with an urgency that’s been building for too long.

His mouth moves with slow fire, demanding and gentle all at once, like he’s memorizing every curve of your lips, every sigh that escapes you.

Your hands slide up under his hoodie, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

A sharp breath catches as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking for entrance.

You part willingly.

The kiss turns hungry — lips and tongues dancing, slow and messy, desperate and careful all at once.

You cling to him, the heat of the secret pressing down, thrilling and terrifying.

Time seems to slow as you lose yourself in the stolen moment, hidden away from prying eyes.

When you finally break apart, breathless and flushed, Kimi rests his forehead against yours.

“We have to be careful,” he murmurs, voice thick with need.

You nod, heart pounding.

“But right now,” you say, voice husky, “I just want to forget everything else.”

He smiles, dark and fierce.

“Me too.”

The moment you pull away, the cool Monaco air suddenly feels too sharp against your flushed skin. You glance around — the paddock is slowly waking back up, footsteps echoing off the concrete, voices drifting closer.

Kimi’s hand finds yours instantly, fingers weaving tight with yours, grounding you in the chaos.

“We need to move,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the main corridor where a small group of team members is approaching.

You nod, heart hammering. Every step feels louder than it should, every breath too loud.

He pulls you toward a narrow service door tucked behind a row of stacked tires — a back exit only a few people use. Your stomach twists with the risk, but you follow without hesitation.

Kimi crouches low, motioning you down beside him. For a moment, you both just freeze, listening.

A crew member’s laughter bounces down the hallway — a reminder that this world you live in is always watching, always waiting.

After the sound fades, Kimi peeks out, then pulls you inside the dim corridor.

You both move quickly, shadows slipping along the walls.

His hand never leaves yours.

“Think anyone saw us?” you whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze stays sharp, scanning every corner.

“Doesn’t matter. We can’t get caught. Not now.”

Your heart squeezes at the weight behind those words.

As you reach the next corner, Kimi presses you back against the wall — his body shielding yours like a shield.

His lips find your ear, breath warm and electric.

“Promise me,” he says, voice low, “this stays between us.”

You swallow, nodding.

“I promise.”

You stay pressed together for a heartbeat longer, the heat of his body steadying you.

Then, silently, you slip out the side door into the bright chaos of the paddock, swallowed again by the world — but holding your secret close.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The studio is cold, the overhead lights casting sharp reflections on the marley floor. The scent of rosin mingles with the faint musk of sweat and wood polish. You stand at center, your body taut, muscles coiled like springs ready to release.

Beside you, your partner watches with steady eyes, prepared to lift you in perfect unison. His hands are strong and sure, but the flicker of concern in his gaze when they catch your left ankle unsettles you.

Madame Clémence stands near the barre, a silent sentinel with eyes like hawks, arms folded over a lean frame. Her voice cuts through the quiet.

“Remember your épaulement — the slight turn of the head and shoulders must complement the extension of the arm. It’s not just movement; it’s storytelling.”

You nod, trying to focus beyond the dull, persistent throb radiating from the joint that’s been taped and wrapped for weeks now.

“Flex your foot fully en dehors,” your partner reminds softly, his voice a grounding tether. “And keep your core engaged through the lift.”

You breathe in deeply, rising onto demi-pointe, the ankle protesting fiercely but holding — barely.

The music swells softly: a waltz in triple time, delicate yet demanding.

You start the pas de deux sequence, moving through port de bras with controlled fluidity — arms curving like waves, fingers precise, wrists relaxed.

Your partner lifts you for the grand jeté en l'air. You press into his grip, trusting, even as a sharp spike of pain shoots up your calf.

You arch into the lift, chin high, eyes focused on the far mirror.

Madame Clémence's voice rings out. “Stronger line! Extend through the hips! Point your toes more — like a line of fire!”

You force the turnout, the rotation of your hips struggling against the tightness in your ankle.

Landing is the hardest part.

You hit the floor — pointe then demi-pointe — but the weight shifts unevenly, a jarring pulse ripping through the joint.

Your partner’s eyes widen again, a silent alarm.

“Steady,” you murmur, gritting your teeth.

Clémence steps forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

“Control, always control,” she says. “The audience doesn’t see pain, only grace.”

You swallow, barely able to meet her gaze.

The next sequence demands fouettés — fast turns with one leg whipping around, hips rotating explosively.

You begin, spotting the mirror, arms steady.

But the ankle falters.

You stumble mid-turn, your balance threatening to betray you.

“Non!” Madame's voice is sharp, slicing the air.

You catch yourself, cheeks burning.

The music continues relentlessly.

Your body is a battleground.

Pain laces through every step, every extension, every lift.

After the final pose — an elegant arabesque — you collapse softly into your partner’s arms.

Your breaths come fast, ragged.

Madame Clémence's eyes hold a flicker of concern, but her voice remains clipped.

“Enough for today. Ice it immediately. No excuses.”

You nod, voice tight.

Slipping off your pointe shoes, you peel back the wrappings.

The skin beneath is raw, bruised purple and mottled, swelling pronounced.

You flex your toes — sharp, searing pain radiates like fire.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying out.

You gather your things and retreat to the changing room.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you sit on the bench, carefully peeling off your thighs.

The ankle is swollen, hot to the touch, the skin stretched tight like a fragile drum.

Your breath hitches.

Opening the small mirror above the sink, you study the damage.

The bruises are darker than last week. The swelling has spread.

Opening night is less than two weeks away.

You close your eyes.

The pressure — from your company, from your coaches, from your own relentless drive — crushes down.

You must perform. You must be perfect.

But your body is failing you.

The fear curls in your gut like a storm.

If you push too hard, the injury could end you.

But if you don’t, you risk losing everything you’ve worked for.

Your phone vibrates in your bag.

A message from Kimi: Thinking of you.

You clutch the phone tightly, drawing a shaky breath.

For now, you’ll keep going.

One more rehearsal.

One more step.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lunch is held at a sun-drenched restaurant tucked into the cliffs just above Monte Carlo. The table is long, white linen stretched to its ends. Waiters move like clockwork, refilling glasses of sparkling water and rosé.

Your father is beaming — all big laughs and proud hand gestures.

“To the two stars of the future,” Toto says, raising his glass. “One in the paddock, one on the stage. You’re making us very proud.”

Kimi sits across from you, tie askew, smile polite. He hasn’t met your eyes once since you arrived.

Beside you, Susie squeezes your hand gently. Her diamond bracelet catches the light. “How’s the rehearsal schedule going, darling?”

“Grueling,” you say, too sweetly. “But that’s the job.”

“She’s stronger than ever,” your father chimes in. “Did you see the article in Le Monde last week? ‘The prodigy with posture like glass.’”

Marco laughs. “Posture like glass — what does that even mean?”

“Fragile, maybe,” Kimi mutters under his breath.

You catch it. Barely.

But it lands. Hard.

Across the table, his mother watches the exchange like she’s seen it before.

She sips her wine slowly, says nothing.

“And you, Kimi,” Toto asks, always proud. “You’re getting dangerously fast out there. Some of the guys on the team are calling you ‘baby Schumacher.’”

You watch Kimi bristle — just a flicker. Then it’s gone.

“I’m trying,” he says. “It’s just hard to keep focused with all the press lately.”

“Let them talk,” Marco says. “You let the lap times do the answering.”

“Exactly,” Toto adds. “No distractions. Keep your eye on the prize.”

Susie cuts in gently. “And remember to rest. You’re both pushing hard. Too hard, maybe.”

You shift in your seat.

The ankle throbs under the tablecloth, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You press your knee against the leg of the table to ground yourself.

Kimi finally looks at you.

It’s only a second.

But it says everything.

You’re both exhausted. Both cracking beneath the weight of trying to be invincible for the people who love you most.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re still on the floor, legs stretched out, breathing through your teeth. The ankle’s worse today. You knew it would be.

Clémence doesn't speak right away. She stands near the barre, arms crossed, sharp gaze fixed on you like she’s counting your bones.

“I asked you to stay,” she says at last. Her tone is flat. Neutral in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You sit up straighter, trying to mask the wince. “I know.”

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not landing clean,” she says finally. “The port de bras is tight. And the adagio? You rushed the phrasing. Again.”

You don’t respond. Just nod once, eyes fixed on your water bottle.

“I don’t want excuses,” she continues, walking closer. Her heels click with that perfect, terrifying rhythm — like a metronome of judgment. “But I do want the truth.”

You look up. “It’s manageable.”

“Is it?” she arches a brow. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you nearly snapped your own ankle on the landing.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I’ve seen you dance at your peak,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “This is not that.”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s temporary.”

She crouches down to your level — something she rarely does.

“I know the signs, mon ange,” she says. “Tight turns, locked jaw, compensating with your upper body. You’re favoring the right ankle. You’ve been doing it for days. You think I don’t notice?”

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” she says. “And lying to me won’t change that.”

There’s a pause. You stare at the floor.

“I know how badly you want this,” Clémence says more softly. “I know how long you’ve been preparing. But the opening is twelve days away, and I am not sending a principal dancer onstage if she’s going to break in half halfway through the coda.”

Your heart stutters.

“I won’t,” you insist.

“Not if the ankle gives. And right now?” She sighs. “It will.”

You feel the sting at the back of your eyes.

“I’m not asking to be coddled,” you say. “I just want the chance.”

“I’m not denying you the chance,” Clémence replies. “I am warning you: the opportunity is already yours. But if you walk onstage like this — wounded, stubborn, half-masked — you will lose it.”

She stands.

“You need to tell me how bad it is. Or you need to see the company physio. Today.”

You clench your hands into fists against the floor.

“I’ll manage.”

She watches you a beat longer.

“Managing is not the same as dancing,” she says. “And if you can’t tell the difference soon, you won’t be doing either.”

She turns and walks out of the room.

Her heels echo down the hallway.

You don’t move.

Your breath catches — not because of the pain this time, but because you know she’s right.

Later that day, the changing room is quiet — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the plastic of your ice pack crinkling under your fingers, your ankle burning with its slow throb. You sit on the bench, towel still looped around your neck, leotard damp with sweat. Your hair's falling out of its bun, but you haven't moved in fifteen minutes.

Then:

“Hey.”

You flinch.

Kimi leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, cap pulled low over his brow. He’s still tan from testing in Barcelona, a little more grown-looking than the last time you saw him in person. But the eyes are the same.

Steady. And only ever soft when they’re looking at you.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What are you doing here?”

“Summer break,” he shrugs. “Thought I’d stop by.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He shrugs again, like rules have never applied to him. “Your dad’s in Italy with the team. My mom thinks I’m getting groceries.”

You roll your eyes. “So this is your version of sneaking out?”

He smiles, that lopsided grin that still makes your stomach flip.

“No,” he says. “This is my version of checking in.”

He walks over slowly — his sneakers squeaking slightly against the floor. You try to sit up straighter, try to pretend like the pain in your ankle doesn’t make your stomach twist.

He sees right through it.

“Can I?” he asks, already crouching down.

You nod.

Gently, he lifts your leg into his lap and unwraps the towel. His fingers brush the swelling, the bruises. He frowns.

“Still bad?” he asks, voice low.

You nod once.

“I shouldn’t even be rehearsing anymore,” you say, trying for a light tone. “But if I stop now, I’ll just freeze.”

Kimi doesn’t say anything at first. Just traces one finger over your sock, where the bruising blossoms under the thin cotton.

“I hate this,” he says finally. “I hate that you’re in pain and nobody’s doing anything about it.”

You exhale. “It’s the job.”

“No,” he snaps, looking up at you. “It’s not. The job is dancing. Not breaking.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s two days. I just have to get through two more days.”

His hand curls gently around your shin.

“Why didn’t you tell me it got this bad?”

You pause. Then, quieter: “Because if I did, you’d try to fix it. And you can’t.”

He sits back slightly, resting his hands on his knees.

“I wish I could,” he says. “I wish I could take all of this off you.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Kimi looks up at you again, this time with that particular look — the one only you know, the one that means he’s barely holding back.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says. “I know we’re hiding everything. I know your dad can’t know. I know the timing sucks. But I’m here.”

You nod again, but your hands twist in your lap. “It’s not just the pain. It’s the pressure. The company, the expectations, my name, his name. All of it. It’s so loud. Sometimes I can’t breathe.”

Kimi reaches forward, takes your hands in his.

“You can breathe here,” he whispers. “With me.”

It breaks something in you.

Your eyes sting.

And then you lean forward — into him, into the safety of his arms, into the smell of sunscreen and motor oil and summer.

You bury your face in his neck, and he holds you like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Because he has.

Because this — you and him, in the space between careers and chaos — has been real for months now. Even if it’s secret. Even if it’s fragile.

His hand strokes the back of your head, slow and steady.

“We’ll get through this,” he murmurs. “And when it’s done… when you’re standing on that stage and they’re all on their feet, I’ll be right there. Clapping the loudest.”

You laugh against his collarbone. “Louder than my mom?”

“Louder than both your parents.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“Promise?”

He cups your cheek, eyes dark and sure.

“Promise.”

You kiss him — soft, slow, nothing like the desperation of Monaco. Just warm. Familiar. Home.

When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’ll be brilliant,” he says.

“I hope so.”

“You will. And I’ll be the idiot with flowers outside the stage door.”

You smile, even as your ankle pulses and your lungs tighten.

For a second, everything feels possible again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the dressing room is thick with hairspray and nerves.

You sit beneath the lights of the mirror, head tilted back slightly as the company stylist pins the final rhinestone into your hair — the bun slick, tight, immovable. A crown of delicate pearls rests on your scalp like it’s been welded to your bones. The collar of your costume grazes the skin on your neck.

