jamminvroomvroom

[jamminvroomvroom]

“dts daughter” or “f1 movie son” what about daughters who started watching motorsports because they wanted to be their father’s number 1 boy

[jamminvroomvroom]

“I asked ChatGPT .” “I asked grok” well I asked the gentlemen to take a short view back to the past

[jamminvroomvroom]

something blue - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which you and your ex boyfriend see each other at a wedding months later OR lando misses the fuck out of you. warnings: angst angst angst, language, smut, duh smut, p in v, f!receiving oral, dirty talk, kinda sad, yearning??, NOT PROOFREAD (will fix any typos over time) word count: 5k+ author's note: hi angels!!! I hope y'all enjoy. xoxo. bad grip - op81 will be out next (on August 1)!!

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“You’re in my seat.”

You don’t bother to look up right away. Instead, you take another sip from your glass, unbothered. You already know who it is…because you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Cool, low, and effortless. 

When you finally lift your head up, he’s standing across the table. A single hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass. His jacket’s long gone. Probably draped over some chair a few hours ago, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

His tie is half undone and crooked. Which tells you that he stopped pretending to be formal about five drinks ago. He walks around the table, standing at the empty chair beside you.

Lando.

You blink. “Didn’t realize seating was assigned by ego.”

He lets out an amused sound. Not fully a laugh. And his eyes drag over you a second too long. Slow and obvious. But there’s some calculation behind it. Like he’s daring you to flinch.

“If we were, you’d have to be outside,” he says, stepping forward. His shoe now nudging the leg of your chair. 

You give him a tight smile. “And you’d be in the valet lot, bothering someone else’s date probably.”

He falls into the chair beside you. Resting his arm along the back of it like he’s claiming space. Not just the seat, but you. He smells like something expensive. Musky, citrus, and the memory of someone who’s never been told no.

You don’t bother to look at him. Instead, you glance around the table. Littered in polished silverware, large centerpieces, and down at the very end….a pair of mutual friends who definitely knew what they were doing when they made the seating chart.

You make a mental note to return the favor. Maybe at their wedding. Or baby shower.

“Didn’t think you’d show.” You say, fidgeting with the napkin.

Lando leans back in the chair, posture relaxed. Careless. Like nothing bothered him.

“Thought the same about you,” he says, voice low. “Figured you’d come up with some excuse. Avoid me even longer.”

You arch a brow.

You finally run to look at him.

“I was promised free champagne and music,” you mutter. “Didn’t realize you were part of the package deal.”

He watches your mouth when you speak. He always did. And it used to be flattering. Now it just feels like some bad habit neither of you can break.

He shrugs. “Sounds like a bonus to me.”

“You were always overconfident.”

“And you always had a way with making things difficult.”

You turn your full body toward him now, elbow resting on the back of your chair. Eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is? Difficult for you?”

He looks at you. Like really looks. His tongue presses agains the inside of his cheek, like he’s holding something back. Like he’s already said too much to you.

“Not particularly.”

You laugh. “Right. That’s why you sat next to me.”

He gestures to the table. “It’s my seat.”

“It’s the seat you decided you wanted as soon as I sat in it.” 

He grins. “Y’make everything sound like foreplay.”

“Only because you’re used to losing.”

And that earns a small laugh from him. And then he shifts closer, forearms on the table, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. 

“Still got that mouth, yeah?” He says, quietly. “Never learned when to stop.”

Your eyes narrow.

He leans in closer. Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’d say it’s nice to see you,” he mutters, “but I’ve gotten really good at lying.”

You tilt your chin up. “That’s always been your strongest skill.”

The clatter of food being brought out snaps the tension just enough for you to tear your gaze away.

He stays close.

Watching.

Plates clatter around you. The smell of food floats through the air, and conversations pick up at the table. 

You pick up your fork. He doesn’t move.

“Seriously,” You look ahead at your plate. “Go sit somewhere else.”

“Didn’t know you were so territorial.”

“Didn’t know you were desperate for attention.”

It makes him smile. 

“M’not the one picking fights at a wedding.”

“M’not” you say, cutting into your food now. Not even hungry. “You’re just the one who showed up four months too late to a conversation.”

He hums. “Conversation, hm? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You don’t answer. Mostly because you’re chewing. Mostly because of the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s still inside of whatever memory he just thought of. And it’s making it very…very hard to swallow.

You finally glance at him. “You’re not allowed to look at me like that.”

He leans in, smirking. “Like what?”

“Like you remember.”

And he holds your gaze. And for probably the first time, he doesn’t shoot back some one liner. He just looks.

So you do what you always do when he gets too close to the truth.

Weaponize your mouth.

“You’ve always had a shit memory,” Your voice is soft. “Selective.”

His jaw ticks.

You cut another bite off your plate.

And his knee brushes against yours. Stays there.

“I remember enough,” he speaks. “Like how your cheeks get more pink when you lie. Or how you always change the subject whenever you’re scared.”

You scoff. “M’not scared of you.”

“No,” He hums. “You’re just scared of what you’ll say if you aren’t careful with your words around me.”

You reach for your drink. And he watches your hand.

“Still an asshole,” you say.

He grins. “Still into it.”

You face forward again, refusing to leet him see the way your thighs press together. The way your pulse spikes.

But he knows.

-

He doesn’t ask. He never did when it came to you. Not really, at least.

He just appears. Hand out, gaze unreadable. Waiting.

And you consider ignoring him. Because you should.

But your pride is bigger than your bitterness, so you slip your hand into his without a word.

The palm of his hand is warm. Familiar.

And you hate that your hand still fits in his like it does.

The music shifts. Slow. 

His hand slips along your waist like its never forgotten. Possessive. Confident. Not polite in the slightest.

And you hate that your skin still burns beneath the pads of his fingers like it used to. Like it always did.

And you focus on the space over his shoulder. The warm lights. The movement of other couples. Anything that isn’t the way his thumb starts to slowly drag small circles across the skin of your back. Anything that isn’t his mouth.

“You’re quiet,” He mutters. Low and close.

You hum. “Trying to enjoy the song.”

“Funny. I don’t remember you ever being someone to pretend.”

You glance at him, “I don’t remember you always being this desperate for my attention.”

His mouth twitches. No teeth. “Always mistook interest for desperation.”

“No,” You shake your head. “I just learned the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets it sit for a moment. And then his grip is tightening around you. Not much. Almost like a reflex.

“Still cruel,” he mutters. “Sharp.”

“You always liked that about me.”

His eyes drag to your mouth. “Unfortunately.”

The music is the kind of slow that feels like a heat creeping under your skin. You move too well together. You hate that he still fits. That nothing in your body except for your brain seems to recognize that you’re supposed to be over this. Over him.

“I really thought you wouldn’t come,” He says. Voice casual.

You lift your chin toward him. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you. “I always notice you.”

And you hate the way it lands. Hate the way it makes your heart spike. Your stomach clench.

So you roll your eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet…” He leans in just enough that your noses are practically brushing. “You’re still here.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you shift closer. Enough to make your chest graze his. Your thigh brush his.

Two can play at this game.

And his breath catches. You feel it. Hear it.

But he maintains the same cool and collected face you always used to fall for.

“M’not falling for it.” He says.

“For what?”

“This act of yours. The one where you pretend you don’t still want me.”

You smirk. “If I wanted you, you’d already know.”

And then he’s grinning. Slow. Dark.

“That’s the thing,” He mutters. “I think I do.”

And your stomach twists. Sharp. Hot.

You roll your eyes. Try to take a step back. But his grip on you doesn’t loosen.

“Let go.”

“I will,” he says. Voice low and dangerous. “When you stop pretending.”

If anything, his grip gets firmer. 

And you’re about to say something, but he cuts you off with movement.

Fast. Smooth.

Dips you without warning.

And the world tilts as you go with it, back arching in his hold, hands catching you with practiced ease.

The lights blur around you, but all you can really see is him. Framed above you. 

“Still a brat,” He mutters. 

And you smirk.

He drags you back up. Slow. Until your chest to chest. And then his lips are ghosting your jaw, your ear.

“I miss this,” he breathes. “Miss you. Mouthy. Mean.”

You try to laugh, but all that comes out is a breathy sigh. “You miss the idea of me.”

“I miss you,” his voice is firm. “Not the fucking idea.”

Your fists tighten around his neck. 

“Is that supposed to fix this?”

His fingers flex against your waist. Like it was hurting him to have you this close and not actually have you.

“No,” his voice is quiet. “But I never stopped thinking it.”

So you pull back enough to look at him. To look at the freckles on his nose, the lines under his eyes from lack of sleep. And he still looks at you like he wants you.

So you smile. Aching.

“Thinking about me was never your problem.”

And you don’t wait for a reply. Just step out of his arms.

Try not to look back as you walk away. Reaching the doors to the balcony and push them open. 

Cool air instantly greeting your skin.

You press your hands into the railing, pulse thrumming. 

And you’re barely there for a minute before you hear the door slam harder than it should’ve. Footsteps.

You don’t bother turning.

“You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve coming out here,” you say, arms braced on the railing, staring out into the dark like it might keep you from falling apart.

Lando’s voice snaps back instantly. “I have nerve?”

You spin to face him, anger bubbling in your chest. 

“Don’t act surprised. You always come chasing after me whenever it’s convenient for you."

His jaw tightens. “I came because you walked away in the middle of something.”

“No,” you bite. Eyes stinging. “You left in the middle of something. Months ago. When I was still holding everything together while you were in fucking Brazil or Australia or wherever the fuck you needed to be that week.”

He flinches, but you don’t stop. Can’t.

“You think this..this moment..means anything? That you can just show up, say you miss me, and everything you put me through will magically fade the fuck away?”

“And you think it was easy for me?” He grunts. “Y’think I didn’t feel it? Every timeI woke up in some hotel bed in another city with no one beside me? Every time I opened my phone and didn’t see your name because you stopped trying?”

“I stopped because I had to!” You shout. “I couldn’t keep waiting for scraps of you. I have a life too, Lan. A career.”

His hands fly into his hair. “I never asked you to give everything up!”

“You didn’t have to!” You yell back. “You just made me feel like I was the selfish one when I didn’t!”

Lando’s breathing hard now. Hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Y’think I didn’t want to choose you?” He spits, eyes burning. “You think I didn’t want to fucking stop everything? The races. Media. All of it. Just to stay in one place with you?”

You flinch. But he isn’t done.

“I was trying to be enough for the sport and you.” His voice cracks. “But every time I blinked, it was like you were pulling further away. Like I wasn’t trying hard enough.”

“You were never there.”

The words land like a slap. Honest.

“I gave you everything I had to give.”

You laugh. Tired. Cold. “No, Lan. You gave me leftovers. Gave me what was left of you after everyone else took.”

“I was trying to make it work.”

“And I was trying to hold it together while you vanished into every fuckin country on the map.” 

He’s in front of you now.

But you keep going. Shaky. “I had to start pretending I didn’t miss you just to function. Had to smile and tell people that we were fine and so in love when the reality was I hadn’t even heard from you in five days some times.”

Lando flinches. “And you think I didn’t notice? That it didn’t kill me too?”

“You didn’t even act like it did.”

“I didn’t know how to fix it!” He explodes. “I couldn’t be everywhere at once. And I knew…I knew if I made you choose, I’d lose you!”

“Well, you lost me anyways.”

And that’s what finally breaks him.

Has him reaching out to grab you. 

And before you can so much as blink, his mouth is on yours.

Hot. Unforgiving. Fucking stupid.

But you don’t push him away. You kiss him back like its some punishment. 

And his hands slide to your hips. Your fingers twist against his collar, dragging him down harder  into your own mouth.

And when you break apart, your breath is ragged.

His forehead rests against his. You’re still angry.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper. Trying to convince yourself that you’re over it. That this is just a lapse in judgment.

“Don’t lie.”

And his eyes stay on you. Dazed. And you go to speak but nothing comes out.

So you turn. Fast. Like if you don’t turn away, you’ll let him do it again. Say the wrong thing.

But you barely make it a step past him before he says it.

“Wait,” he breathes. Hand around your wrist. Loose. “Please…just wait.”

You stiffen.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says. “Not like that…Not… uh, here.” He scratches the back of his neck.

You look over your shoulder. His tie’s half undone. Lips swollen and slightly wet. Hair a mess. And for once, he kinda looks wrecked. 

“I have a room upstairs,” He admits. “I’m not trying to pull you back into anything,” His voice soft. “I just…I need to talk to you. Somewhere quiet. Without this….noise.” He gestures to the crowd of guests, the music, the laughter. 

You hesitate.

You want to walk inside, finish your drink, and pretend. Pretend he’s someone you used to know. Pretend he’s someone you didn’t kiss. 

But he’s still looking at you like he means it. Like you mean everything.  Like he’ll drop down to his knees and beg you if thats what it will take.

“Five minutes,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking for…five minutes…please?”

You hold his gaze for a few moments. Let it stretch. Contemplate. And then you finally nod.

“Fine,” you whisper. “But you better mean it this time.”

He exhales with relief. Like he can finally breathe properly again.

“I do.”

And then you’re walking down the hallway. Past the ballroom. Past the noise. Until it’s just the two of you again. 

The elevator ride is short. Land steps out first. Not hurried or anything…just quiet. Like he’s scared if he’s too sudden you’ll run off.

The hallway is empty. And you follow him a step behind. Arms crossed over your chest. You feel flushed. Almost too aware, too alert, of everything. The kiss still at the forefront of your mind.

When he stops outside the door, his hands fumble with the keycard. Just slightly. Just enough to show how uneasy he is also feeling. 

He doesn’t say anything either.  He just pushes the hotel door open, steps inside and waits for you. Hoping you won’t change your mind and run off.

You walk in. The room is softly lit, just the bedside lamp and the light from the bathroom steaming out. Bottle of something on the dresser. And the bed’s made, but not really. Evidence of him lounging on it was clear.

He stands a few feet away. Looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do. Where to begin. How to start.

“So?” Your voice is a little too harsh. Out of protectiveness. “You’ve got five minutes.”

And he flinches. Breathes loudly.

“I didn’t come to the wedding to fuck with you.”

You blink. Caught a little off guard.

“I knew you’d bet there though,” He says. Honest. “Knew it would hurt. But I couldn’t stay away.”

You look at him now. His face is flushed. Lips slightly parted like he’s been holding this in all night. Like the cocky face he put on all night has completely vanished.

“All these past few months,” he continues, “I kept thinking it will get easier. The distance. The silence. I thought if I worked harder, did more training, more media, all of it….I thought…I thought if I buried myself in that I’d stop thinking about you every single time I opened my phone.”

Your stomach twists.

“But it never fuckin’ stopped.” He says, voice lower. “Didn’t matter where I was. Spain, Canada, China…you were always in my head. Always.”

Your throat tightens. And you feel the goosebumps form on your skin. 

He steps closer. Carefully. A single step. Slow.

“And I hated it.” His eyes flick to you. “Hated that I couldn’t even be mad at you…well I was mad. Fucking livid, all the fucking time. But not reasonably…because you had every right to leave.”

You exhale a deep breathe. Pressing your lips together. Trying to keep yourself composed.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you, Lan.” Your voice is soft. “I just couldn’t keep putting myself second.”

“I know,” he says almost immediately. “I know that now. But I didn’t back then. I thought I did everything I could. Giving you time that I didn’t even have to give.”

You shake your head. “Making time didn’t mean you were present.”

“And I get that now.”

He’s closer. Not touching, but close enough that you have to tip your head back just a bit to hold his gaze.

“Y’think I didn’t want to choose you?” His voice breaks a little. “That I didn’t spend nights wondering and pleading what it would be like if I could just stop everything? Just be with you.”

You don’t answer. 

“And the truth is…I thought if I even asked to you wait longer, you’d hate me for it.”

“I didn’t hate you.” Your voice is quiet. Soft. 

His gaze drops to your mouth. “I know.”

Silence.

Your skin is buzzing. Heart thrumming against your chest.

“I just…I missed you.” He mutters. “And I…I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a completely selfish prick.”

“You don’t sound selfish, Lan.”

Your eyes are stinging.

“You’re the only person who has ever made me want more than all of this.” He admits. “And I fucked everything up.”

You try to swallow the lump that’s sitting in your throat. “Yeah,” you mutter. 

And the words sting to say. Sting to hear.

But he nods. Doesn’t argue.

“I just thought…if I kept going…kept chasing everything, that I could fix it later,” he shrugs. “Like you’d just be there..when I finally figured it all out.”

You breathe. Exhausted. Sad. “You always said timing was everything.”

And his lips twitch. “Yeah, turns out I’m shit at that too.”

You don’t answer. Just look at the slope of his shoulders. The tiny wrinkle in his collar. And the way his hands keep opening and closing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

“I still think about you. Every night.”

You shut your eyes for a moment. Trying to stop the tears from forming in your eyes.

“Still reach for you in bed like a fuckin’ idiot.”

He leans in closer.

“And I know…I know that I don’t get to ask this, but…” his voice lowers. “Can I please kiss you again?”

Your breath hitches. Eyes sliding back and forth between his. And he looks wrecked. Devastated.

And this time…you kiss him first. Not because it fixes everything. Not because everything is magically better now.

But because it feels right.