You haven’t looked down at your ankle since you wrapped it. You’re afraid if you do, you won’t be able to stand back up.

There’s a half-eaten banana on the table beside you. A protein bar you peeled open and never touched. Water bottle. Painkillers you didn’t take — not yet, not until the last possible second. 

You flex your toes inside the pointe shoes. The left one screams.

You breathe through it.

The company’s principal calls out five-minute warnings from the hallway. Your partner is stretching near the door, checking their alignment in the mirror. You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.

Your hands shake as you adjust your bodice. The silk trembles under your fingers.

One of the corps dancers slips a folded tissue into your palm. You don’t know who. You don’t open it. You just hold it.

Your name is being whispered down the corridor.

“Lead’s ready?”

“She’ll be brilliant.”

You stand.

The stylist gives you one last glance. Her hands rest briefly on your shoulders — a silent good luck.

You nod. Step out.

The hallway is warm with foot traffic and the muffled sounds of the overture swelling through the old wooden walls. Your shoes click on the floor as you pass by the wings, the gauze of your skirt fluttering behind you like smoke.

And there — standing in the shadows just past the fly rail, barely visible beneath a baseball cap and dark jacket — is him.

Your breath catches.

Kimi.

He’s not supposed to be back here. You don’t know how he got past security. You don’t care.

He doesn’t step into the light. Just watches.

His eyes find yours instantly, and you swear your heart stops.

You take a shaky step toward him — careful, cautious, like one wrong move will crack the world wide open.

He leans in just enough to brush the backs of his fingers against your wrist.

“You ready?” he whispers.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles — the soft kind, the one that only ever belongs to you.

“You’ll be transcendent.”

You want to kiss him. You want to say I’m scared, I’m hurting, don’t leave when it’s over.

Instead, you whisper: “Wish me luck.”

“I already did,” he says. “Six times.”

The stage manager calls for places.

You squeeze his hand once.

And then you turn.

You step into the wings. You roll your shoulders back. You square your spine.

Your partner joins you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. You feel the floor under your toes, hear the low hush of the orchestra, the rustle of velvet curtains, the hush before the world tilts on its axis.

The stage lights warm your cheeks before you even move.

You close your eyes.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

You are a dancer.

You are your body, your breath, your bruises.

You are light and blood and flame.

And when the curtain rises — for just a second — the pain falls away.

The stage lights swallow you whole.

The moment you step out into them, the crowd disappears. The noise fades. The weight lifts.

All that’s left is light.

You move through the choreography like a ghost — no, like a storm that’s learned how to be quiet. Each act unfurls in a blur of silk and breath: the opening solo, a flurry of precise allegros; the group number, where you and the corps dancers pulse like one living creature; the mid-act interlude, soft and sweeping, like a lullaby built of bone.

You hit every cue. Every extension is high. Every turn sharp. You don’t miss your marks, not once.

But your ankle is holding on by a thread.

Every landing sends fire up your leg. Every lift feels like a crack in the dam.

You can’t show it. You don’t show it.

Because this is opening night. Because people are watching. Because your family, Kimi, is somewhere in the darkness, and you want him to see you — not the pain, not the bruises — just you, shining.

By the final act, your lungs burn like paper.

And then — the pas de deux.

Just you and your partner. Just your breath and the swell of the orchestra.

You bow your head. Raise your arms.

Begin.

The first lift is flawless. Your partner’s hands are sure, steady — you fly for a breathless second, suspended midair like you belong nowhere else. The audience gasps.

You land clean. Barely.

The pain lances through your leg like a scream.

Don’t buckle. Don’t show it.

The duet continues. You fall into the cradle hold. He turns you. Your foot skims the floor like a brushstroke.

Another sequence: échappé, arabesque, hold.

Your vision blurs. You grit your teeth.

The third lift is the test.

It’s the one you couldn’t stick all week. The timing too tight. The balance too fragile.

You hit it.

Dead center. Arm extended, chin lifted, toes perfect.

The house goes silent.

You hear your own breath in your ears.

And then—

The final turn.

You prep from fifth. Pirouette. One, two— snap.

A white-hot tear tears up your leg. Your ankle gives, for just a second. Long enough to know it’s done.

But you don’t fall.

You land. Barely. You use the momentum of the turn to twist into the final pose. One leg extended behind, arms in a gentle arc, eyes to the rafters like you’ve just risen from the earth.

And you hold.

You hold your form.

Your partner’s hand clasps yours in the blackout.

You don’t rise when the curtain falls.

Your partner tugs your hand, gentle at first. Then again, more firmly.

“Hey. Come on. Bows.”

You try. You really do.

But your leg doesn’t move.

The pain is white-hot, not sharp anymore but deep — a gnawing, searing, bone-deep wrongness that radiates from your ankle up through your hip. You blink at it like it’ll disappear if you focus hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Your chest tightens. Your breath shortens.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

That’s when everything changes.

Your partner drops to his knees beside you, panic setting in fast. The noise backstage is swelling — applause, shouting, someone yelling for props — but it’s all muffled behind the ringing in your ears.

“She’s hurt!” your partner calls out, voice cracking. “She’s not getting up!”

Feet scramble. Someone shouts for the stage manager. Someone else for the ballet mistress.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

But your vision is blurring fast.

“I can’t feel my foot,” you murmur. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t move it.”

Your teacher is there in seconds, crouching down, eyes scanning your form like she already knows what she’s about to find.

“Sweetheart,” she says, too calm. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to speak. Your voice comes out raw. “Left ankle. Landed on it during the turn. Snapped.”

Your partner’s hand is still around yours. He’s squeezing it so tightly your knuckles pop.

The stage crew clears space. A medic is already pushing through. Someone covers you with a towel — not for warmth, but to give you privacy. But your tights are soaked through now, and the left shoe is beginning to swell visibly around the ribbons.

“Do not take it off yet,” the medic warns, already cutting the elastic just above the knot. “Not until we stabilize it.”

You nod. You’re shaking.

“Where’s her family?” your teacher calls out. “Can someone find Toto? Now?”

Everything starts happening fast.

You're lifted — not carried like a dancer, but hauled like something fragile. You grip the arm of the medic so tightly your nails break skin.

Someone holds your head up. Someone else slides the shoe off in one slow motion.

And that’s when you scream.

The pain detonates like a landmine. You see white. You taste iron. You nearly black out.

You're on a stretcher now. They’re running. The hallway blurs past. Bright fluorescents. Cold tile. Stagehands stepping back in shock.

“Kimi,” you whisper, throat raw. “Get Kimi.”

No one hears you. Or maybe they do and think you’re delirious.

The ambulance doors swing open.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, in the cold sterility of a private hospital room, your world is being dismantled one sentence at a time.

You’re half-laid on the exam table, your leg propped and wrapped. Your pointe shoe had to be cut off. Your tights, too. Your sweat is still drying on your back, your stage makeup smeared beneath your eyes. But you don’t feel any of it.

Not compared to what the doctor is saying.

“—a full fracture of the talus, likely aggravated by multiple microtears and stress over time. Ligament damage as well, medial and lateral. We’re also seeing cartilage trauma from repeated impact.”

A pause.

Toto stands behind the doctor, but you don’t have to look at him to feel the pressure rolling off his frame. Still. Quiet. Not breathing.

You stare at the ceiling.

“The recovery window is long. One year, maybe more. And… even then, there’s no guarantee of return to pre-injury condition.”

Return to pre-injury condition.

That’s medical speak for you might never dance again.

The doctor continues talking, but you’ve stopped hearing him. Every syllable since that one sentence has become noise. Dull. Unreachable.

Your mother is sitting in the chair by your side, frozen. Her fingers barely move where they hover near your hand.

Toto hasn’t said a word.

The doctor leaves with soft instructions and a thin smile you don’t return.

And then, silence.

No one knows what to say. The room feels too bright. Too clean. Too final.

You take a slow, shaky breath.

“I…” your voice cracks. “I finished the piece.”

Toto closes his eyes.

“I landed the lift,” you whisper, like it might undo everything. “He caught me. I was steady.”

Your mother presses her lips together, blinking fast.

“I was fine.”

And then it breaks.

“I was fine, Papa—I was fine—!”

He kneels beside you before you can stop him, hands reaching for yours, strong and shaking all at once.

“I know,” he says softly, eyes burning. “You were brilliant, baby. You were perfect.”

You start sobbing like your lungs forgot how to breathe.

You bend forward, forehead pressed into your fists, voice shredded.

“No—no, no, no—this can’t—”

You feel his arms around you, pulling you in, whispering your name.

But nothing helps.

Because you didn’t just lose a show. You lost everything. Everything you built. Everything you bled for. Everything that made sense.

And then—

Through the choking, through the panic—

“I want Kimi.”

The words come raw. Unfiltered.

Your mother stiffens.

Toto’s arms tighten instinctively.

You lift your head, eyes wild and brimming.

“I want Kimi,” you say again, almost begging. “Please—please, I just need him—”

Toto goes still.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe.

He knows.

You see it in his eyes.

He knows, now.

He puts it all together — the Monaco paddock glances, the quiet retreats, the unexplained tension, the hoodie in your bag that was never yours.

But he doesn’t yell.

He just looks at you like you’ve broken something sacred.

Your voice breaks again.

“Please.”

And even though it shatters him, he nods.

He stands slowly. Silent.

Leaves the room to make the call.

And you curl into the sterile sheets, waiting for the only person who might still feel like home.

The door bursts open before you can even realize someone’s coming.

“Kimi,” you cry out, voice shattering as the walls you’ve built crumble all at once.

You’re gasping, sobbing, chest tightening so hard it feels like you can’t breathe.

Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you reach out — desperate, pleading.

He’s there immediately, sliding to his knees beside you, pulling you close with an urgency that makes your heart stutter.

His arms wrap around you like he’s trying to hold every broken piece together.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady.

You bury your face in his neck, shoulders shaking as tears fall freely — not caring who hears, not caring about anything but the raw ache inside.

“I’m so sorry,” you manage to choke out between sobs, voice cracking. “I… I wanted to be stronger. I didn’t want this to happen.”

Kimi presses his forehead to yours, eyes glistening with his own fear and heartbreak.

“Hey,” he whispers, “don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands claw at his shirt like a lifeline, like letting go means losing everything.

“But I’m broken,” you sob. “How can I ever dance again? How can I be me if I can’t—”

He shakes his head, voice fierce with quiet certainty.

“You’re not broken. You’re still you. And I’ll be with you every step, no matter what.”

The tears keep coming, hot and relentless, as you tremble against him.

Your whole body feels like it’s unraveling — grief, fear, frustration tangled so tightly it hurts.

“I’m scared, Kimi. So scared,” you whisper, voice raw.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m scared too. But we’re not alone.”

He brushes your damp hair back, thumb stroking your cheek like a silent promise.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

Your breath catches at that.

For the first time in hours, maybe days, you let yourself lean fully into the safety of his arms.

Your sobs quiet just a little, heart still pounding like a drum but no longer drowning.

He holds you close, whispering your name, grounding you in the storm.

And somehow, even in the mess and the fear, you feel—barely—the faintest flicker of hope.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The surgery was intense and the recovery even more so. Every day brought new challenges — aches that ran deep in your bones, muscles that refused to cooperate, and the quiet frustration of learning to trust your body again. But you never faced it alone.

Kimi was there from the very start, refusing to leave your side even for a moment. His steady presence was a shield against the fear and uncertainty. When the pain became unbearable, his hand found yours, his voice low and calm, a tether pulling you back.

“We’re going to get through this. Together,” he said one night, eyes never leaving yours.

And you believed him.

Your families—already closely intertwined by years of shared history, pride, and friendship—became the solid foundation beneath your feet. Your father, once fiercely protective, had softened completely when he saw how Kimi cared for you — how he was patient and unwavering. The two families blended seamlessly, like old friends and new kin, meeting over meals filled with laughter, teasing, and endless support.

At those dinners, stories flowed easily—of races won and lost, of rehearsals that tested limits, of physical therapy sessions where progress was hard-earned but celebrated. The kids ran around, their joy infectious, while the adults shared glances that said, without words, “We’re here. We’ve got this.”

Your ballet career didn’t vanish; it evolved. You learned to move with grace and care, listening to your body as it healed, celebrating every small victory — a pain-free step, a controlled turn, a balanced pose. It wasn’t the career you had dreamed of before the injury, but it was yours, reshaped by resilience and love.

Kimi’s racing soared too. You cheered from the stands, heart bursting with pride as he claimed victories that were as much yours as his. Together, you built a life where two demanding worlds coexisted — each success a shared triumph, each challenge met hand in hand.

Life found a quieter rhythm, filled with mornings bathed in soft sunlight, slow breakfasts that stretched into laughter, and evenings spent tangled in blankets and whispered conversations. The chaos of the past settled into something steady, something real.

One evening, as the city lights blinked awake, you sat side by side on the couch, fingers entwined, hearts beating in easy rhythm.

Kimi looked at you with that easy smile, the one that always made your heart skip. “Watching you dance again... it’s honestly the best thing I’ve seen.”

You shrugged, a small grin tugging at your lips. “I’m not the same as before. But I’m okay with that.”

He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. “We’ve been through so much. But here we are. Still standing. Together.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of it all lift a little. “No more hiding. No more pretending. I want everyone to know us.”

His grin got wider, warm and real. “They’re going to know. And honestly? I’m proud of it. Proud of us.”

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around his. “My family, your family — they’re all in. It feels right. Feels like home.”

He pulled you close, voice low but sure. “We’re done running. This is our life, messy and real.”

You sighed, content, certain. “I love it. I love you. Completely.”