It’s fast. Like you’re mad at yourself for even giving in. Like you don’t even want him to feel satisfaction of knowing just how much you need it too.

He groans into your mouth, hands cradling your jaw, holding you there.

And he’s no longer hesitating. No longer asking.

And you let him.

Let him press you against the wall of the room like he’s fucking starving, like he’s been imagining this for months (he has).

“Still know how to shut you up,” He mumbles against your lips, nipping your bottom lip.

Your hands fist into the collar of his shirt. “Y’still talk too much.”

And he’s already sliding one hand up beneath the hem of your dress. Greedy.

Gasping when his thumb brushes against you right where you need him. Teasingly.

“Still get like this, yeah?” He laughs. Darkly. “Worked up. Just from fighting.”

You glare, but it means nothing. Because you’re already moaning and gasping into his neck as he presses again.

“You’re not special,” you bite. 

But he laughs. Confident. “No?”

He drops to his knees in front of you like he’s done it thousands of times. He has. Like its muscle memory. It is.

“Yeah well tell that to your cunt,” he mutters, pushing your dress all the way up and licking a slow strip over the damp fabric.

Your body shakes. Your hand flies to his hair, weaving it in between your fingers as you grasp it tightly. And he’s fucking grinning when he feels you tremble.

“You used to beg,” He remembers. “Used to say my name over and over like it was the only word you knew.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “And you used to listen.”

He pulls your panties down with his teeth. “Still do, baby.”

And then he’s tasting you like a staved man. Slow. Messy. But thorough. 

And you moan loud when he curls his tongue just right. Groaning into you like he’s the one who’s fucked.

“You feel the fuckin same.” He grunts, looking up at you. “Fuckin fuck. You feel exactly the same.”

You grab his collar. Desperate.  Pull him up towards you.

And his mouth is crashing into yours again. Then somehow you’re both stumbling toward the bed. Half-laughing, half-mad, half-clothed.

He’s fumbling with the zipper of your dress, cursing under his breath when the zipper gets caught. And you’re tugging at the buttons of of his shirt, only making it halfway through before your fingers give up. And you just shove the fabric open instead, buttons popping. 

“Christ,” Lando mutters, lips dragging along your throat, hands freeing the zipper. “Still so fuckin’ impatient.”

“Y’love it,” you breathe. “Always did.”

And his eyes darken.

“I did,” he agrees. Voice low. “Still do.”

You kiss him again. Hard, open mouthed. Because there’s just no point in pretending anymore. Not with the way he fits against you, not with the way your skin is buzzing from his touch. 

And he kisses you back like he’s missed this more than anything in the entire fucking world. Like the memory of your mouth could never be enough for him.

He pushes you back onto the mattress, his mouth dragging down your stomach like its a map he’s memorized.

“You’re shaking,” He grins against your skin. “Missed me this much?”

You nod, biting your lip. 

“Say it.”

Your voice breaks. “I missed…God I fuckin’ missed you.”

He groans, head falling against your thigh. “God, we never should’ve broken up.”

And then he’s burying his face between your legs like a starved man. Licking you like he needs to memorize every inch, sound, and twitch of yours. Moaning against you, mouth slick and open.

His tongue works over you slowly at first, deep. Dragging. And then he’s moving faster, meaner, teasing your clit and then backing off. Again and again.

Your hands fist into his curls, “Lan, please…”

He groans, rutting his hips into the mattress like he’s the one being teased. Then, pushing two fingers into you. Curling them just right. 

And your hips buck off the mattress with a loud moan.

“God…fuck..Lan, please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He eats you through your orgasm like he needs you more than air. Popping off when you lay limply, before slipping up to hover over you. Lips shiny, eyes glazed.

And then he’s groaning hotly into your mouth when your legs wrap around his waist, grinding against him for some friction. 

“Fuck,” He groans, voice raw. Dragging his hips against you. “You always knew how to drive me fucking insane.” 

You arch up into him. “Then stop wasting my time.”

His hand wraps around your thigh, pulling it higher up his waist as he pushes into you. Slow. Like he’s savoring the feeling. 

Your lips part in a soft gasp and his forehead drops against yours.

“Fuck…” He groans. “I’ve thought about this almost every night.”

He pulls his hips back and thrusts again. Harder.

“Every time I shut my eyes…this. You.” 

You moan, loudly. Nails digging into his skin. 

He fucks you deep. Fucking filthy. One hand wrapped around your throat as he leans over you.

“This what you’ve been thinking about, hm?” He grunts. “Late at night, fingers buried deep in that perfect cunt…pretending it was me, yeah?”

Your face flushes as you nod. 

And he’s losing his rhythm, groaning.

“Been jerking off to the thought go you like this,” he confesses. “Fucking my fist and wishing it was you.”

He presses his fingers into your clit, and you jolt with a loud cry.

“Fuck…you’re gonna make me,”

“Then do it,” he snaps. 

And you do.

You come shaking as he fucks you through it, still muttering absolute filth against your ear. Still chasing his own.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a loud groan of your name. Cock buried deep as he spills into you.

He collapses on top of you for a moment, breathing hard.

You don’t know how long the two of you lay there like that.

But you feel Lando shift slowly. Like he’s scared if he moves too fast it will break whatever spell you’re both under. 

“You okay?” He whispers, voice hoarse. His lips grazing your shoulder.

You nod.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. “About missing you.”

You let your eyes close. It would be so so easy to pretend that nothing mattered. To stay here and forget all the pain of the weeks you both spent apart.

But it did matter.

He rolls off of you, just to the side. Skin still touching. And when you finally face each other, his curls are damp, cheeks flushed, and eyes so so soft.

“You okay?” You ask.

His throat works itself before he nods. But he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

“I don’t know what this means,” you confess. “I still don’t.”

And he looks at you like he’s reading your fucking soul. “Me neither.”

He drags his fingertips lazily along your skin. Trailing your shoulder, to your collarbones, before slipping them up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “But I know it’s not nothing.”

You don’t speak. Your throat and chest tight with emotion.

Eventually, your fingers start tracing light shapes along his ribs. Thoughtless.

“You used to do that all the time,” He mutters.

You pause. “Do what?”

“That thing with your fingers. The little shapes. Lines. Especially when you couldn’t sleep.”

You feel your heart in your fucking throat. But you keep tracing.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says quietly. “Even when I tried to…it would..it would just have me thinking about you all over again.”

You swallow. “You didn’t have to try.”

“But didn’t I?” His voice is rough, hoarse. “You wouldn’t take to me. I didn’t even know what I was allowed to say to you anymore. If I was even allowed to say anything.”

“You could’ve,” you whisper. “I just….I didn’t want to be the one holding us together by myself anymore.”

“I know,” He says. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.”

You blink hard, trying to stop the tears from falling.

Lando reaches for your hand, linking your fingers together. Bringing it to his lips, pressing soft kisses to each of your fingers, then your knuckles. One inside of your wrist. 

Slow. One by one.

“I think I was scared,” He admits. “That if I actually gave you all of me, and you still left…” He trails off. His jaw clenching and eyes shutting at the thought.

Your heart thrums. “I was never asking for all of you, Lan.”

“Maybe not with words,” he says. “But you deserved it anyways.”

He drops your hand, to bring it to your cheek. Thumb catching the single tear that manages to slip free at the corner of your eye. 

“I miss us,” he smiles sadly. “Not just the sex. Or this. Just I miss your stupid coffee orders that changed every week. And your laugh when you were too tired. Or the way you used to fall asleep on my chest.”

You bring your face closer to his, breathing him in.

“And I miss your terrible excuses for missing calls,” You joke. “And oddly enough, how you always left your fucking socks everywhere.”

He smiles. A real one.

And then he’s leaning in. Kisses you again. 

Soft.

Slow.

Sweet.

“Can we…try again?” He asks quietly. “Not tonight..not like this of course. But maybe…”

You squeeze his hand, a soft smile on your lips. His smile mirroring yours.

“One step at a time.”

And for now…it’s enough.

[jamminvroomvroom]

Framboisine

What begins as a pit stop becomes something far less temporary as Lando finds himself tangled in the quiet rhythms of rural life, complicated histories, and the unexpected pull of a woman who has no patience for charm and even less for goodbyes.

Genre: Smut, Contemporary Romance, Small-Town Fic, Slice of Life Found Family, Soft Angst, Post-Grief Healing, Gentle Comedy, Fluff

NSFW warning: 18+ Explicit sexual content, Oral (f. receiving), Unprotected sex, Praise kink (if you squint), Mild angst, Grief mentions, Single parent dynamics

Inspired by Turning Page by Sleeping At Last

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The heat had finally broken, but the walls still sweated. She stood barefoot in the doorway, one hand on the chipped frame, watching the horizon shimmer above the lavender fields. The old inn creaked around her, the kind of creak that meant the stone was settling or maybe protesting. She hadn’t decided which. Behind her, the sound of a cheap cartoon echoed faintly from the kitchen. Her daughter was lying on the cool tile floor, chin in hands, humming to herself between mouthfuls of cereal that absolutely did not belong to dinner. It was nearly six. Too late for new guests, too early for the good kind of silence.

Then the car came. She heard it before she saw it, wrong rhythm, high and irregular, like something imported trying to survive on rural backroads. She stepped off the stoop, squinting down the gravel drive as a sleek, unfamiliar shape cut through the late dust and heat haze. Silver. Low to the ground. Out of place. The car coughed once, then died. She waited. Arms crossed. The driver’s door opened slow. Out stepped a man in a white t-shirt, creased in the wrong places like he’d slept in it. He was maybe mid-twenties, unshaven. Sunglasses still on. He looked around like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stalled halfway up a hill. Then he caught sight of her.

“Excusez-moi,” he called out. “Je suis en panne-“ She said nothing. Just raised one brow. He tried again, slower, more hopeful. “Euh panne de voiture? Vous avez une chambre, peut-être?” Still nothing. He hesitated, switched gears. “Eh, misschien, Nederlands? Spreekt u?” “Nope,” she said flatly, in clipped English. “Try again.” He blinked, like she’d smacked him in the face with a towel. “Oh,” he said, straightening. “You’re British?” “Partly.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Right. Well. My car’s dead.” “Dead how?” “Bit of smoke. Some noise I’m choosing to pretend didn’t happen.” She narrowed her eyes. “Sounds terminal.” “It might be sulking. Or French.”

That earned the faintest twitch of her mouth.

He stepped forward. “Is this a hotel?” “Inn.” “Not to sound like Joseph, but do you have a room?”

She looked him over. Sunglasses, trainers too clean, a backpack that didn’t belong to someone who stayed in places like this. There was something about him that didn’t sit right. Not dangerous. Just wrong kind of tired. Like someone used to being looked at who didn’t want to be.

She paused. Then nodded toward the side entrance. “One. Upstairs. Cash only.” He looked relieved. “I’ve got cash.” “Then you’ve got a room, as long as there isn’t a pregnant woman with you, about to pop in my inn.” He hesitated at the steps. “Do you want my name or?” “I don’t care.”

He blinked at that. Then smiled. Not a performance, just surprise. Inside, her daughter peeked out from behind the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear and eyeing him like he might be another delivery. The man smiled, slow and natural. “Hey, little one.”

Margaux didn’t answer. Just tilted her head.

He adjusted his bag. “I’m Lando, by the way.” She didn’t blink. “Good for you.” Then turned, barefoot on the cool stone, and led him inside.

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The inside of Maison du Pin was ever so slightly cooler. Stone floors. Whitewashed walls. A tired ceiling fan that turned like it had a grudge. He ducked under the archway, shoulder brushing the wood, and followed her past the little sitting area where a bookcase slouched under its own weight and the couch had the look of something that had been re-stuffed more than once. She moved quickly, without ceremony, one hand catching a light switch, the other already halfway up the stairs. He hesitated, still blinking at the space, the way it smelled of lemon soap and old varnish.

"Coming or what?" she called, not looking back.

He followed. Upstairs was narrower. Low ceilings, creaky steps, a small window at the end of the hall with its shutter propped open by a paperback copy of Rebecca. She pushed open the third door on the left. “It’s not fancy.” The room had a bed, a window, a fan that might’ve once worked, and a single chair too close to the radiator. The bedsheets were clean, if a little sun faded. The walls were uneven plaster. A bee buzzed lazily against the glass.

Lando stepped in, nodded slowly. “Looks like it doesn’t know what century it’s in.” She leaned on the doorframe. “Neither do I. You want it or not?” He turned toward her. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She didn’t reply. Just crossed the room and snapped the window open. The bee escaped. The air shifted. “There’s no aircon,” she said, pointing. “Fans got two moods: moody and possessed. Don’t touch the radiator, it hisses when it’s bored. And if you break the bedframe, I don’t want to know how.” Lando blinked. “That was oddly specific.” She gave him a look. “This is a working inn, not a Netflix romcom.” He grinned despite himself. “Right. No touching haunted radiators, no bedframe acrobatics.” “You get one towel. You can ask nicely for more.” “I always ask nicely.” “Mm.” He took a slow lap of the room, ran his fingers along the edge of the desk. “You clean all this yourself?” “No,” she said flatly. “The mice pitch in.”

He turned. She was still standing in the doorway; one hip cocked like she was already halfway back downstairs.

She nodded once, unbothered. “Right. You’ll need a key. And your passport.” He raised an eyebrow. “You serious?” “Welcome to France.”

He laughed softly, the kind that said he wasn’t sure if she was joking. From the hallway, a tiny voice broke the tension.

“Maman?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?” Margaux appeared around the corner, one hand dragging a soft toy across the floor, curls wild, socks mismatched. She eyed Lando like he was some particularly shiny wildlife. He smiled. “Hi again.” The girl held up her bear in silent reply. “Don’t stare,” her mother said gently, brushing a hand over her daughter’s head as she passed. “Come on. Time for your bath.”

The little girl stuck close to her leg, but kept glancing back at him, clearly filing him under interesting things to ask about later. Lando watched them go, then turned back to the room. It was still hot, still slightly musty, still humming with the kind of stillness you only got in old buildings and empty hearts. He let his bag drop by the bed, then opened the window wider. Somewhere in the garden, cicadas screamed like they had something to prove.

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He gave it ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Sat on the edge of the bed. Checked his phone. No bars. Held it up. Turned in place like a lost dog. Still nothing. He headed back downstairs. The front door stuck when he pulled it, like it had swollen with pride. Outside, the sun had started to dip, casting long gold streaks across the gravel. The swing in the side garden creaked once in the breeze. No traffic. No movement. Just cicadas and the distant clink of someone setting out glassware next door. He walked a little way up the road. Then down. Then back again. No bars. Not even a flicker. Behind him, the screen door swung open with a protesting groan.

“You looking for something?” she asked. He turned. She had a tea towel over one shoulder and a screwdriver in her hand. “Signal,” he said, holding up his phone like it was self-explanatory. She made a face somewhere between pity and amusement. “Ah. That.” She pointed with the screwdriver. “There’s a café bench two streets down under a fig tree. Sometimes if the wind’s right you get a bar. One. For a minute.” He stared at her. “You’re joking.” “Nope.” He blinked. “Is that legal?” “In this village?” she said. “Legal’s just a suggestion.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost. She didn’t wait. Just turned back inside like she hadn’t derailed his entire digital reality with a screwdriver and a shrug. He stood there for another few seconds, watching the road like it might suddenly sprout a 5G tower just for him. It didn’t.

Inside, he could hear Margaux laugh. Not loud. Just enough. It cut through the quiet like something fragile and warm. He let out a breath. Looked up at the inn again, tired shutters, old vines, walls the colour of toast. Maybe one night wouldn’t kill him. Maybe two.

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By noon, the village had started its slow, predictable hum. A pair of cyclists took the bend outside the inn too wide. Someone’s goat had gotten loose again and was chewing on the post box. The air smelled like thyme and dish soap. Inside Maison du Pin, the inn was doing what it did best: pretending to be quiet while everyone pretended not to listen. Willem stood behind the bar like he had been born there, arms folded, leaning comfortably against the wood, polishing a glass with the kind of patience only retirement could buy.

“Your tap’s loose again,” he said, in his thick Belgian accent, without looking up. “I know.” “And your barrel’s nearly empty.” “Also know.” He set the glass down, satisfied. “You never let me complain properly.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel and gave him a look. He chuckled, deep and fond. “Lieveke, if you were mine, I would have married you off by now. Or locked you in the cellar for your own good.” “Lucky for both of us,” she said, “I’m not yours.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t push. They had this rhythm. Her and Willem. Like an old, bickering clock. At the end of the bar, Margaux was colouring furiously with a box of half-snapped crayons, her legs swinging off the stool. A glass of orange juice sat untouched beside her, already sweating in the heat. From the kitchen came the faint clang of metal and the sizzle of something that was either a very aggressive omelette or Bas showing off again. She didn’t need to go check. Bas always cooked like someone was watching.

“He’s a good boy,” Willem said eventually. She shrugged. “So’s the postman. Doesn’t mean I want to marry him.” Willem snorted into his tea. “You’re a menace.” “I’m tired.”

The door creaked open before he could answer. Lando stepped inside like someone testing the temperature of the air. Fresh t-shirt. No sunglasses this time. His hair was still damp, like he’d dunked his head under the tap. She nodded toward the bar. “You want coffee, or do you just enjoy standing in doorways looking confused?”