He smiled, his voice a promise that echoed through the quiet room. “Forever. Always.”

And in that moment — away from the noise, the pressure, and the expectations — you knew you had everything. Not perfection, but something infinitely better: unwavering love, fierce loyalty, and a home built in each other’s arms.

Together, you held your form.

Always.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this is a special one for me. if you got this far, thank you so much, it means the world to me. i used to be a dancer my whole life. before things got too real and dreams were crushed, i used to find solace in pointe shoes and ripped thighs. i know it's messy, but i poured my heart out in this one, hope you liked it.

this one's for you, isa.

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist 💫 @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! ❤️

[understeeringirl]

sneak peek of my next kimi fic!!

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You’ve always been graceful — a dancer, a performer, a symbol of control. Kimi’s always been precise — composed, driven, the golden boy of the paddock.

You grew up in parallel, with shared summers and Christmases, nods in the hallway of your father's house. There were rules then. There are more now.

But there’s also the night in Monaco. The hotel room you said you’d never come back to. And the look in his eyes when you finish your rehearsal and collapse onto the floor, too tired to keep the mask on anymore.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, head on his chest. “I know,” he says. But he doesn’t let go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

dropping later today!!

see you next lap, -N 🏁

[understeeringirl]

everything that's real - epilogue

Summary: One year later, the fake dating is a distant memory — and the love is real. Through the pressure, the rumors, and the heartbreak, you and Lando have grown into something undeniable. No more hiding. No more pretending. Just you, him, and everything that’s real. Warnings: time skip, domestic fluff, public relationship, references to past angst, soft emotional closure Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 3.0k Series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One year later, it doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

Not when his hand finds yours without thinking. Not when the cameras click, and you don’t flinch. Not when he kisses your temple like the world isn’t watching.

Silverstone is loud with energy — packed grandstands, fans pressed against barricades, press lining the paddock gates. It smells like rubber and anticipation, and yet somehow, in the middle of all of it, you feel calm.

Because he’s beside you.

Lando squeezes your hand once, twice. A secret rhythm only you understand.

“You good?” he murmurs, leaning close.

You nod, smiling despite yourself. “Better than good.”

He grins, sun-warm and golden, and it still feels like something out of a dream.

You keep walking — past flashing lights, reporters with microphones, and PR managers coordinating every second. But it’s not like before. There’s no script this time. Just you and him.

And you think — maybe that’s what makes it feel so real.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t easy. Not at first.

The night of the balcony, the almost-kiss, the silence afterward — it left cracks. But you didn’t walk away. And neither did he.

Instead, he showed up.

Every morning. Every call. Every time you said, I’m not ready yet, and meant it, he stayed. You didn’t make it simple. You made it real.

There were arguments. Nights you both went to sleep with your backs turned. Hours you spent alone, wondering if this time would be the end. There were shoots you went to with swollen eyes and interviews you gave with your voice barely steady.

But there were also mornings where he made you pancakes just because. Evenings where you wore his hoodie and he kissed your shoulder during movie night. Hands held under tables. Apologies whispered against your collarbone. Love notes scribbled on hotel notepads. A playlist he made you for your flight to Milan. A voicemail you saved — his voice, groggy and soft: I’m proud of you, you know. Always.

There was the Vogue cover — the one people didn’t expect you to land. You did. And he framed it.

There was the first time you posted him — nothing dramatic, just a photo of your shoes beside his on your hotel room floor. The comments section exploded. So did the tabloids.

But you didn’t hide. You didn’t have to anymore.

He made it official at the Awards Gala, six months in. Took your hand on the carpet, posed with his arm wrapped around your waist. Said to a reporter, “She’s the best part of my whole damn year.”

There were moments — flashes of a year lived slowly, honestly, side by side.

The way he’d kiss your forehead before leaving for the airport, whispering promises to call. The sleepy voice notes he left at 3 a.m. from across the world. The time you showed up unannounced in Monaco and he nearly dropped his phone when he saw you at his front door.

The first time he called you his girlfriend without thinking about it — just slipped it into a sentence at brunch with his team, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You kicked him under the table. He grinned like he’d won something.

There were days he stood at the end of your runway, surrounded by photographers and fashion editors, just to clap louder than anyone else. Nights you cheered him on from a garage surrounded by engineers and mechanics.

The post-race exhaustion. The pre-shoot jitters. The FaceTimes from hotel bathtubs. The matching toothbrushes. The shared playlists. The long-haul flights spent half-asleep on each other’s shoulders.

The quiet stuff. The real stuff.

And now here you are — one year later. Silverstone again. The place where the pretending started. The place where everything fractured.

And maybe this time, it’s the place where everything finally, fully, settles.

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You wake up with the faint hum of the city outside and the gentle scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting in. The bed feels warm, but your body aches, muscles sore from the relentless adrenaline and tension of the shoot. You open your eyes slowly, still half-caught in that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness.

Then you hear it — the soft creak of the door, the careful footsteps. Lando slips inside, balancing two steaming mugs. His eyes catch yours, tired but gentle, and for a moment, the weight of everything else falls away.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering just a moment longer than needed. His voice is quiet, almost reverent.

“Thought you could use some peace this morning. No pressure. Just this.”

You take the mug from him, feeling the warmth seep into your hands. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken all weekend.

You don’t say much — you don’t have to. In that silence, in that shared quiet, everything feels okay again.

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You’re perched on the edge of the couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, lips pressed into a thin line. The plan was simple — dinner, just the two of you. But here you are, waiting. Again. The clock ticking feels louder than any apology.

When the door finally opens, you don’t turn around. You just hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps and that familiar, tentative voice.

“Hey,” Lando says quietly, voice full of regret. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I know I messed up tonight. I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

You huff, the irritation bubbling to the surface. “Yeah? Feels like I’m always waiting. You ever think about how that makes me feel?”

He steps closer, hands out, as if trying to hold the tension between you in his palms. “I know. And I hate that I’ve made you feel like you’re not the center of my world. Because you are.”

You finally turn to face him, lips pursed in a pout that’s almost stubborn. “Words are cheap, Lando.”

He shifts nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “I hate that. I really do. You mean everything to me.”

You finally turn your head, giving him a pointed look. “You say that a lot.”

His hands raise in surrender, like he’s caught but trying to explain. “I know I say it, but I don’t think I say it enough — or show it enough.”

His eyes flicker with a shy smile as he digs into his bag, pulling out a small bunch of wildflowers — simple, imperfect, but real.

“For you,” he says softly. “Because you deserve more than just words.”

You glance at the flowers, then back up at him, your pout deepening. “You bring me flowers now? What’s next? Chocolates? A parade?”

Lando chuckles, a warm, nervous sound that fills the room. “Maybe. I’m willing to do a parade if that’s what it takes.”

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away.

“Tomorrow’s all yours,” he promises, voice low and earnest. “No calls, no meetings. Just us.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “You’ve said that before.”

His smile fades, replaced with a look so soft it nearly breaks your stubborn heart. “Then let me show you. No more promises. Just me, trying.”

You tilt your head, biting back a smile. “You’re cute when you try.”

He grins, eyes sparkling. “You make me try harder.”

Lando’s face lights up like you just handed him a trophy. He sits beside you, careful, close, and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

You finally uncross your arms and lean into him. “Alright, but I’m holding you to this.”

He pulls you close, careful and warm. “Every word.”

You close your eyes, letting the frustration melt away in the comfort of his arms — stubborn as you are, maybe this is what you need.

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He collapses onto the couch like he’s been hit by a truck — racing suit half unzipped, hair tousled from the helmet, eyes heavy but still trying to smile.

You watch him with this warm, proud grin tugging at your lips. He’s been grinding all day, pushing himself harder than anyone should, and honestly? You couldn’t be more in awe.

You kneel down and start pulling off his boots slowly, fingers careful.

“Look at you, baby,” you say softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Killing it out there as always.”

He lets out a tired laugh. “If by killing it you mean almost dying every lap, then yeah.”

You smile, leaning close to press a gentle kiss to his temple.

“You don’t have to be a superhero all the time, you know. I’m here for the messy, exhausted you too.”

He sighs, settling into your touch, eyes closing briefly.

“You’re seriously wiped,” you murmur, slipping fuzzy socks onto his feet.

He looks up at you, vulnerability peeking through his tiredness. “Thanks for always being here.”

You take his hand in yours, squeezing gently.

“I’m proud of you. Every single day. You work so hard, and I see it all—even when you don’t say a word.”

He smiles softly, reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’m not letting you do anything tonight,” you say, voice thick with affection. “Just rest. Let me take care of you.”

He smiles — that tired, genuine smile that makes your heart ache.

“You spoil me too much.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Good. You deserve it.”

You settle beside him on the couch, and he leans his head on your shoulder. Your hand finds his, fingers intertwining as you trace gentle circles on his skin.

“You’re my favorite part of every day,” he murmurs.

And you know, right then, that no matter how hard the races get or how tired he feels, you’ll always be here — ready to love, support, and spoil him exactly how he needs.

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The room is dim, the city lights outside casting soft shadows on the walls. You’re curled up on the couch, exhausted but restless, the day’s stress still weighing heavy. Lando sits beside you, quiet but close enough that you can feel his warmth.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you rest your head lightly on his shoulder, letting the silence stretch between you — not uncomfortable, but needed.

After a while, he shifts, reaching for your hand and gently entwining your fingers with his. His thumb brushes small circles over your knuckles, slow and steady.

“I know things haven’t been easy,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “but every day, you remind me why it’s worth it.”

You let out a soft breath, still tired but feeling something fragile and real stirring inside.

“I’m not perfect,” he continues, “and I still mess up. But I want to keep showing up. For you. For us.”

You look up at him, eyes heavy but hopeful.

“I see you,” you whisper. “More than anyone else ever has.”

He smiles softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Then let’s keep trying,” he says. “Together.”

You close your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

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Back to the present, the morning air is crisp, the paddock buzzing with the hum of final preparations. Mechanics rush around the cars, engineers shout last-minute instructions, and the scent of fuel and rubber hangs heavy.

You find Lando near the garage entrance, already suited up — the iconic orange and black hugging his frame tight. His helmet rests on a nearby table, untouched for now.

He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The noise, the pressure, the expectations — all narrowed down to the steady beat of your heart and the nervous flicker in his eyes.

You reach out and take his hand, fingers intertwining naturally.

“Today’s your day,” you say softly, voice steady but full of meaning. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and I believe in you.”

He exhales, a slow breath like he’s trying to calm the storm inside.

“It’s Silverstone,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “My home race. The pressure… it’s a lot.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “Pressure’s just a word. You’re ready. You’re more than ready.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so simple.”

You smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s not simple. But it’s real. And I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

His gaze softens, and for a brief moment, vulnerability cracks through his usual confident mask.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he admits, voice low.

“You won’t,” you promise, stepping closer until your foreheads rest against each other.

The world slows. The noise dims. It’s just you and him, in a bubble of quiet before the storm.

He picks up his helmet and holds it out to you with a grin that’s equal parts nervous and excited.

“Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, voice soft but full of warmth.

You lean in, curious.

He slowly turns the helmet toward you, revealing a tiny new detail — two interlocking initials, your initials, delicately painted near the visor in shimmering silver. It’s subtle, elegant, and unmistakably personal.

Your breath catches. “You did this? For me?”

He nods, eyes shining. “Yeah. You’re my lucky charm. I love you. Wanted to carry a piece of you with me today — always.”

You feel your throat tighten as a rush of emotion spills over. Your fingers tremble as you reach out to trace the delicate monogram.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, tears pooling in your eyes.

He steps closer, wrapping his hand around yours. “I need all the luck I can get, especially with you by my side.”

You lean into him, your heart full.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

“Good luck, Lan,” you whisper, your breath warm against his skin.

He smiles, reaching up to cup your cheek.

“I love you.,” he says, voice thick with everything he’s holding in.

He pulls you into a hug, firm and grounding — like he’s trying to take a piece of your calm with him onto the track.

Then, helmet in hand, he turns and walks toward the grid.

You watch him go, heart full, knowing this moment is as much about love as it is about speed.

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You watch the final laps unfold on the big screen, breath held tight. Lando’s car cuts through the corners with breathtaking precision, every move bold and calculated, yet somehow graceful. The sun glints off the shiny bodywork, and for a fleeting moment, the world seems to slow.

Then — the checkered flag.

He crosses the finish line first.

The crowd erupts around you. Voices roar, flags wave wildly, the energy crackling like electricity. But even amid the chaos, your eyes are fixed on him.

Lando climbs out of his car, muscles trembling from exertion, chest heaving. His face is flushed, a wild mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. His eyes scan the paddock immediately, searching, desperate to find you in the sea of faces.

And when they do — locking with yours across the crowd — something shifts. The victory feels personal, intimate. Like it was meant for this moment alone.

He breaks into a smile so wide it nearly lights up the entire circuit. His whole body relaxes just a little as he begins weaving his way toward you, dodging cameras, teammates, and well-wishers.

The world around you blurs, sounds dulling until all you hear is the rhythm of his footsteps growing closer and the steady beat of your own heart.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he pulls you into a tight hug, like he’s holding onto you for dear life — like you’re the anchor keeping him grounded.

He pulls you closer, the world fading until it’s just the two of you — the noise of the crowd a distant hum. You can feel the heat of his breath, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your chest. His eyes search yours, raw and honest, as if asking permission without words.

Before you realize it, he leans in, lips brushing yours with the gentlest of touches — a soft, fleeting kiss that carries years of unsaid feelings, pain, hope, and everything in between.

It’s enough to make your knees weak and your breath hitch, but brief, tender, and electric.