“I enjoy options,” he said, stepping in. “Is one of them breakfast?” “You missed it.” He raised his eyebrows. “By how much?” “Four hours and an attitude.” “Right,” he said. “Lunch, then.” She turned, called toward the kitchen, “Bas, feed the lost boy!”

A muffled clang. A low reply. Something vaguely enthusiastic. Lando glanced toward the child at the bar, who was now drawing with one crayon in each hand and narrating something under her breath about dragons and laundry.

“Is she always that focused?” he asked. “Only when she’s ignoring everything important.” He smiled faintly. “Wonder where she gets it from.” She glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You want to see the village later?” He looked surprised. “Sure. If you’ve got time.” “I don’t. But come anyway.” She stepped out from behind the bar, wiping her hands again. “Finish your food. You’ve got ten minutes.” Lando watched her go, then turned to Willem, who was watching him like a man who already knew all his secrets. Willem held up the glass he’d just cleaned. “Good luck, boy.” Lando blinked. “Thanks?” “She’s more work than the whole village combined.” Lando smirked, glancing toward the open door. “Noticed.” Then Bas appeared, apron stained, blonde hair a mess, eyes narrowing just slightly when he saw where Lando was standing. He said nothing. Just set a plate down with more force than necessary and disappeared back into the kitchen. Lando stared at the food. Then at the door she’d gone through. Ten minutes.

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They took the back way, through the orchard where the trees leaned like gossiping aunts and the ground was all dust and apricot pits. She didn’t walk slowly. He just kept pace. She pointed with her chin as they passed the first stone wall. “That’s the café. If you sit on the right bench under the fig tree, you might get signal.” He glanced at the table, two old men were already there, phones held high like offerings to a stingy god. She added, “Don’t lean too far back or the bench tips.” “Let me guess,” he said. “You learned that the fun way?” “No,” she said. “Bastien did. I laughed.”

She pushed open the café door. Inside, the air was cooler, thick with espresso and that faint, nostalgic scent of old croissants and printer paper.

“Order something,” she said. “They won’t give you the Wi-Fi code unless you pay first.” He pulled out his wallet, already amused. “And what do I get if I charm them?” “You won’t. They hate Parisians and footballers.” “I’m neither.” “They’ll assume.”

He smirked, but didn’t argue. She sat by the window while he ordered. Watched him try to pronounce noisette. Didn’t help. He returned with two tiny cups and a scrap of paper with the Wi-Fi code scribbled in green pen. “Victory,” he said. He opened his phone, connected, and stared at the notifications for a long time without touching any of them. She didn’t comment. Outside, the men under the fig tree were arguing softly in Occitan. A moped buzzed past like a drunken bee. After a few minutes, he locked the phone again. “Right,” he said. “Where to next?” She stood. “The river. Then the mechanic. You should at least pretend you want your car fixed.”

The river was low. Summer always did that. The kids had dammed it up with stones again, building miniature worlds between the reeds. A few barefoot teenagers were lying on the bank with their headphones in, sun-drunk and indifferent. She pointed toward the footbridge. “We used to jump off that as kids.” He glanced at it. “Looks painful.” “It was. That’s why we did it.” She crouched briefly to pick up a stone Margaux would want, flat and speckled, good for a pocket. Then straightened. “Come on.” They passed the épicerie. The post office. The old man with the newspaper stands who saluted without looking up. She returned it without thinking. The village moved around them like clockwork, like the whole place was one big, dusty machine she was part of.

He, meanwhile, stuck out like a misplaced brushstroke. At the mechanic’s, a squat, oil-streaked building with an open yard, she called out in French. A teenager in a vest and too-short shorts waved from under a bonnet, shouted something back.

“He’ll look at your car tomorrow,” she translated. Lando nodded. “Should I be worried?” “No more than usual.” “Reassuring.”

They started back, uphill this time. Slower.

“You don’t really want it fixed, do you?” she asked suddenly. He didn’t look at her. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, staying here a little.” He added, “It’s quiet.” She didn’t smile. But she didn’t argue either.

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The sun had shifted by the time they made it back. The inn looked different in late light, gold on the shutters, the vines glowing a little. The world hadn’t moved much, but the edges had softened. She unlocked the side door with one hand and dropped the stone she’d picked up into the blue bowl by the stairs. It joined a dozen others. Her daughter’s collection. All named, probably. All sacred. Lando hesitated by the doorway. “So, I suppose I should call that guy?”

“You’re not going to.” He looked at her. “Excuse me?” She dropped her bag on the bench. “You’re not going to call. Because you don’t actually want to leave.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty big assumption.” She turned, arms crossed. “Is it wrong?” He opened his mouth. Then didn’t answer. She gave a humourless smile. “That’s what I thought, everyone here, didn’t originally plan to stay here forever. Willem was on his gap year, and now look at him, 40 years later and he’s still here.” “I’m just tired,” he said, softer now. “It’s been a long few months.” “Mm.” She didn’t press. Just nodded toward the back. “Come on. We’ve got leftover frittata if you’re brave.”

The garden was mostly shade now. A single wooden table sat crooked under the cherry tree. The swing moved once, lazily, like it had been told a joke. She brought out two plates. He didn’t offer to help. She didn’t ask. They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filling. Just two people eating slightly soggy frittata, listening to the hum of the air. She took a sip of something cold and homemade. Lemon. Mint. Regret.

He stabbed a piece of onion and said, “You really don’t ask questions, do you?” “You look like you don’t answer them.” “Touché.” She finished her bite before adding, “I don’t care about your family drama, job or women troubles or whatever story you’re trying to outrun.” “Harsh,” he said. But he was smiling now.

From the far end of the garden came a thud, then a shout. Margaux came barrelling around the hedge with a plastic sword and one sock on.

“Maman!” she cried. “The swing’s broken again!” She didn’t look up. “Is it broken or dramatic?” “It squeaks!” “Then don’t swing so hard.” “I wasn’t!” Lando was already standing. “I’ll look at it.” She glanced up. “You know swings?” “I know a lot of things,” he said, stretching lazily. “Like physics. And leverage.” Margaux eyed him sceptically. “Are you a knight?” He blinked. “I- I don’t think so?” She handed him the sword anyway. “You can help, if you don’t ruin it more.” He took it like it might explode. “Noted.” She watched him walk across the grass, sword in one hand, the kid in the other, already explaining swing angles with the kind of patience only people trying not to think too hard tend to have. Margaux laughed. He joined in. She didn’t smile, she watched. Too long.

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She was already at the sink, rinsing a small plastic lunchbox that had once been white but now looked like it had survived a war. On the counter beside it, an apple, a triangle of cheese, and a folded napkin with a poorly drawn frog. Margaux’s idea of a joke. The front door creaked open. She didn’t need to look.

“You’re early,” she called, still drying the box.

Willem’s voice drifted in, gravelly and smug. “And you’re welcome.” He came in with his usual rhythm: two steps, a dramatic sigh, a muttered comment about arthritis that never quite seemed to slow him down. Behind him, Bas was quieter, more precise, carrying a crate of fresh eggs under one arm and looking very pointedly not toward the back stairs.

“Morning,” Bas said, barely. She nodded. “Coffee’s fresh. Just don’t touch the lemon cake.” Willem grunted, already reaching for the pot. “That for your little Framboisine?” She glanced up. “Obviously.” Margaux padded in moments later, wearing a dress backwards and one shoe. Her curls were wild, her mood even more so. “Your dress is inside out,” her mother said without turning. “No, it’s custom,” Margaux replied solemnly. Willem laughed, scooping her up with surprising ease for someone who claimed to have a bad back. “My little Framboisine! You’re going to rule the school.” “Framboisine,” Lando repeated from the doorway, rubbing sleep from his face. “What does that mean? Like… jam?”

The whole room turned to look at him.

He blinked. “Just asking.” “It’s a word Willem made up,” she said, adjusting Margaux’s collar. “Technically means nothing.” “Means everything,” Willem corrected. Lando raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a perfume.” Bas cleared his throat but didn’t speak. Margaux was now arranging a small army of sugar packets into a battlefield across the bar. She grabbed her keys. “We’re walking. I’ll be back in ten. Try not to burn anything.” Willem saluted with his mug. “We’ll keep the walls standing.” “Bas, check the back freezer, yeah? It’s humming again.”

He nodded, already disappearing into the kitchen. Outside, the morning was crisp, the air laced with rosemary and woodsmoke. Margaux skipped two steps ahead, humming something off-key. Lando followed them halfway down the drive.

“Do you walk her every day?” he asked. “When I can,” she said. “It’s not far.” He hesitated. “Can I come?” She gave him a sideways glance. “You planning on enrolling too?” He grinned. “Just curious.” “You’re nosy.” “Same thing.”

Margaux had already run ahead to collect a rock she’d named yesterday. She looked at Lando again, barefoot in trainers, eyes still soft with sleep, not asking the right kind of questions.

“Fine,” she said. “But don’t complain if someone throws a baguette at you.”

They walked on, past shuttered windows and crooked doors, her daughter darting in and out of shadow like a fish in clear water. At the school gates, Margaux turned just once to wave, already tangled in conversation with a friend. Then it was quiet again. Just the gravel underfoot and the lazy hum of a town not in a rush. The épicerie sat like it had grown there, wedged between the café and the church, shutters flaking, lavender in old jam jars on the sill. She opened the door with the same touch she used to quiet her daughter at night. Inside, it smelled of thyme, newspaper ink, and twenty years of salted butter.

Jacky popped her head up from behind the counter like a startled badger. “Ma petite veuve!” she cried, arms flung wide. Lando, mid-step behind her, froze. “Sorry your what?” “Little innkeeper,” she muttered. “It’s a long story. Just smile.” Jacky swept around the counter in a blur of floral fabric, clutching her by both arms and kissing each cheek with the force of a small riot. “You never visit anymore,” Jacky scolded. “I thought you’d eloped with a plumber.” “I don’t have time to elope.” “Well, that’s depressing,” said a new voice, higher, sharper, amused. Chloé strode in from the back room, hair buzzed on one side, eyeliner theatrical. Behind her trailed Romain, in a crochet tank top and sandals, carrying an open bag of lentils and looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of gravity. Chloé blinked at Lando. “Oh, he’s pretty.” Romain tilted his head. “He’s famous.” “I knew I recognized the jawline,” Chloé said, snapping her fingers. “Racer?” “Relax,” Romain said, waving a lentil at him. “We’re anarchists.” The innkeeper was already moving toward the back shelves, ignoring them. “I need juice boxes and batteries.” “Romantic,” Jacky called after her. Chloé leaned across the counter toward Lando. “She raised that kid alone, you know. Moved back five years ago. Took over the inn. Her parents gone, the baby’s dad too, some freak accident, boat crash or something. Didn’t even speak for the first month.”

Lando’s stomach twisted.

“She never talks about it,” Romain added, like it was fascinating. “Doesn’t mean we don’t.” “She’s good,” Jacky said firmly, tapping the counter. “Solid. Doesn’t ask for help. Too proud, probably. But the girl’s got backbone.” “She used to cry behind the wine crates,” Chloé offered helpfully. “Chloé,” Jacky snapped. “I’m saying it nicely.”

Lando said nothing. Just glanced toward the far aisle, where she was crouched, choosing the least dented juice box with surgical precision.

“Look at her,” Romain murmured. “Like nothing touches her.” Lando nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I see that.” She returned with an armful and a frown. “You’re all talking about me, aren’t you?” Jacky fluttered a hand. “Just saying you should visit more. And eat more. And maybe date someone not terrible.” She sighed and dropped the groceries on the counter. “Add bread. And whatever Margaux got here on Wednesday.” Chloé slid a jar of olives toward her. “Your kid’s a genius. She re-alphabetized the spice rack.” “She’s five.” “Exactly.”

While they packed the bag, Lando moved toward the till.

“Don’t,” she said. “I’m just-” “You’re a guest.” He looked at Jacky. Jacky looked at her. Then took his card anyway. “I’m ignoring her,” Jacky said brightly. “You’ll die first,” she warned, with a straight face. Jacky smiled. “Maybe. But not today.” As they left, Chloé called out, “Don’t let him fix your swing, by the way! He’s too pretty. He’ll break it.” Lando looked back once. Jacky gave him a nod he didn’t understand but felt anyway. They walked in silence. The bag in her hand was heavy. The words in his throat, heavier.

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That night, the bar was finally quiet. Bas wiped down the counters with slow, steady movements, the familiar rhythm grounding the end of the day. She moved between bottles and glasses, locking up, her thoughts elsewhere. Outside, the air had cooled, sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the garden. Lando caught her just as she stepped out the door, the last lock clicking shut behind them.

“You still here?” she asked, half-smiling, trying to hide the tiredness beneath. He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.” She studied him in the low light, the lines of his face softer without the day’s sun or the buzz of the inn around them. “So,” she said, voice light, “I just found out you’re an F1 driver.” He blinked, surprised. “You didn’t know?” “Of course I did,” she said, shaking her head. “You just never mentioned it. Didn’t seem relevant, sometimes, it’s easier to keep things to yourself. The stuff you don’t want people to see.” Her fingers twitched with something unspoken, the weight of years she’d carried alone, of losses too sharp to name, I lost people,” she said, voice low. “Not in a way you talk about. Not aloud. Just in the silence that follows.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something slipped out, a truth he hadn’t meant to say. “I get that.”

She glanced up, surprised by the honesty. No judgement. No trying to fix it. They stood close, the cool night wrapping around them like a whispered secret. He reached out almost without thinking, brushing a stray leaf from her braid, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, soft, tempting, and then back to his eyes, caught between wanting and holding back. Their breaths mingled, shallow and uneven, the space between them charged, electric and fragile, balanced on the edge of something neither dared to cross. His eyes searched hers, silent questions tangled in the dark. She tilted her head, lips parted slightly, heart quickening. Then, from just down the path, a small voice called out, clear and bright. “Maman?” The spell broke. He stepped back, but the air between them still hummed with all the words left unsaid.

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The kitchen was already hot. The fan above the stove turned like it regretted being alive. A pan sizzled too loudly. Coffee steamed in a chipped white mug by the sink, untouched. She was slicing tomatoes. Bas was too quiet. He moved like he always did, clean, efficient, sleeves rolled, apron already stained. But there was something about the way he stacked the bread this morning. Like it had personally offended him.

“Did you check the fridge door?” she asked, without looking. “It clicks now,” he said. “Good.”

Silence. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “You and the Englishman were talking late.” She wiped juice off her hands with a tea towel. “I run an inn. Talking happens.” “He’s still here.” “He’s waiting on his car.” Bas turned, slow. “Fancy cars don’t wait well in this village. Not with the mechanic we’ve got.” She met his eyes for a beat too long. Bas shrugged, casual like a knife. “You should tell him to see Henri today. Parts take forever.” From the hallway: footsteps, light and loose. Lando, hair still damp, a different T-shirt, holding two empty mugs. “Coffee?” he offered. Bas turned back to the stove. She took one mug. “Kitchen’s full.” “I can go.” “No,” she said. “You should go see the mechanic.” Lando raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there was a rush.” “There is,” she said flatly. “Here.” She handed him a slip of paper with a number on it. Henri’s. “Tell him I sent you. He’ll know the car.” Lando looked between the two of them. “Everything alright?” “Perfect,” Bas muttered.

She didn’t answer. Lando nodded slowly. “Right. I’ll call him.” He turned to go but paused at the door. “Tomatoes smell good,” he said, almost as an afterthought. Bas didn’t look up. “They’re not for you.” Lando blinked, then smiled. “Noted.”

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The sound of Henri’s van backfiring up the hill was impossible to miss. She wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped outside just as Lando met the mechanic at the gravel edge of the drive, where the silver car sat sun-baked and miserable. Henri climbed down with a groan, jean shorts and a sweat-stained cap, followed by one tall, serious boy, maybe eighteen, clearly the one who actually fixed things, the one they’d seen on Lando’s tour; and Romain, holding a glass bottle of fizzy lemonade and absolutely no tools. Lando looked from one to the other. “I’m guessing he’s not the assistant?” he asked, nodding toward Romain.

“Assistant in vibes,” Romain said cheerfully, adjusting his crochet top. “But I supervise aggressively.” Henri clapped Lando on the back, already peering under the hood. “She tells me you broke this beauty somewhere between bravado and a bad decision.” “She’s not wrong.” Romain leaned against the car like he’d posed for a perfume ad. “The village is very interested in this, by the way.” Lando looked up. “In what?” “Your car. Your arrival. Your face.” “I thought they didn’t care about famous people.” “They don’t. That’s why they love talking about them.”

The older boy, Henri’s eldest son, was already under the hood, muttering in rapid French. She stayed back by the doorway, arms crossed. Lando looked over his shoulder, caught her eye. He came toward her, brushing his hands on his shorts. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “That guy in the kitchen, Bas. You two alright?” She raised one eyebrow. “You asking personally or for the guestbook?” “I’m asking because he looked like he wanted to put my head in the fryer.” She tilted her head slightly, weighing the honesty in his voice. “We’re fine,” she said. “He just has a long memory.” Lando nodded slowly. “Right.” She studied him. “You’re not in a rush, are you?” He looked back at the mechanic, the car, the two sons now half-arguing in French over whether something was cracked or just French by nature. “Not really,” he admitted. “Honestly, if they said it’d take two weeks, I’d probably thank them.” She smirked. “Dangerous thing to say in this town.” “I’m full of dangerous things lately.” From across the garden, Romain shouted, “We’re going to the florist in ten!” Henri groaned. “Don’t yell in front of the vehicle, Romain. It’s fragile.” “It’s English,” Romain corrected. She turned to Lando. “You want to stay for the postmortem?” “I feel like it’s already being live-streamed.”