You pull back just enough to smile, breathless.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” he breathes into your hair, voice thick with emotion. “You kept me going. You’re the reason I pushed harder today.”

You look up at him, seeing the raw vulnerability behind the champion’s grin, and suddenly all the distance and silence you endured seem to dissolve.

Around you, the crowd continues to roar and cameras flash, but you’re wrapped in your own bubble — a moment stolen from time.

You squeeze his hand, the weight of the season, the fights, and the pretending falling away, replaced by something undeniable.

This win isn’t just his — it’s yours, too.

And as you stand there, side by side in the summer sun, you realize: the pretending is over.

It’s just you, him, and everything that’s real.

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and that's a wrap on the wrong side of the camera!! my babieees my first series is done!! thank you thank you thank you for joining me on this experience. also, i plan on starting a new series soon so keep an eye out for new ideas!! i hope you enjoyed this, if you have any questions, comments, suggestions or just want to scream about nothing and everything with me, pleaseee don't hesitate to reach out!! once again, thank you, you're the ones who keep me going

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

If you’d like to be added, just let me know! ❤️

[understeeringirl]

The confession

Summary: After weeks of distance and silence, you and Lando finally have the long, honest conversation you both desperately needed. In the quiet of your apartment, raw feelings, fears, and truths come spilling out — no more pretending, no more running. Vulnerabilities laid bare, promises made, and a fragile hope for what comes next. Warnings: emotional vulnerability, intense conversation, mutual groveling, slow rebuilding of trust, soft romantic moments, no explicit content. Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 3.8k Series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

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The apartment smells like roses and something warm. Something sweet.

You’re exhausted. Your feet ache from hours of fittings, your shoulders tight with tension. All you want is to drop your bag and sink into the couch—but then you turn the corner into your kitchen.

And freeze.

There are flowers. Your favorite ones. Arranged in vases and empty water glasses, every spare surface covered in soft petals and green stems. There’s takeout on the counter—your favorite place, the one with the stupidly overpriced dessert you always pretend not to want—and candles flickering low in the background. Jazz plays quietly from the speaker, something soft and romantic, like the backdrop of a rom-com.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then he appears.

Lando. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair messy, eyes bright with mischief and nerves. He’s holding two forks and that ridiculous chocolate tart you love, wearing a grin that’s all sunshine and boyish hope.

“Welcome home,” he says, cheerful. “I was gonna text and say dinner’s on me, but I figured this might go over better.”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

“I know I probably went overboard with the flowers,” he says, stepping toward the counter. “But the guy at the flower shop said this color means forgiveness, so I bought, like… all of them.”

You stare.

He sets the tart down. “And the dessert? I didn’t forget. I know you always pretend you don’t want it and then steal half of mine, so I just… figured we’d skip the pretending part tonight.”

You drop your bag to the floor.

You’re so tired. Of the pretending. Of the way he’s been hovering like a ghost around the edges of your life. Of the silence and sweetness and apologies he never fully says.

“Lando—”

“I know,” he says quickly, hands up in mock surrender. “You’re still mad. You should be. You have every right to be.”

You cross your arms.

“But if I have to keep apologizing every single night until you’re ready to forgive me,” he continues, “then I’ll be here. With dessert. And probably too many flowers.”

He tries for a grin. It wobbles a little.

And something in you—finally, finally—breaks.

“I’m ready to talk,” you say.

He goes still.

“Really talk,” you add. “No more half-truths. No more pretending.”

He takes a shaky breath, like he’s gearing up for a race he’s never run before. His smile wobbles, and his fingers twitch as if he’s about to launch into a speech he’s been rehearsing a thousand times.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little breathless, “I’m ready. Really ready. I’ve been running through what I want to say in my head—”

His words stumble, and he rubs the back of his neck nervously, eyes flickering like a kid caught doing something wrong.

“Honestly? I’m kind of panicking. Like, full-on sweaty palms, heart-racing kind of panicking.”

You can’t help but laugh—a soft, genuine sound that breaks the tension like sunlight through a window.

“Oh god, you’re such a mess,” you say, shaking your head with a fond smile. “Slow down. You’re about to give yourself a heart attack.”

He chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his neck again. “Yeah, well, the stakes feel kinda high, you know?”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice so it’s just between the two of you. “Hey, calm down. I’ll go first. You just breathe.”

He blinks, surprised but relieved, and steps back slightly, his shoulders loosening a fraction.

You fold your arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’m tired of all the pretending. The silences. The little half-truths. I want the real us back. Or at least, whatever ‘real’ looks like now.”

His expression softens, eyes searching yours.

You glance toward the couch, the one where you’ve spent countless nights tangled in blankets and whispered secrets. The same spot where laughter once felt effortless, and silence was never uncomfortable.

“Let’s sit,” you say softly, gesturing toward it.

He nods, following you like he’s afraid to lose this moment. You settle down, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between you but still holding space.

The cushions remember you both — the late-night movie marathons, the shared snacks, the stolen kisses, and the countless times you found comfort in each other’s presence.

He shifts, trying to find the right words, but the quiet speaks volumes.

For a moment, all that’s left is the sound of your breathing and the weight of everything that’s been unsaid.

You take a trembling breath, your hands clutching the edge of the couch as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. The silence between you is heavy, almost unbearable, but finally, you force the words out, each one raw and jagged, cutting through the years of buildup.

“I’ve been holding so much in,” you begin, voice barely steady, “more than I ever thought I could carry. More than I wanted to admit even to myself. Because to say it out loud is to make it real. And I wasn’t ready to face that kind of truth.”

Your eyes prick with tears, but you blink them back, your voice growing steadier as you push on.

“This pretending — this endless dance of smiles for the cameras, fake stories, and forced silences — it’s been suffocating. I felt like I was losing myself trying to keep up. Trying to keep us alive when everything was quietly falling apart.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight.

“You pulled away. Not in a loud, angry way — no, it was colder than that. You just… disappeared. Ignored my messages, left me hanging in the silence. Every ‘read’ receipt without a reply was like a slap to the face. Like I was nothing more than background noise in your life.”

Your hands tighten, knuckles white.

“And then there was that photo.” Your voice drops, raw and trembling, the memory hitting like a gut punch. “The one with that girl. Laughing with you, looking close — like maybe you wanted her to be the one. You didn’t even try to explain, to deny it, or to tell me what the hell was going on. You just let me see it, let it rip through everything I thought we had.”

You can’t stop the tears now, but you don’t wipe them away. They’re part of the truth.

“I wasn’t stupid, Lando. I wasn’t blind. I saw the cracks forming. I felt the distance growing like a chasm between us. And every lie you told, every silence you left me to wrestle with alone, it felt like you were tearing us apart — like you didn’t want me anymore.”

Your voice breaks, but the words tumble out anyway. “I thought what we had was real. I thought it was strong enough to survive everything — the cameras, the rumors, the pressure, the noise. But lately, it’s been just shadows and smoke. You hiding behind a mask while I tried to find you.”

You take a shaky breath, voice softening to a whisper. “I was angry. So damn angry. Angry that you treated me like a secret, like something to hide when things got complicated. Angry that I was left standing alone, fighting for us while you stayed silent.”

Your heart aches, exposed and vulnerable. “I’m scared, Lando. Scared that this — whatever ‘this’ is — can’t be fixed. That the cracks run too deep, that the lies have piled up too high to climb over.”

You look him dead in the eyes, raw and unflinching. “But I’m still here. I’m still holding on — because despite everything, I want to believe in us. I want to believe that you still care. That if you’re willing to be honest, really honest, maybe we can find a way back to each other.”

Your fingers tremble as you twist the edge of the cushion. “But I need you to meet me halfway. I need the truth — no more half-lies, no more pretending, no more silence. I can’t keep doing this alone.”

The room settles into a heavy quiet. The kind that feels real, like breathing again after being underwater too long.

He blinks, the weight of your words hitting him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he can’t speak—just stares, wide-eyed, like he’s trying to process everything at once.

“I… wow,” he finally says, voice a little shaky but earnest. “I didn’t realize—no, I knew, but hearing it from you—it’s different. It’s real.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous, like a kid caught doing something wrong but desperate to fix it. “I’ve been such an idiot. I thought… maybe if I just stepped back, it’d be easier. Easier for you, easier for me. But I see now how wrong I was.”

His eyes search yours, sincere and a little pleading. “I hate that I made you feel invisible. That photo—God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I was scared. Scared of messing everything up even more.”

He takes a deep breath, voice breaking just slightly. “I lied because I was scared. Not because I didn’t care. Because I care so much it hurts.”

His smile is small, shy even. “You’re right — I’ve been distant, and it’s been awful. I’m sorry for ignoring you, for pushing you away when all you wanted was me.”

He reaches out tentatively, like afraid you might pull away, but desperate to close the distance. “I want to do better. I want to fix this. No more silence, no more hiding. I’m here, fully. If you’ll have me.”

He takes a step back, jaw tight, eyes darting away like he wants to disappear. For a moment, it feels like he’s about to shut down, to walk away from this conversation, from you. His hands clench at his sides.

“I…” he starts, voice rough, then stops, like he can’t find the words.

You see the hesitation, the panic flicker in his eyes.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” he admits finally, voice low. “Not because I didn’t care — because I was scared. Scared that if I said the wrong thing, if I tried to explain, I’d just make it worse.”

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “That photo — it’s been haunting me. I know how it looks. I know what it made you think. And I wanted to run away from it, from you even.”

He swallows hard, voice cracking. “But the more I tried to get away, the more I realized I couldn’t. I can’t run from you. From us.”

His eyes finally meet yours, full of desperate honesty. “The truth is, that photo was a huge misunderstanding. Nothing happened with her. We were just talking. She’s a friend — that’s it. I didn’t want you to see it. I didn’t want you to think I was choosing someone else.”

He takes a shaky breath, stepping closer. “I lied because I was scared. Scared that if you knew the truth, you’d hate me or walk away. So I tried to protect myself by hiding, by pushing you away. But all I did was hurt you.”

His voice softens, trembling. “I love you. I always have. And I’m sorry for being so damn stupid. For letting my fear get in the way of us.”

He reaches out, voice barely a whisper. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. Please… give me a chance to make this right.”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours with a vulnerability that catches you off guard. “You mean everything to me. More than I ever thought I could care about anyone. More than I ever thought I’d let myself feel.”

His voice softens, almost breaking. “When I’m with you, it’s like everything else fades away — the noise, the pressure, the chaos. You’re the calm in all the storm. And the thought of losing that… losing you… it terrifies me.”

He swallows hard, struggling to keep his composure. “That’s why I messed up. That’s why I got scared and pulled away. Because the feelings I have for you—they’re bigger than anything I’ve ever faced. And instead of being honest, I ran.”

He takes a hesitant step closer, his hand reaching out like he’s afraid you might slip away. “But I’m done running. I want to be better—for you, for us. I want to fight for this. Because you’re worth it. You’re worth everything.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you. So, so much. And I want to prove that every day.”

You stare at him, heart pounding, words caught somewhere between disbelief and something like hope.

“You say all that,” you whisper, voice rough, “but it doesn’t erase the silence. The lies. The way you looked right through me like I was invisible.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know if I can just pretend none of that happened. I’m not sure I want to.”

He nods slowly, eyes searching yours like he’s willing to accept whatever comes next. “I get that. I know I don’t deserve easy forgiveness. But I’m not asking for that. Just a chance to show you I mean it.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, tears threatening to spill. “I want to believe you. God, I want to. But it’s going to take more than words.”

He reaches for your hand, gentle but firm. “I’ll give you everything you need. I swear.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms with a smirk. “Well, you’re going to have to grovel. Like, really grovel. Like, ‘get down on your knees and beg’ grovel.”

He grins, a little sheepish but fully committed. “Oh, baby, you want grovel? I’ll give you grovel. Whatever you want.”

You can’t help but laugh despite the tension. “Good. Because words are cheap, mister.”

He steps closer, eyes twinkling with mischief and sincerity. “Groveling starts now. And it’s going to be nonstop.”

The room feels lighter, the weight of the past momentarily lifted by this shared, quiet joke.

He grins wider, stepping closer like he’s gearing up for a full-on performance. “I’ll start with flowers, daily serenades, and unlimited bad jokes. How’s that sound?”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Hmm, only if the bad jokes are actually funny. Otherwise, you’re just wasting your breath.”

He winks. “Challenge accepted.”

You lean back, crossing your arms but secretly amused. “Fine, but if you want my forgiveness, you’re going to have to earn it. No shortcuts.”

He drops to one knee dramatically, mock-serious. “Then consider me your very dedicated, slightly ridiculous knight in shining armor.”

You can’t hold back a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you,” he says softly, eyes locking with yours.

He stays kneeling for a moment, grinning like a kid caught in the act of something perfectly ridiculous. “You know, I’ve been practicing my groveling. Might even have perfected the puppy eyes.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “Puppy eyes? Please. I’ve seen better from a golden retriever.”

He laughs, eyes shining. “Ouch. I’ll take that as a challenge. Prepare for maximum puppy.”

You shake your head, pretending to be stern but your heart softening anyway. “Alright, Mr. Puppy, let’s see what you’ve got. But fair warning — I’m a tough critic.”

He stands up slowly, offering you his hand. “Deal. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let me make it up to you — one awful joke at a time.”

You take his hand, squeezing it with a smirk. “You’re going to have to be better than that if you want this peace treaty.”

He pulls you in just a little, voice low but serious. “I don’t want a peace treaty. I want a fresh start. With you.”

Your breath catches. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you’re ready to risk it.”

You look up, meeting his hopeful gaze. The walls you’d built feel just a little less solid. “I’m scared.”