He followed her back inside just as Margaux came barrelling down the stairs, sunhat backwards and one shoe on, holding a flower drawing like it was an international treaty.

“Maman,” she announced. “I need violets.” Romain spun dramatically. “Then you shall have them! I’m going to meet Chloé and Jacky. Margs can come.” She hesitated. “You sure?” Romain pressed a hand to his heart. “I would die for the Framboisine.” Margaux beamed. “Yay!” Romain grabbed Margaux’s hand. “To the florist, small queen!”

Then they were off, skipping toward the road, leaving behind the car, the argument, the inn. Lando exhaled. She did too, but quieter.

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The door had barely shut behind Romain and Margaux before the house fell quiet again. Too quiet. She stood in the hallway a moment longer than she meant to, watching the swing of the empty coat hook where Margaux’s sunhat usually hung. It was silly. She knew that. But still. Lando didn’t say anything. Just hovered nearby, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than usual.

“She’ll be fine,” she said finally. “I wasn’t worried.” “You were.” He smiled, faint and lopsided. “Maybe a little.” They drifted back outside. The sun was slanting low, burning everything gold. The mechanic was still under the hood, muttering and swearing. The serious son nodded once and disappeared inside for a cold drink. Romain’s echo had long faded down the road. “I keep thinking about that grocery shop,” Lando said after a moment. “Oh?” “They all know everything. Or think they do.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept her arms folded.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “It’s just intense.” She looked at him then. Really looked. “You’re not used to people seeing you, are you?” He thought about it. “They see the wrong parts.” “They always do.” Henri banged something metal against something louder. “C’est de la merde de luxe, ça!” “Translation?” Lando asked. She smiled. “Luxury bullshit.” “Fits.”

A silence stretched out between them. Not tense. Just there. Honest.

He glanced toward the road. “What happened to her dad?” She didn’t flinch. “Fishing accident. Small boat. Bad storm. No signal. By the time they found them.” She trailed off. He nodded, not pushing. “And your parents?” he asked gently. She shrugged. “Same storm. Same boat, I didn’t go because I was pregnant, I couldn’t be on the boat without throwing up.” He looked at her. “Jesus.” “Yeah.” Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another pause.

“She was born two months later,” she added quietly. “That’s why the name stuck. Framboisine. My mum used to call me that. I hated it. But Margaux, she makes it work.” He swallowed. “That’s a lot.” “Mm.”

The sun touched the tree line. The mechanic packed up with curses and promises to return. Lando stood beside her like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to move or stay.

“I didn’t come here for any of this,” he said. She met his eyes. “Good. Then maybe you’ll stay for the right reasons.”

That hung in the air between them. Close. Too close. Then Bas pushed open the bar door behind them. “Need help cleaning up?” She stepped back. “Yeah.” Lando exhaled. “I’ll be upstairs.”

She nodded, already walking. He paused at the door, glanced back once. The garden was quiet. The house even quieter. He didn't know what he wanted. But he was starting to know where it was.

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Lando was still supposed to be a guest. That was the rule. Unspoken, but sharp-edged. Guests paid. Guests passed through. Guests didn’t fix things or fold tea towels or make children laugh like they’d been there all along. And yet. By midweek, he was wearing one of Bas’s spare aprons, slightly too small, while retying the back of a chair cushion for the third time. He hadn’t asked permission. He just started. Margaux trailed after him like it was her job. She sat cross-legged on the counter while he stacked glasses. Gave him running commentary while he restocked the ice. Played sous-chef while he chopped strawberries, mostly just to steal them.

“Are you working here now?” she asked with full-mouthed curiosity. He grinned. “Depends. Do I get paid in juice boxes?” “Yes,” she declared. “And also, one of my rocks.” “Then it’s a deal.”

She watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, towel slung over one shoulder. It was unnerving how easily it had happened. One day he was a stranded guest. The next he was teasing Margaux into brushing her hair without protest or rewiring the dodgy switch in the hallway with a screwdriver he borrowed from Willem.

She liked it. Not just the help. Not just the extra hands when the bar got too full or Bas got moody. She liked him there. The way he made her daughter laugh from the stomach. And that scared the hell out of her. Because she'd spent five years turning this house into a fortress of competence. Because she knew how easily kids attached.

Willem eyed Lando like a stray dog who kept coming back to the porch. Not hostile. Just cautious. Bas wasn’t so subtle. He stopped speaking to Lando altogether, except for clipped one-word exchanges that came sharp as a snapped string. He spent more time than necessary in the cellar. And when he passed Lando in the hallway, he did it with the silence of a man actively choosing not to shove someone.

Jacky, of course, was the opposite. “He carries things,” she said while dropping off a crate of soda. “With his arms, and not his ego. That’s rare.” Chloé chimed in later with, “I don’t trust his hair. But he’s polite.” And Romain, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. Like a sad puppy with a credit card.”

She rolled her eyes at all of them. But Margaux, Margaux called him “Sir Lando” now, like he was in a storybook. And when he lifted her onto the garden wall so she could watch the bats at dusk, she laughed so hard she hiccupped. That night, after closing, she found the rock Margaux gave him sitting on the windowsill by his room. Carefully placed. Like it meant something. She didn’t touch it. But she didn’t stop looking either.

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The first time he tried, it was mid-morning. She was hauling empty bottles out to the recycling bins behind the kitchen. He followed her out, grabbed one of the crates before she could. “Can I ask you something?” She didn’t look up. “If it’s about the coffee machine, the answer’s probably ‘swear louder.’” “It’s not.”

That made her pause. Then the door banged open behind them.

Willem, wiping his hands on a cloth, stuck his head out. “Do we have any more of that dark rum, or has Bas hidden it again?” She groaned. “Bottom shelf. Far left.”

Willem disappeared again.

She turned back. “What was your question?” He hesitated. “Nothing.”

The second time, it was in the garden. He was fixing the lantern. She was moving chairs. “Tonight,” he said, half-breathless. “You busy?” She raised an eyebrow. “Always.” “No, I mean, not work. I was thinking dinner. Maybe. If you wanted.”

Bas slammed the bar door open at exactly that moment, muttering something in Dutch about inventory and missing aprons. Lando sighed. “Never mind.”

She said nothing. But her mouth twitched like she almost smiled.

Third time was technically the worst.

She was in the kitchen. Margaux had just fallen off the garden bench and cut her toe on a pebble. There was blood. There were tears. There was the kind of chaos only a child can generate in under eight seconds. By the time Lando found them, she was crouched with a wet cloth and soothing voice, and Margaux was hiccupping in dramatic pain.

He hovered in the doorway, helpless. “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Not unless you’re secretly a surgeon,” she said, not looking up. He retreated.

Fourth time. Evening. Light fading. Tables set. The projector screen already hanging from the side of the shed. She was behind the bar, arranging wine bottles. He didn’t delay this time. Just said, “Do you want to go out with me?”

She paused. Looked at him. Really looked. Then, “I can’t.” He blinked. “Oh.” “No, I mean, I can’t tonight. It’s movie and karaoke. I run it. I’ve got wine to pour, kids to keep from falling into the firepit, and at least one guy who always throws up after singing Céline Dion.” Lando relaxed. Just slightly. “So not a no.” She smirked. “Just bad timing.” “Seems like I’m cursed.” “I told you this village was a nightmare.” He tapped the bar. “Then I guess I’ll come. Sit in the back. Heckle you during karaoke.” “You heckle me,” she said, “you’re next on the mic.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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The garden transformed just before sunset. Willem strung up the lights like he’d been rehearsing for a wedding. Bas moved chairs with grim efficiency. Chloé painted faces on the kids who asked, then on a few who didn’t. Jacky brought champagne. Romain brought cake. Uninvited, but no one said no. The screen, an old white sheet, tugged tight against the side of the shed, flapped in the breeze until Lando pinned the corners with bricks. By the time the projector warmed up, there were thirty people settled on mismatched chairs, beanbags, and picnic blankets. Dogs barked in the distance. Someone had brought a saxophone, just in case. She moved through it all like a conductor. Directing, calming, pouring, smiling when necessary. But never still. Never quiet. Lando watched from a low wooden stool with a plastic cup of Jacky’s punch and a slight buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She never sat down. But she laughed, real and open, when Margaux spilled popcorn on the headteachers feet. She high-fived Chloé after catching a stray wine cork mid-air. She mouthed the words to the movie from behind the bar like someone who knew every scene by heart.