He nods, voice soft. “Me too. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his hand tighter, the warmth between you sparking something deeper. The words hanging in the air — promises, apologies, fears — begin to dissolve as your eyes lock. The tension that’s been pulling at both of you shifts, becoming something electric, undeniable.

Lando’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, silently asking for permission. You barely breathe, heart pounding, but you don’t pull away.

Slowly, he leans in, fingertips brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is tentative at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile moment. You close the gap, your lips meeting in a kiss that’s soft but charged with all the longing you’ve both been holding back.

His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. The rest of the world — the doubts, the past hurts, the unspoken fears — fades away, replaced by the raw need between you.

Your breath mingles, warm and shaky. He whispers against your lips, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You respond with a soft laugh, voice husky, “Me too.”

Hands explore with more confidence now, tracing the curve of your back, sliding beneath your shirt, skin to skin. The vulnerability in your touch says everything words can’t.

As your lips part, his forehead rests gently against yours, breath warm and steady.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and full of awe. “Every little thing about you — the way you laugh, the way you fight, how you always manage to be so fierce and so soft all at once.”

His fingers trace slow circles on your back, grounding you in the here and now. “I know I’ve been an idiot. I know I’ve hurt you. But being here with you now… it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You feel his eyes drinking you in, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And in that look, there’s no doubt, no pretense.

“You’re my home,” he breathes. “And I’m never letting go again.”

Your heart swells, overwhelmed by the raw honesty wrapped in every word.

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “Thank you for giving me this chance. For trusting me, even when I made it hard.”

You rest your forehead against his, the world outside fading away. “Just don’t screw it up.”

He laughs softly. “Never. I’m yours.”

Your breaths mingle, shallow and quick, as the space between you disappears entirely. His hands slide lower, tracing the curve of your waist with reverence, pulling you flush against him.

You feel the warmth of his body, the steady heartbeat beneath his chest, and it grounds you in a way nothing else has.

His lips find your collarbone, soft and tentative, as if worshipping every inch of you. You arch into him, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The weight of weeks—of distance, silence, and fear—melts away beneath his touch. Here, in this moment, there is only the two of you.

His hands roam slowly, exploring, learning, memorizing the contours of your body like sacred geography. You shiver when his fingers brush against sensitive skin, the smallest gasp slipping from your lips.

He lifts your chin, capturing your mouth in a kiss that deepens with every passing second—urgent, yet tender. Your hands slide beneath his shirt, skin against skin, a warmth spreading between you.

There’s no rush, only a patient unfolding, a careful unraveling of everything held tight for too long.

He murmurs your name like a prayer, lips trailing kisses down your neck, across your collarbone.

Your pulse quickens, desire pooling low and hot, a promise of everything that’s been waiting beneath the surface.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, breathless. “You’re mine,” he says softly. “And I’m yours.”

You nod, heart pounding, words lost to the heat of the moment.

With a gentle insistence, he guides you down on the couch—the place where so many memories live—and there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you finally let go.

They settle onto the couch, the worn fabric familiar beneath you both, as if the couch itself holds every secret conversation, every laugh, every tear that’s ever passed between you. The world outside fades to a distant hum, and all that matters is the warmth pressed between you.

Lando’s hands move slowly along your back, tracing patterns that soothe the ache of too many silent nights. You let your head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the steady rhythm of him, grounding you.

He lifts your chin gently, searching your eyes for permission, for any sign that you’re ready to cross the line from hesitant to certain. You give a small nod, barely audible, and his lips find yours again—soft, patient, full of promise.

Time stretches. Your barriers dissolve. The kiss deepens, slow and reverent, as if he’s memorizing you all over again. His fingers thread through your hair, pulling you closer as if trying to make up for lost time.

You part, breathless, and he smiles—a little shy, a little awed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers.

You hold onto that promise, that fragile hope blooming quietly between you, knowing the road ahead won’t be easy, but for the first time in a long time, you believe it might be worth it.

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Morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting warm slants across the room. You stir slowly, still wrapped in the quiet comfort of sleep and the lingering warmth of Lando’s arms around you.

His breath is steady against your neck, a gentle rhythm that lulls you awake. You shift slightly, careful not to disturb him, but he tightens his hold just a little — as if anchoring you to this moment.

When you finally open your eyes, you find him already watching you, his expression soft and full of something that feels like relief and hope all at once.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and tender.

You blink, still heavy with sleep, and manage a small smile.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Better,” you reply, voice hoarse but honest.

You stay curled up against him, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek grounding you in a way you haven’t felt in weeks. His fingers lightly trace patterns on your back, slow and soothing, like he’s trying to erase all the tension and hurt that’s been building.

“I missed this,” Lando murmurs, voice soft and a little rough with emotion. “Just being close to you. No cameras, no pretending. Just… us.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, the warmth spreading from his touch deeper than you expected.

“I know I messed up,” he continues, voice steady despite the vulnerability behind it. “But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You press a small kiss to his collarbone, a silent thank you and maybe a promise all in one.

He smiles against your hair. “You’re my home. You always have been.”

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one chapter to go!! i'm actually getting kinda emotional for my babies omg 😭😭😭 they finally made up so! hope you liked this heavy heavy conversation

see you next lap, -N 🏁

Taglist: @suibianupyourass @sarx164 @leclercdream

if you’d like to be added, just let me know! ❤️

[understeeringirl]

Distance makes it worse

Summary: The silence between you grows heavier every day. After the fallout, the pretending cracks wider, and the space feels colder. Lando is still trying — maybe too hard — but the distance lingers like a shadow neither of you knows how to shake. Words left unsaid, fears left unspoken, and a fragile hope that maybe this mess can still be fixed. But it’s going to take more than apologies and coffee. Warnings: emotional repression, subtle heartbreak, guarded conversations, slow rebuilding, vulnerability, mild tension Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 3.4k Series: Wrong Side of the Camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

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You wake to the sound of your own breath.

Shallow. Steady. Real.

The fever's gone.

But the weight in your chest?

Still there.

You blink past the blur of dried sweat and sleep, feeling the ache in your limbs settle into something deeper. Your head pounds, your lips are cracked, and the world feels quiet in a way that’s almost cruel.

Then you hear it.

Breath. Shift. Movement.

You turn your head.

He’s still here.

Lando.

Curled on the floor by the dresser, hoodie bunched up beneath his neck, face slack with sleep. One leg pulled close, one arm stretched out like he’d reached for you and passed out halfway through.

You stare at him.

And all you can think is:

Of course.

Of course he stayed now. Now that you were too weak to scream at him. Now that you’d burned yourself into stillness. Now that there was no fight left to give.

But the thing is—you’re not soft this morning.

You’re not sick enough to forget anymore.

You remember everything.

The way he looked at you. The silence he left you in. The photo. The lie. The door you had to close just to breathe.

And suddenly, it’s like rage is the only thing keeping your spine straight.

You shift under the covers. The noise stirs him.

He lifts his head.

Eyes heavy. Voice cracked.

“You’re awake.”

You don’t answer.

He scrambles upright. Knees cracking, hoodie slipping. He looks like hell.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do you—do you need anything?”

You sit up slowly. Every muscle groans. Your throat scrapes.

You take the glass of water beside the bed.

He moves forward like he’s going to help.

You flinch.

“I’ve got it.”

He freezes.

And suddenly the room is too quiet again.

You sip the water. Set it down.

And when you finally look at him, it’s not soft. It’s not warm. It’s not kind.

“You stayed.”

He nods. “Of course I did.”

You laugh once. Hollow. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

He swallows. “I was scared.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too. Right around the time I passed out on my own floor.”

“I didn’t know you were that sick. I tried calling—”

“You tried after you broke me.”

His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

You push the blanket off and swing your legs to the floor.

“You know what the worst part is?” you say, standing slowly, every joint protesting. “I still wanted you to be there. Even after the photo. Even after the lie. Even after you looked me in the eye and told me you’d be better.”

He looks like he’s going to speak.

You don’t let him.

“But you weren’t. You didn’t even try. You let me believe you were different. You let me trust you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

The words land hard between you.

You see it in his face—the hit. The way it rattles through him like a blow.

“You don’t get to fuck up and still feel like the victim,” you say. “You don’t get to show up when it’s convenient for you, act like you care when you’ve made it so clear you don’t.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “I care so much, it’s ruining me.”

“Then why did you leave me alone?”

He blinks. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“You’re right,” you snap. “I didn’t. I still don’t.”

He steps back like you slapped him.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

You take a step toward the bathroom. You don’t bother hiding the way your legs shake.

Lando watches you, eyes wide, mouth trembling with words that never make it out.

“I’m going to shower,” you say. “When I come out, I want you gone.”

He exhales like he’s trying to keep from begging.

“Please,” he says. “Just talk to me. Just let me explain.”

“You had every chance,” you whisper. “You had so many chances.”

“I didn’t know how to handle it—how to handle us. It stopped feeling fake and I panicked, and I made the worst decisions because I thought if I pulled away, it would hurt less—”

“For who?” you hiss. “For me? Because it didn’t. It fucking destroyed me.”

He’s crying now.

You hate that it still gets to you.

You reach for the doorknob.

His voice cracks. “Please don’t walk away.”

You pause.

Then look at him one last time.

“You did it first.”

And then you close the door.

Lock it.

And turn the shower on full blast just so you don’t hear him on the other side.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t move when the door clicks shut.

Doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t think.

Just… stands there, staring at the grain of the wood like maybe if he waits long enough, it’ll forgive him.

The sound of the shower starts, and it’s like a punch to the ribs.

He presses his forehead to the door. It’s still warm where her hand was.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck—”

His voice cracks halfway through the third one, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop it from unraveling into something worse. Something pathetic.

He wants to knock. Wants to say something—I didn’t mean it, I was scared, please don’t hate me—but none of the words feel like enough. Not after what he’s done. Not after what she said.

And she was right.

God, she was so right.

He had walked away first. He’d disappeared, pulled back, shut her out. And all the while, she was still reaching for him.

And he’d missed it.

Worse—he’d let her feel alone.

He slides down the door slowly. Hears the water running. Imagines her under it—jaw clenched, skin burning, shoulders shaking.

He wonders if she’s crying too.

He buries his face in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I ruined it. I’m sorry I ruined you.”

His phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. He doesn’t check it. Doesn’t need to.

Whatever’s out there—press, rumors, another photo—none of it matters.

The only thing that does is behind this fucking door.

And she wants him gone.

He sits there anyway.

Just in case.

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You stay in the shower longer than you need to.

Hot water beating down on your shoulders. Skin raw. Eyes closed.

You let it scald. Let it sting.

Because at least that pain makes sense.

When you finally step out, the mirror’s fogged, the towel scratchy, your limbs weak—but you still move with purpose. You dry off slowly. Dress in the softest clothes you can find—sweatpants, hoodie, thick socks.

No makeup. No armor.

Just skin and silence.

You open the bathroom door and brace yourself for an empty room.

He’s still there.

Sitting against the dresser, knees pulled up, face buried in his arms like sleep never really came for him. He looks up the moment he hears you—eyes red, hair mussed, hoodie wrinkled like it’s the same one from yesterday.

You freeze.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches like a dare.

He blinks. Stands slowly. “I—I didn’t leave.”

“I can see that.”

“I thought maybe you’d need—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You lean against the doorframe. Still tired. Still pissed.

“You said you would leave.”

“I know.”

You stare at him.

“You don’t get a gold star for sitting on the floor all night.”

“I know,” he says again. Softer. “But I didn’t know where else to be.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say it—flat, final:

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He looks like he’s trying to stay upright on breaking glass. “I didn’t want to go.”

You sigh. The ache in your chest returns—not the kind from fever, but the kind he put there weeks ago.

He stands, eyes desperate but guarded. His voice is raw when he speaks, like he’s been holding it in for days.

“I’m not leaving. Not yet. Not until you say it’s okay.”

You stiffen, wrapping your arms around yourself, every muscle aching from the fever and heartbreak.

“Lando, I can’t do this right now. I have a shoot in two hours. I need space. You’re suffocating me.”

He steps closer, voice breaking. “I know I’ve been a mess. I’ve been an idiot. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

You shake your head, frustrated tears threatening. “You don’t get to show up when it suits you and expect me to just… forgive. I’m exhausted. I’m sick. I’m trying to keep myself together, and you’re just here, making it harder.”

He reaches out, hesitant. “Please. Just one chance. One conversation. I’ll fix this. I swear.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, biting down your own need to beg him back.

“I can’t, Lando. I have to work. I have to pretend everything’s fine. And I can’t do that if you’re here, breathing down my neck, waiting for me to fall apart again.”

His jaw tightens. “Then let me help you. Don’t push me away.”

You shake your head again, tired and angry. “No. I need you to leave. For now.”

His shoulders slump, but he still doesn’t move.

“Please,” he whispers. “I’m begging you.”

He stays rooted, eyes burning with that stubborn mix of regret and hope. His voice cracks when he finally speaks, barely louder than a whisper but full of everything he’s been holding back.

“I’m not leaving.”

You cross your arms, tired in a way that goes beyond your sickness—like your whole body is done with the fight.

“Fine,” you say, voice flat, dry, drained. “Do whatever you want then.”

He blinks, like the words haven’t quite registered. Then he takes a slow step forward.

“I just want to make it right. I want to be here for you.”

You don’t look at him.

“You want to be here? Great. Then maybe start by leaving me alone for like, five minutes.”

He steps closer, eyes wide and pleading. “I can’t do that.”

You let out a humorless laugh, voice sharp with exhaustion. “Yeah, well, neither can I. But I have a Vogue shoot in two hours, so I don’t exactly have the luxury of being broken all day.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry for everything. For not being there. For messing this up. For making you feel like you were alone.”

You finally glance at him, the ghost of softness buried under a mountain of frustration.

“I know you’re sorry. I know you’re scared. But right now, I just need… I don’t even know. Space? Time? Silence?”

He nods slowly, like he’s trying to memorize your words.

“So.. can I just sit here and wait?"

You shrug, voice clipped.

“You do whatever you want. I’ll do what I have to.”

He steps back, chest tight, but doesn’t leave.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

You roll your eyes, a dry smirk breaking through.

“Great. Then get comfortable. This is gonna be a long day.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the sound rough but genuine.

“Yeah. A long day.”

You grab your bag, heading for the door.

He follows, just a step behind, like a shadow you can’t shake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vogue studio buzzes with energy, but you feel miles away. Stylists swarm around, tugging, pinning, spraying—like they’re trying to fix more than just your hair and clothes.

Lando’s there, sitting on a stool in the corner, eyes flickering to you every few seconds, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

The photographer calls out, "Alright, let’s get this done!"

You step into position, plaster on a smile that’s all business, not emotion.

Flash.

Click.

Pose.

You hear the camera shutter but none of it feels real.

Between takes, Lando sidles up, voice low. “You okay?”

You arch an eyebrow, voice flat as ice. “Peachy. Just thrilled to be in front of a camera while my personal life is a dumpster fire.”

He winces but tries again, softer. “I’m here. I want to fix this.”

You turn away, voice sharp. “Great. Could’ve fooled me.”

He reaches out, but you step back, eyes rolling.

“Don’t,” you say. “Not now. Not like this.”

He bites his lip, nodding, defeated.

The stylist calls you back.

“Ready for the next one.”

You flick a glance at Lando—half apology, half warning.

Then you plaster that perfect, empty smile back on and face the camera.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last flash clicks and you’re done. Done with the endless angles, the fake smiles, the pressure to be perfect when you don’t even feel like you’re fully here. You slip off your heels as soon as you can, massaging your aching feet and practically dragging yourself toward the exit.

Your fingers fumble with your phone as you step outside, desperately trying to get an Uber before your patience completely snaps. You’re halfway through the app when you hear it — that familiar voice.

“Hey.”

You spin around. Of course it’s Lando, standing there like a lost puppy who’s just realized the one thing he desperately wants is about to walk away.

“Are you serious?” you snap, voice sharp and raw. “Why are you still here? I told you I needed space. Needed. Not maybe, not later, needed. And here you are, following me out like I’m some stray you can’t stop chasing.”

He shrugs, looking sheepish and utterly clueless. “I just… I want to be around.”

You let out a humorless laugh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Around? Lando, I’m sick, exhausted. This is the last thing I need.”

He takes a step closer, eyes hopeful. “I’m sorry. I messed up. But I’m here now.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yeah. And that fixes everything, huh? You know what? I’m too tired to argue, so go ahead—tag along. But don’t slow me down.”

He grins like he’s just won the lottery. You shake your head, resisting the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this whole situation is.

“This is going to be a very long night.”

The Uber pulls up, and you slide in without looking back. Lando’s right behind you, practically shadowing your every move.

The car hums through the city streets, the dull glow of streetlights casting long shadows on your face. Lando reaches over, fingers lightly brushing your hand.

You pull your hand away like it’s on fire.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I know I’ve hurt you. I just want to fix this.”

You stare out the window, voice cool, almost tired. “Fixing things doesn’t happen with words anymore, Lando. It’s about actions. Real ones.”

He swallows hard. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”

You finally glance at him, eyes tired but sharp. “Good. Because right now, I’m running on fumes, and so is this.”

Silence settles heavy between you.

The car slows at your building.

You open the door, stepping out and pausing.

Lando’s eyes flick to yours, searching.

You don’t say anything as you head inside.

You close the door behind you, the weight of the day heavy on your shoulders. Lando lingers too close, eyes hopeful, voice tentative.

“Can we talk?”

You spin around, jaw tight. “No. Not tonight.”

He steps forward. “Please. Just a few minutes.”

You take a deep breath, all the frustration bubbling up. “I said no. Just—leave. For tonight.”

His face falls, eyes searching yours.

You slam the door hard enough to make him jump.

“Go. Just go. I need space. I’m exhausted. And I can’t do this right now.”

He stands there for a long beat, pain flickering across his face.

Then, finally, he steps back.

“Okay. For tonight.”

You don’t look back as he walks away.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows feels like the first breath you’ve taken all day.

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You wake to the faint hum of voices and the smell of something warm—coffee, maybe? Your head still aches, but the worst of the cold is gone.

Blinking against the morning light, you try to sit up, only to realize your limbs feel heavier than usual.

Lando is already there, sitting beside the bed with a half-empty mug in his hands, eyes watching you with a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly, voice soft like he’s afraid to break the fragile calm.

You glare at him, trying to summon some fire, but your voice comes out dry and low.

“What are you still doing here?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t about to let you face this alone.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your tone sharp. “I’m better. Don’t need a babysitter.”

He grins, undeterred. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You stare at him, stubborn and tired.

“Fine,” you mutter, voice rough. “But don’t expect me to be grateful.”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and steady.

You shift under the covers, pulling the blanket tighter around you like armor. Your voice is sharp, even if your body feels fragile.

“Look, Lando, I don’t need you hovering.”

He holds up a small bouquet of wildflowers, colors bright against the dull light of your room.

“I’m not hovering,” he says softly. “I’m here. And I brought these.”

You snort, dry. “Flowers? Seriously?”

He grins, undeterred.

“Yeah. And I got you that herbal tea you like, plus some soup from that place you love.”

He places the tray carefully on the bedside table — a steaming bowl, the tea, and a small stack of your favorite books.

You stare, part amused, part exasperated.

“You’re spoiling me,” you say, voice tired.

“Only because you deserve it,” he replies, eyes sincere.

You look away, biting your lip.

“I don’t want to admit it, but… thanks,” you mutter, voice almost too quiet to hear.

He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

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It’s been a week of the same tired routine. You wake up, groggy and stiff, the ache in your muscles a dull reminder that you’re not quite yourself yet.

You shuffle to the kitchen, expecting to find it empty, just like every morning before this.

But there he is.

Lando.

Leaning against the counter, dressed in one of your old hoodies that somehow fits him better than it should. He’s humming something off-key—annoyingly cheerful.

On the counter sits a mug—your mug—with steam curling lazily from the top.

Next to it, a sticky note, written in his hurried scrawl:

“For the world’s toughest girl. Don’t make me drink it.”

You scowl, crossing your arms, biting back a sarcastic remark.

“Are you seriously still doing this?” you ask, voice dry.

He looks up, grinning like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“What? You like it.”

You roll your eyes but let yourself grab the mug anyway, the warmth seeping into your cold hands.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” you say, voice low, skeptical. “You can’t just keep playing Mr. Sunshine and expect me to forget everything.”

He shrugs, eyes honest.

“Yeah, I’m not trying to erase anything. I just want to be here. If you let me.”

You sip the coffee, bitterness matching your mood.

“The silence was the worst part,” you admit, voice almost breaking. “You pulling away like I’m wasn't even here. Like I was just… some chore.”

He steps closer, cautious.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I was scared. And that scared me into shutting down.”

You look away, biting your lip.

“Scared of what?”

“Of how real this all feels,” he admits, voice low. “Of losing you, even before I had you.”

You stare at him, heart thudding.

“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.

He nods, taking a small step forward.

“I’m trying to.”

You set the mug down, a shaky breath escaping.

“This is going to take time.”

He smiles, relief flooding his face.

“I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

You meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me regret that.”

He grins.

“Never.”

For the first time in a long while, the morning doesn’t feel so heavy.

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hi!! i'm so so sorry for taking so long to update this, but i just feel like i made such a mess and i didn't knew how to move forward but i did my best and i think i figured it out. thank you for sticking up with me and let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for this and future stuff!!

see you next lap, -N 🏁

taglist: @suibianupyourass

[understeeringirl]

The fallout

Summary: After the gala, everything is too sharp, too quiet. Lando knocks on your door like an apology, but your phone buzzes before he can speak—and the photo says it all. You ask if it’s real. He doesn’t deny it. And something inside you shatters. warnings: emotional whiplash, heartbreak, social media pressure, betrayal (photo with another girl), fever/illness, fainting, mention of changing clothes (non-sexual), emotional vulnerability, caretaking, angst that lingers like smoke word count: 4.6k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

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You wake up early.

Your skin smells like leftover makeup remover and lavender detergent. Your hair’s in a bun you don’t remember tying. The heels from last night sit by the door, abandoned like they knew something you didn’t.

You should feel better after a night of sleep.

You don’t.

The ache isn’t sharp. It’s quiet. Steady. A weight in your chest that hasn't moved since you told him goodnight without looking back.

You shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks and an old hoodie, scrolling through your phone half-dazed. No new texts. No voice notes.

Just his last words in the car, still stuck in your head:

“I’m going to fix this. I’ll be better. I swear.”

You’d let yourself believe it.

You almost still do.

Until the knock comes.

You’re not expecting anyone. Not this early. Not like this.

You crack the door open—and there he is.

Lando.

Hood up, dark circles under his eyes, hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.

He looks at you like he’s not sure if he should be here.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he says. “Can we talk?”

You blink at him. “Now?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Your phone buzzes.

You glance down, thumb swiping instinctively.

And your stomach drops.

Lando Norris spotted with mystery girl hours after Silver & Black Gala.

There it is: the blurry photo. His hoodie. Her laugh. Their shadows crawling into the backseat of a car that isn’t yours.

You feel yourself freeze.

You laugh.

Because what else is there to do?

“Wow,” you say, holding the phone up between you like a prop. “They really don’t rest, do they?”

Lando’s brow furrows. “What?”

You tilt the screen toward him. “You’ve got a mystery brunette now, apparently. Tell me—should I be flattered or replaced?”

He doesn’t say anything.

His face shifts—just enough. Not horror. Not even surprise. Just… recognition. And that’s enough.

You know.

The photo was real.

You see it in the way he swallows. How he doesn’t ask what photo?, doesn’t pretend. He just looks at it.

Then looks at you.

And says nothing.

“So it’s true,” you say, voice quiet.

“No,” he blurts. “Not like that. It wasn’t—she was just—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “Don’t say it wasn’t anything if you were with her after everything you said to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your throat is tight now. “You just left out the part where you couldn’t wait a full day before falling back into old habits.”

“I wasn’t with her like that. I just needed—I was overwhelmed, and it wasn’t a plan—”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—I didn’t know it was out yet.”

That’s when it hits.

“You weren’t coming to tell me,” you whisper. “You were coming to get ahead of it.”

“I wasn’t—I swear, that’s not why I came here.”

You stare at him.

He keeps talking.

“I was gonna explain, I just—I messed up, I know I did, but it wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You cross your arms. “But you didn’t want to be honest either.”

His expression shifts again—smaller this time. Something close to shame.

“I meant what I said in the car,” he says. “I just—fucked it all up the second I walked away.”

You nod slowly.

Then you step back.

“I think you should go.”

Lando stills. “What?”

“Please,” you add, voice hollow. “I can’t do this right now.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something—fix it, soften it, rewrite it. But you’re already closing the door.

He doesn’t stop you.

You wait until the latch clicks.

Then you sit on the floor, back to the door, and let it break.

He doesn’t move.

Not until he hears it.

The sob breaks from your chest—sharp, involuntary, too real to be swallowed. It cuts through the silence like it was meant to pierce him.

And it does.

Lando flinches.

Then his hand goes to the doorframe. Fingertips pressed there like touch might anchor him to something.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He knocks once—soft, like an apology. “Please,” he says, barely audible. “Just open the door. Let me explain. I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t think—I just—”

Another sound from you. Quieter this time, but it wrecks him worse.

He presses his forehead to the wood.

“I’m still here,” he murmurs, as if that could fix it.

But the silence that answers is colder than anything you’ve ever said.

And so he stays.

Outside your door. Breathing too hard. Repeating your name under his breath like a prayer he doesn’t deserve.

You don’t move for a long time.

Not even when the knocking stops. Not when his voice fades into a whisper. Not when the silence on the other side of the door stretches long enough to make your chest ache.

You stay curled on the floor, breath shallow, heart cracked open and spilling into the quiet.

Eventually, you stand.

Your legs are unsteady. Your arms feel wrong at your sides. But you walk back into the kitchen anyway, like pretending everything is normal will make it so.

You don’t check the door.

You don’t want to know if he’s still out there.

Because if he is, you might open it. And if he’s not, you might break all over again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You make coffee with shaking hands. Half the water spills onto the counter. You leave it. Let it pool.

Your phone vibrates once. Then again.

You already know.

“Trouble in paradise?” “Norris seen with another girl after gala appearance with girlfriend.”

Your name is trending again.

Not for your work. Not for your campaign. Not for anything you did.

You’re just the girl who got left behind.

You toss the phone onto the couch and walk away from it.

You wrap yourself in a hoodie. Then a blanket. Then a silence you don’t know how to climb out of.

You sit on the edge of your bed and let the weight of it settle.

Somewhere behind you—on the other side of a very thin door—he might still be standing there.

But you don’t look.

You don’t ask.

You don’t let yourself hope.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t sleep.

Maybe an hour, curled on the couch in yesterday’s hoodie, still tasting last night’s silence. But morning still comes. Loud and merciless.

And Vogue still expects you on set.

You stare at the email again. Call time: 9:00. Stylist already en route. Location: minimalist rooftop studio in Notting Hill.

A dream job. A bucket list name. The kind of shoot you once fantasized about when you were fifteen and invisible.

You consider canceling.

You even type the message out.

i can’t come. sorry.

Then you delete it.

Because if you stay here, in this apartment, in this ache—if you give in now—you won’t come back from it.

So you move.

You shower. Dress. Pull your hair into a low clip. Apply concealer with practiced detachment. Not to look beautiful—just functional. Just untouched.

You step out of your apartment just past 8:00 a.m.

The air bites at your collarbone. The sky is bleached gray. The city hasn’t woken up yet.

But he’s still there.

Same car. Same spot. Same hoodie.

He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

His head jerks up the second he sees you. Like he’d been dozing. Or praying.

Your footsteps falter for half a second.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t even look at him properly.

You walk past the car like it’s invisible. Like he is. Like he didn’t beg on the other side of your door just hours ago.

You don’t know if he opens the window. You don’t care.

Because you slide into your stylist’s car, say “drive” before she can ask, and don’t look back once.

Not even as the street disappears behind you.

You used to look at him like he hung the stars. Like even when he was messing up, he was still yours.

Now you look at him like he’s a stranger on the street.

And fuck—maybe he is.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You barely remember arriving.

The stylist talks the whole drive—about color palettes and silhouettes and how René (the photographer) is “a genius, but high-maintenance.” You nod, say “mhmm” at the right times. Pretend you’re listening.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

Still parked on that street.

Still sitting in the car you didn’t look at.

Still knocking on the door you didn’t open.

By the time you reach the set, you’ve layered enough professionalism over the pain to pass as functional. You let the makeup artist do her thing. Foundation, highlighter, something dewy and radiant. The irony stings.

Your first look is an oversized blazer and nothing else. Slicked-back hair. Red lip. Bare legs and bare arms and not a single inch of armor.

René claps his hands. “Perfect. She’s giving heartbreak and ambition.’”

You hold your pose.

You don’t react.

Because if you laugh, you’ll cry.

And if you cry, the mascara will run.

And if the mascara runs, it’ll be in every single frame.

You stretch your neck. Shift your weight. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The camera clicks. And clicks. And clicks.

You disappear into the rhythm.

It’s almost peaceful—being someone else for a while. Someone quiet and powerful and untouchable. Someone with nothing to lose.

“Gorgeous,” René says. “Again. Let’s get the heel tilt. Think: vengeance but couture.”

You do.

You think about the fact that he’s still out there.

You think about the passenger seat. The other girl. The trending tag under your name.

You think about the voice note he never answered.

The kiss he didn’t give you.

The silence he left you in.

Click.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re not sure how long you shoot for—an hour, maybe two—before they call for a break.

You step off set. Someone hands you a robe. You take it.

You sit in the corner of the studio, knees pulled to your chest, the robe draped over your silver mini dress. Your phone’s in your lap, buzzing again.

You finally check it.

And you freeze.

Because the first picture from the shoot is already on Instagram. Vogue posted a behind-the-scenes shot. You in the chair. High ponytail. Jaw sharp.

And the comments are flooding in.

“She looks unreal.” “He fumbled so hard omg.” “That’s how you respond to heartbreak—booked and busy.” “Miss girl said: your loss.”

You blink.

Your eyes sting, but you don’t cry.

Not this time.

You just press your lips together, set your phone down, and get back up.

Because the camera's ready again.

And so are you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the shoot blurs.

Outfit changes. Highlighter touch-ups. A half-lunch you don’t touch.

René calls you a revelation. The creative director calls you perfect for the September issue. Your stylist whispers they’re obsessed with you like it’s a secret.

You smile. You nod.

But it doesn’t feel like victory.

Not when you step into the car again and realize you’ve gone almost eight hours without thinking about yourself. Not you as a person. Just you as a product. A face. A muse.

The silence is deafening now.

Your phone buzzes in your hand as your driver takes a turn back toward the flat.

JAMES 🥂 Just saw your Vogue post. you look like you could end lives.

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh.

Then another buzz.

Also, you okay? No pressure to answer. Just thinking about you.

You blink hard.

Not because of the message. But because it feels like the first one all day that saw you and not the headlines.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

You type, delete, retype.

you: i’m holding it together. just barely.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Then:

That counts. Proud of you.

You close your eyes. Let the words sit in your chest for a second.

It’s not the same as him—not even close.

But it’s something.

And right now, something is all you have.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun is setting by the time you get back.

The city glows in that soft, gold-edged way it does when the world feels too quiet. You thank the driver. Step out in your oversized blazer and heels that have long since stopped hurting.

And then you see it.

His car.

Still there.

Same spot.

You stop on the sidewalk. For just a second.

His head is tipped forward, resting on the steering wheel. Like he passed out or gave up or both.

Your chest tightens. Everything inside you goes tense and messy and sharp.

You want to scream. Or knock on the window. Or pretend none of this is happening.

Instead, you walk past him. Again.

But this time, your hands are shaking.

You make it up the stairs. Unlock the door. Step inside.

Then lean back against it. Close your eyes.

You should be used to this by now—the emotional whiplash, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of pretending you’re fine. But something about today makes it worse.

It's late. Your limbs are heavy. Your thoughts are slow.

You drop your keys. Bend to pick them up. Sway a little when you stand.

Something’s wrong.

The apartment is cold. You shiver.

You make it to the bathroom. Brush off the nausea. Strip down, change into one of Lando’s shirts, the softest one, the one you stole months ago and never gave back.

You crawl onto the couch.

The world tilts sideways.

You close your eyes.

You don't remember falling asleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up to sunlight stabbing through the blinds.

Your skin feels too hot. Your breath catches in your throat like you swallowed smoke in your sleep. You blink slowly, lashes sticking together, your face damp with sweat. Everything aches.

Your stomach turns when you shift.

You’re still on the couch. Wrapped in that throw blanket that never feels warm enough. Your dress is gone—thank god—and replaced by an old tee. You don’t remember changing. Maybe you didn’t.

Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat is loud. There’s a chill in your fingers even though the rest of you feels like you’re burning.

You sit up too fast.

Bad idea.

The room swims. You press a hand to your forehead, to your chest, trying to steady your breathing.

There’s a distant thought in the back of your head—you need water. medicine. help. But it’s buried under the fuzz of fever and pride.

You swing your legs off the couch and try to stand.

The floor tilts. Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the edge of the coffee table and sink to the ground with a sharp gasp. Your hand knocks your phone off the cushion. It hits the floor face-down.

You drag it toward you. The screen lights up.

10:48 AM

One missed call—from your manager.

Three unread texts. Not from Lando.

You blink slowly. Cold sweat drips down your back.

You try to stand again.

This time, your legs give out completely. Your shoulder hits the floor first, then your hip. You groan, curling into yourself on instinct.

You lay there for a while. Minutes, maybe more. The carpet is scratchy. The sunlight is too bright. Your heart won’t calm down.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Steady. Familiar.

Him.

You try to yell go away, but all that comes out is a dry, broken wheeze. You try to crawl toward the hallway, but your limbs feel like wet sandbags, impossible to move.

The knock comes again.

You shut your eyes. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll leave. Maybe if you don’t move, you’ll float out of your body and escape this entire nightmare of a week.

But you feel his presence hit the room like a storm.

Your body is soaked in sweat. Everything aches. Your head is pounding so loudly it drowns out the soft knocking at the door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You try to lift your head. It takes everything. A muscle at a time.

You manage to roll onto your side. Your arm twitches out toward the coffee table, reaching for your phone—or maybe for air—but your fingers don’t quite close.

The knocking gets louder.

You try to speak. Nothing comes.

And then—

A key turns in the lock.

You hear the door creak open. Footsteps.

Then:

“No—no, no, no—fuck—”

It’s Lando.

And he’s running.

You can’t lift your head anymore. Your eyelids are too heavy. But you feel hands on your back, your shoulder, your face.

“Hey,” he says, frantic. “Hey—can you hear me?”

You try to answer. Nothing.

“Shit. Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You’re lifted into his arms, and it’s like your whole body sighs. Like your bones have given up.

You don’t even feel the tears until they’re soaking your skin.

Not yours.

His.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up slow, your head pounding like it’s been filled with smoke. Your throat aches. Your skin is on fire.

The light in the room is soft—dimmed. Not morning anymore, but not quite night either. Your skin sticks to the sheets, the air smells faintly like lemon and something antiseptic, and your mouth is painfully dry.

You try to sit up.

Big mistake.

Pain blooms in your chest and your stomach clenches. A soft groan escapes you before you can stop it.

There’s movement to your left.

Then his voice. Quiet. Raspy. Right there.

“Hey. Hey, no—don’t move. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You blink.

He’s beside you in a second, hand hovering just above your arm like he’s scared to touch you without permission, eyes bloodshot from no sleep and maybe crying. A damp cloth in his hand.

It takes a moment before you realize whose hoodie you’re wearing.

Yours must’ve been soaked. You remember flashes—your body on fire, your limbs too heavy, the sound of your own breathing going shallow.

And then him.

You remember arms. Hands. Fear.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then the fury hits—thick and immediate.

You try to push yourself up. Fail.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Your voice comes out broken, cracked and low, but it’s the most force you can muster.

He leans forward, trying to help, but you bat his hand away—weakly.

“I’m serious,” you say, every syllable dry and angry. “Why are you here?”

"You were passed out. I tried calling and you didn’t answer, and then I—"

“So you just used your key?” You scoff, breath catching in your throat. “That’s rich. You don’t text back, you disappear for days, and now suddenly you care enough to break in?”

“I didn’t break in,” he says. His voice is too soft. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. I heard something—then I found you on the floor.”

You laugh, bitter. “Hero complex looks good on you.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

You look at him hard, even through the haze in your vision. “Don’t what? Call you out?”

“No,” he says. “Don’t act like I don’t care.”

“You’ve spent weeks proving otherwise.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s trying to breathe through it.

“You think I wanted any of this?” he says. “You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did.” Your voice breaks on it. “You hurt me anyway.”

He looks down. At his hands. At the cloth he’d been using to cool your fevered skin. His grip tightens like he wants to squeeze the guilt out of it.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But when I saw you—on the floor like that—none of that mattered. I just wanted you to be okay.”

You press your eyes shut. You hate how he says it. Like it’s tender. Like it means something.

Like it changes anything.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “You don’t get to check out, hurt me, lie by omission, and then show up and pretend like you didn’t shatter everything in the process.”

“I know,” he says. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

You open your eyes again. “You should be.”

A long silence.

You’re trembling under the blanket now, not just from fever.

“Did you—” you pause, swallowing the humiliation. “Did you change me?”

He nods, hesitating. “Just your shirt . You were drenched in sweat. I didn’t look. I swear I didn’t. I just—”

“I know.” You shake your head faintly. “I know you didn’t. That’s not—”

You sigh. It’s too much.

Your hands find the blanket, gripping it tight.

“I hate that it’s still you,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“I hate that no matter how bad you fuck it up, no matter how much this hurts, it’s still you.”

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

Then he reaches for your hand.

You don’t pull away.

But you don’t grip back either.

And that feels more honest than anything either of you have said in weeks.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fever comes in waves after that.

One minute, you’re curled into the pillows, too weak to lift your arms. The next, you’re half-sitting up, cursing under your breath because the room won’t stop spinning.

He stays.

Through all of it.

You try to argue again—tell him to leave, that you don’t want him here—but your body won’t let you finish the sentence. You think at one point you actually pass out mid-insult.

He catches you. Every time.

Cool cloths. Sips of water. The soft sound of him whispering “It’s okay, I’ve got you” when your hands won’t stop shaking.

It should comfort you.

It doesn’t.

Because all you can think about—through the nausea, the sweat, the fog—is that he only came back after the damage was done.

After the photos.

After the trending hashtags.

After you curled up on the floor and broke into pieces he never even looked at.

You drift in and out, time slipping sideways. He stays on the edge of the bed, watching you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again. You want to tell him he already made you disappear once.

Instead, you sleep.

When you wake next, it’s dark. The fever’s broken, but your throat is on fire and your whole body aches like you’ve been hit by something bigger than the flu.

Lando is still there.

On the floor this time. Slumped against the dresser, hoodie pulled up, arms crossed over his chest.

You stare at him. He’s sleeping, barely. Twitchy and restless, mouth pressed into a tight line like he’s fighting demons even now.

You almost call his name.

You don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, close your eyes again, and wish you were someone else. Somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn't find you.

You dream of cameras.

Of flashes and shouting and empty passenger seats.

Of his voice saying your name like it still belongs to him.

You wake up choking on it.

And still—he’s there.

Just like always.

Just like never.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[understeeringirl]

The almost

Summary: The night is too sharp, too bright, too full of cameras—and you’ve never looked better. Lando can’t take his eyes off you, but he also can’t seem to say a single honest thing. The pretending is swallowing you both whole. You almost kiss. It doesn’t happen. But the wanting is undeniable now—and for the first time, so is the anger. You confront him, finally, beneath the glow of city lights and champagne haze. He doesn’t tell you how he feels. But he says enough to make you pause. Almost enough. Warnings: mutual pining (or kinda one-sided), silence as a love language (lol), lando being stupid, red carpet tension, jealousy, one (1) almost kiss, girl dinner = champagne and disappointment. Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 2.8k Series: Wrong Side of the Camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You think about deleting the voice note a hundred times.

It’s still there on your screen from two nights ago. "Miss you."

He didn’t answer. Not that night, not the next morning. Just the brutal silence of a message played but never acknowledged.

You didn’t write again. You couldn’t. He left you on read in the worst way possible.

You hovered over his name in your messages, thumb twitching toward the keyboard, then back again. Wrote out a reply. Deleted it. Typed something sarcastic. Deleted that too. Stared at the little "Played" notification like it owed you an explanation.

You thought about texting your best friend, maybe just to vent, to say: It’s not even what he said. It’s what he didn’t. It’s the silence. It’s always the silence.

But even that felt too raw. Too close to something you couldn’t name.

So you closed the app. And told yourself it didn’t matter.

This morning, your phone buzzed.

"sorry i’ve been weird. things have been a lot. hope you’re okay."

No voice memo. No call. Just three sentences, lowercase. Cowardly.

You stared at it for a long time. Didn’t know what to say.

So you didn’t answer either.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Silver & Black Gala invite comes through your manager, but you know it’s not just yours.

It’s a formality. Everyone knows the real pull is the photo op. Lando and you— couple of the year. Strategic arm candy. Headlines wrapped in sequin and black tie.

He doesn’t text you about it.

You cave first.

"you going to that silver & black thing?"

Six hours later:

"yeah. guess we should coordinate"

That’s it.

You want to scream. Instead, you forward the invite to your stylist.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fitting is chaos, in the glamorous kind of way.

You arrive at the studio late in the afternoon, and the team is already buzzing. Racks of gowns spill through the hallway, hangers clashing as assistants hunt for backups, alternates, miracle options. Someone hands you a green juice. Someone else kisses both cheeks.

"We’re doing powerful, not princess," your stylist says, tugging a silver dress from its hanger. "She needs to look like she invented the red carpet."

"I want to look untouchable," you say simply.

That makes her grin. "Oh, you will."

The gown fits like it was sewn onto your soul. Liquid silver, backless, the kind of dress that hushes a room. There are layers to it—sheer panels, sequins stitched like constellations, the suggestion of fragility wrapped around the armor of someone who knows exactly what she's worth.

When you step in front of the mirror, the room falls quiet.

"Jesus Christ," someone murmurs.

One of the assistants drops a pin.

Your stylist walks a slow circle around you. “He’s going to lose his fucking mind.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "He won't even notice."

The team fusses with the hem while you stand perfectly still, trying to ignore the knot in your chest. Your makeup artist applies shimmer across your collarbone, dusts light along your cheekbones. The air smells like hairspray and champagne. Music thrums low from a speaker. It should feel like a triumph.

But all you can think about is the voice note. The silence. The distance that keeps expanding.

You nod through the chaos. Get pinned, powdered, perfected. And somewhere in the mirror, your reflection becomes something sharp.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t even pick you up.

A sleek black town car slides to a stop at your curb. The driver opens the back door without a word. You step into the backseat alone, gown spilling like smoke over the leather.

Your phone stays silent the whole ride.

You type a dozen unsent messages. "You forgot me." "Don’t worry, I’ll smile for the cameras." "You don’t even care." Delete. Delete. Delete.

Outside, the city sharpens. The closer you get to the gala, the more the skyline gleams.

By the time you arrive, your heart is thudding in your ears.

He’s already there.

You spot him the moment you step out: standing on the edge of the carpet, photographers closing in. He turns like he feels you before he sees you.

And when he does—

It hits him. You see it. You feel it.

His mouth parts. His expression falters. His eyes drag over every inch of you like he's trying to memorize it.

But all he says is, “Hey. Ready?”

You nod, chin high. “Sure.”

The cameras flash. A sea of shutters and noise. You pose like it doesn’t hurt.

The red carpet is a frenzy—paparazzi calling your name, lenses snapping like gunfire. But it’s not just noise. It’s a chant. Your name—over and over, rising above the chaos like a beat. Models, stylists, fashion editors—they’re all watching.

“Look here!, right here!”

“Give us that over-the-shoulder!”

“Hold that pose—yes, that’s money!”

You angle your body instinctively, years of training kicking in. Chin tilted, hands placed just-so on your waist, the train of the dress falling behind you like liquid light. The flashbulbs eat it up. Somewhere, someone on the carpet mutters, “That’s the shot of the night.”

You meet a fashion journalist’s eyes for half a second. They raise their brows. Impressed. You know the look. You’re not just a plus-one here—you’re the moment.

"Who are you wearing?"

You smile, lean slightly into the microphone. “Custom Azzaro.”

Another voice calls out, “Did you two coordinate or did the stars align?”

You glance at Lando without really looking. “Guess we’re both having a silver lining kind of night.”

Laughter. Clicks. Flashes. Someone calls you a vision. Another calls you dangerous.

“Any truth to the rumors about moving in together?”

Your smile turns diamond-hard. “Not yet. But the headlines have great imaginations.”

You turn for one last round of shots, expression unreadable, jaw set in a way that only the cameras will notice when they zoom in tomorrow.

It’s a dance. You’ve memorized every step. Smile. Tilt. Laugh. Deflect. Destroy. Pose like your heart isn’t aching.

They keep clicking.

Lando keeps a perfect distance—close enough to sell it, far enough to feel cold.

No hand on your back. No whispered joke. No warmth.

When someone asks about your relationship, he gives a clipped smile and says, “We work well together.”

You laugh, too sharp. The lights feel hotter than they should.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As you step inside, the air shifts. Glittering chandeliers drip light onto black marble floors. A violinist plays somewhere near the bar. It’s the kind of space that makes you feel expensive just by breathing in it.

Almost immediately, someone waves you both down.

“Lando! Y/N!”

It’s Sophia Darnell—editor-in-chief of Mode. Polished to a shine, champagne flute in hand. Her gaze skims you both, then lingers on you.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheeks. “That gown is unforgivable. In the best way.”

“Thank you,” you say smoothly. “You look divine.”

She turns to Lando. “You know, when I heard you two were attending, I thought—finally. They’re giving the people what they want.”

Lando chuckles, polite. “We try to be efficient.”

“Efficient,” she repeats, amused. Then to you: “And you? How’s the runway treating you lately? Still fielding three campaigns at once?”

“Four,” you say. “But who’s counting?”

Sophia gives an approving nod. “I hope you’re planning to come to Milan next month. You’re what Versace keeps trying to bottle.”

Before you can answer, someone calls her from across the room. She kisses the air beside your face. “Don’t disappear before I get a photo. You look mythic.”

She glides away, heels barely touching the floor.

You glance at Lando. “Efficient?”

He shrugs. “It was the first word I could think of.”

“Sure it wasn’t ‘convenient’?”

He doesn’t answer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside the venue, it only gets worse.

The ballroom is glitter and money, the kind of elegance that screams curated excess. You’re seated at the same table—names printed in elegant script—but it may as well be different planets.

He checks his phone more than he talks to you.

You make conversation with people he introduces you to—a sponsor, someone from his team, a designer whose name you don’t quite catch. You smile through it, answer questions, hold your glass like it’s armor.

And Lando drifts.

He disappears into the crowd to speak with someone from McLaren. Doesn’t excuse himself. Doesn’t look back.

You sit there. Alone.

Until James drops into the empty seat beside you.

James Hadley—model, frequent campaign co-star, and something of a fashion world fixture. Easygoing, always perfectly unbothered, and devastatingly charming in a way that never quite crossed the line.

He hasn’t changed. Not really.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, smiling wide.

You laugh. It’s strained. "I could say the same."

He gestures to your dress. "That is… weaponized. You realize that, right?"

You glance sideways, then down at your glass. "It had to be."

James leans closer, lowering his voice. "So, what’s the verdict—still playing house with your favorite F1 driver, or is that all just smoke and mirrors?"

You raise a brow, swirling your drink. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

He grins. "I always liked you, you know. Even when we were stuck under studio lights for eight hours with no AC. You kept your sense of humor. That’s rare."

You smile, soft but tired. "Survival tactic."

James’s gaze lingers. “If it ever gets too exhausting… I’m just saying. I make a great escape plan.”

You open your mouth to respond—but that’s when you feel it: Lando returning.

His presence hits before his voice does, like a static charge crawling up your spine. His steps slow as he approaches. You don’t turn to look.

"Hey," Lando says finally, low and tight.

James straightens, casually cool. "Lando, mate. You clean up alright."

Lando extends a hand and James takes it—but there’s a subtle weight behind it, something testing.

"You too," Lando says. His tone is civil, but cold.

James doesn’t seem fazed. He glances at you. "Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to step on any headlines."

"Probably wise," Lando says without smiling.

James chuckles and brushes a hand lightly over your arm as he gets up. "You know where to find me."

Lando watches that hand like it’s a warning.

The moment James disappears into the crowd, Lando slides into the seat beside you. His hand brushes your shoulder—barely there, like a question.

You don’t react.

"Friend of yours?" he asks after a moment.

You look straight ahead. "We met on a shoot in Monaco, two summers ago. Not that you’d remember."

Lando says nothing.

Silence.

He doesn’t say anything. Not about the dress. Not about how he looked at you when you arrived. Not about James.

You sit in that silence like it’s a storm.

He smiles at someone across the table. You watch his profile and wonder how you ended up sitting beside a ghost.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what finally makes you snap. Maybe it’s the weight of the dress or the silence between you. Maybe it’s the way he laughs too loudly at someone’s joke, then glances at you like he forgot you were even there.

You walk out onto the balcony before you can think better of it.

The cold air feels like clarity. Like something sharp enough to slice through all the glitter and noise.

Then you hear the door open behind you.

“I didn’t know you were leaving,” he says.

You don’t look at him. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

He steps closer. “Of course I care.”

You spin around. “Then where the hell have you been, Lando?”

He flinches.

“No seriously,” you continue, voice rising. “You leave me on read, ignore me for days, show up tonight like we’re strangers instead of—whatever the hell this is—and now you care?”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh, bitter. “You don’t get to look at me like that tonight. Like you haven’t been acting like I don’t exist. Like you didn’t see the voice note. Like I haven’t been trying so hard to keep this thing from unraveling while you disappear.”

He closes the distance, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

You scoff. “No. I think you’ve been hiding.”

Silence.

He looks at you, really looks. “You look like a dream,” he says softly.

You recoil like he slapped you. “Don’t you dare.”

“I haven’t—”

“Stop it, Lando.” You turn to face him. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been distant for weeks. And then tonight, you look at me like—”

You cut yourself off, jaw clenched.

He looks like he wants to speak. You don’t let him.

“You don’t get to look at me like that after everything. Like you didn’t leave me on read. Like you didn’t laugh in that interview. Like you didn’t act like this was nothing when it wasn’t even your idea to begin with.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I messed it up.”

“Why?” you ask. It comes out broken. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

You shake your head. “Then why are you treating me like I don’t matter?”

“I didn’t mean to.” He runs a hand over his face. “I thought if I pulled back it’d make it easier.”

“Easier for who?”

“For both of us,” he says. “This whole thing—it stopped feeling fake a long time ago.”

Your breath catches.

“I got scared,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you.”

You’re silent for a long beat.

He steps forward, just once. Close enough that you can hear the way his breath hitches.

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. He hesitates.

And then—finally—he moves.

His hand finds your waist. Yours presses lightly against his chest. There’s a pause, a breath, and then he leans in.

It’s slow. Careful. Terrified.

Your noses brush. Foreheads nearly touch. His lips hover, a heartbeat away from yours.

And then—

A voice cuts through the quiet. “Hi! They need you inside!”

You both jolt.

He pulls back like he’s been yanked out of a dream.

Silence.

The door clicks shut behind whoever called.

You’re still staring at each other, breathless.

He doesn’t say anything else. And neither do you.

You walk back into the ballroom together like strangers. The air feels heavier than before—like the moment changed something that can’t be unnamed. People are still laughing, clinking glasses, dancing beneath crystal lights. But everything feels muffled.

Lando stays close. Not touching. Not speaking. Just near.

You feel it like a weight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the event winds down, he offers to drive.

You follow him out to the private parking area, still in your heels, still wrapped in silence. His McLaren-issued car waits like a shadow in the dark, polished and impersonal. You slide into the passenger seat without a word.

The engine hums to life. The ride is silent.

The city flickers past the tinted glass. He doesn’t look at his phone this time. Just stares forward, hands clasped tight in his lap. You lean your head against the window, cool glass pressing into your temple.

When the car stops in front of your place, you don’t move at first.

He finally speaks.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you."

You let out a breath. “You didn’t just hurt me. You made me feel small.”

He flinches. Quiet. “I didn’t know what to do. It got too real. I got scared.”

You turn to look at him. “I’m not asking for a fairytale, Lando. I just wanted you to treat me like I mattered.”

“I know.”

You nod once. Then, softly: “Then why did you almost kiss me?”

He swallows. “Because I wanted to. So badly I almost forgot everything else.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been scared. But I swear—I’m going to fix it. I’ll be better. No more games. No more silence. Just… us.”

It should mean something. It almost does.

But he still doesn’t say the one thing that matters.

You open the door. Step out.

He watches you like he wants to chase after something he doesn’t know how to name.

“Don’t,” you say, without turning around. “Just—don’t make it worse.”

Then you disappear inside.

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Hey!! sorry for taking so long, i honestly just didn't know how to finish this chapter but i figured it out (i think). this'll probably end up having 10 chapters in total, so we're halfway through! let me know what you think about it

see you next lap, -N 🏁

[understeeringirl]

i love ur new lando series the fluff and angst tiptoeing between friendship and relationship is soo good love every chapter ❤️

omg hi! thank you so much!! 🩷🩷 i honestly was kinda worried that everything was getting too messy but i just tried to show how their relationship was and how their actions changed it, eventually leading to lines getting blurry!

[understeeringirl]

i just posted chapter five of wrong side of the camera and i don’t even know how to explain it except that she waits. and he doesn’t come. and she pretends that’s okay. and then he makes a joke that doesn’t sound like a joke at all.

it’s not loud heartbreak yet. it’s the kind that sits next to you in silence. chapter five