When the credits rolled, the real chaos began. Someone dragged a speaker inside. Jacky shouted something about Céline Dion. Willem groaned. Bas disappeared. Lando stayed.

He stood at the edge of the room, near the wine rack, half-shadowed, watching. The karaoke list was a mess of scribbled names and inside jokes. Half the village seemed to have chosen “their” song. Margaux was already dancing barefoot on a chair.

Then someone shouted, “Madame la patronne!” The room erupted in cheers. Someone pushed a microphone into her hand.

She raised it, horrified. “No.” “Yes!” Jacky barked. “It’s tradition!” Margaux jumped down, grabbed her hand. “We practiced!” “Oh god,” she muttered.

Lando leaned against the wall, smiling now. The music started. Off-key. Too loud. One of those French pop songs from the 90s that sounded like fizzy water and heartbreak. She sang badly. So badly. Flat on every chorus. Late on every verse. But Margaux belted along like she was headlining Glastonbury, and somewhere between the second verse and the bridge, they were dancing. Just the two of them, mother and daughter, spinning in a swirl of terrible notes and wild joy.

It was awful. It was perfect.

Later, when the room thinned out, when Jacky had fallen asleep sitting up and someone was mopping up what might’ve been cider, he found her stacking chairs with one hand, wine glass in the other.

“You survived,” he said. “Barely.” “You were-” “Don’t.” He held up both hands. “Okay.” They stood there for a beat. Then he asked, quieter now, “Tomorrow night?” She didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah.” A second passed. “Just don’t pick karaoke.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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Chloé had arrived , armed with a velvet scrunchie, three mismatched eyeshadow palettes, and the absolute conviction that she was born for this moment. “I’ve seen ‘Amélie’ twelve times,” she declared. “I know what whimsy looks like.”

Romain trailed in behind her with a bowl of something green and ominous. “Spirulina face mask. Organic. No preservatives. Smells like regret.” “You’re not putting that on my face,” she said. “It’s for me, obviously,” he replied, already smoothing it across his cheekbones with two fingers and a spoon. “I want to look radiant when your child inevitably braids my hair.” Chloé shoved her down into a chair and started attacking her braid with a brush like it had personally offended her. “This isn’t just a date. This is post-parenthood redemption.” “I don’t need redemption.” “You wore the same hoodie for three days last week.” She opened her mouth to argue but Romain held up a finger. “To be fair, it was a good hoodie.” Margaux skidded into the room wearing fairy wings and socks that did not belong to her. “Can I have a sword?” “No,” her mother said. “Too late,” said Romain, pulling one out from behind a cushion.

Somehow, between the chaos and the laughter, she ended up in a dress she hadn’t worn in years, her lips slightly glossed, her nerves trying not to show.

“You look like you belong in a romantic comedy,” Chloé said proudly. “I don’t know what that means.” “It means perfect.” Romain, lying sideways on the sofa with Margaux climbing over his back, gave a thumbs-up. “Go seduce the race car capitalist. We believe in you.” She tried not to smile. “You’re both insane.” “And babysitting for free,” Chloé added. “Don’t forget.”

Downstairs, the inn was quieter. Bas was restocking the wine shelf, half-crouched with a crate against his knee. He looked up as she stepped off the last stair. And then, paused. “You look,” he started, then trailed off. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Nice. It suits you. I mean, the Englishman. He’s lucky.” There was no bitterness in it, just something soft and true.

She gave a half-laugh, brushing a hand down her skirt like it could shake the moment off. “Don’t start being sweet now, Bas. It’s confusing.” He shrugged. “Maybe I like confusing you.” For a beat, she didn’t know what to say. She took one last breath, tucked a curl behind her ear, and stepped out into the night. Lando was waiting just outside the door, leaning against the fence, like he’d only just remembered how to stand still. When he saw her, whatever words he’d been holding vanished. His mouth opened, then closed again, helpless. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.” “I, yeah,” he said, blinking. “I am.” The corners of her mouth curled, despite herself. “We’re not staying in town.” He nodded quickly, still caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier. “Okay.” “The next village’s quieter,” she added, reaching for the keys. “Less likely to be interrogated over dessert.”

He followed her out to the gravel drive, where her father’s old Peugeot sat hunched like an aging cat, sour yellow, dented in one door, and always smelling faintly of varnish and memory.

“You’re kidding,” Lando said. She tossed him a look. “This car has climbed the Alps.” “Recently?”

She didn’t answer. Just got in. It rattled over the roads like it remembered them better than she did, every turn filled with the soft squeal of age. The radio refused to tune properly, spitting out fragments of chanson and static. Lando didn’t complain once. Dinner was at a tiny bistro a village over, the kind of place that didn’t bother with menus or music, just wrote the day’s offerings in chalk and let the chef decide who was worth impressing.

“Don’t make that face,” she told him as they sat down. “I’m not making a face.” “You’re definitely making a face.”

Lando looked around, at the rusted lanterns hanging like forgotten fruit, the cracked tiles underfoot, the old man behind the bar aggressively ignoring them. “I’ve just never eaten anywhere with this much personality.” She smirked. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” He leaned in. “You think I’m pretty?” “I think you’re going to cry when the wine arrives.”

He did. Almost. It was cold, red, and unapologetically sour. She drank hers without blinking. The food was rough and honest, lentils with sausage, a hunk of bread that could double as a doorstop, and something involving mushrooms that might have been soup, or might have been a dare. They ate all of it. Or most of it. Lando gave up on the soup halfway through and fed it covertly to a cat under the table. She pretended not to notice.

“You always like this?” he asked, somewhere between the second basket of bread and a piece of walnut tart that flaked apart when you looked at it too hard. “Like what?” “Sharp. Funny. Impossible to read.” She tilted her head. “You always this forward?” “No,” he admitted. “But I like it when you look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you already know how this ends.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood, tossed a few coins on the table, and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.” They walked without touching. The streetlights were dim, flickering like they couldn’t quite commit. He watched her as she led them off the main road, down a side path edged with wild thyme and silence. There was an old bridge there, no longer used. Just stone and shadow and the sound of water below. She leaned against the railing, arms folded and looked out like it meant something. Like it always had. He joined her, close but not too close.

“I used to come here when I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Still do, sometimes.” He nodded, gently. “Margaux too?” “She thinks it’s haunted.” A pause. “It probably is.” He laughed quietly. “You’re hard to figure out.” “That’s the point.”

They stood like that for a long moment. Then she looked at him, really looked, and something in her softened. Her guard shifted. Just enough. He leaned in, but not all the way. She didn’t meet him. Not yet. Their breaths tangled, shallow and hesitant. A pause stretched between them, just long enough to feel heavy. His hand brushed hers, just their pinkies touching.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low, like if he said it louder it might ruin the moment.

She nodded. Once. Then again, more vigorously. They both hesitated anyway. And then, barely, a kiss. A soft press. Tentative. Unsure. Not even long enough to count, but it bloomed in the quiet between them like something delicate and unspeakably rare. When they pulled apart, neither of them opened their eyes. Her forehead found his. Their pinkies still hooked. Neither moved. Like they could stay in that breathless, suspended space just a little longer.

“You’re extremely red,” he murmured. “Shut up.” “Like actually vermilion.” She groaned. “Go to hell.”

He smiled. Wide. Pleased with himself. She leaned in and kissed him again. Quick. Impatient. Right on the mouth. He blinked.

“Stop talking,” she said. His grin only grew. “Make me.”

She shoved his shoulder. He caught her wrist. Neither of them let go.

“This scares me,” she whispered. He didn’t move. “Yeah.” “I have a kid. A business. A whole life. I don’t have space for guesswork.” He exhaled slowly. “I know. And I won’t pretend I’ve got it figured out. I travel a lot. My life’s a mess most of the time. But I really like you.”

She looked up.

“And I like Margaux, too,” he added. “She’s a great kid. Batshit crazy, like you, but brilliant.” That did something strange to her chest, like grief and hope had decided to share a drink and settle in together.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile either. But she touched his hand. And didn’t let go.

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He drove them back along narrow, winding roads framed by dark cypress and whispers of lavender. She let him, fingers loosely resting near the gearshift, close enough to touch but not quite daring to. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was electric, humming beneath the quiet, charged with all the words neither wanted to say aloud.

The engine thrummed low, steady, like a heartbeat. When the inn appeared ahead, bathed in soft golden light from the porch, she hesitated, caught between the safe and the unknown.

Then, “Fuck it,” she whispered to herself.

Before he could ask, she reached out, fingers tangling in the soft curls at his neck, pulling him down. The kiss was different now, heated, urgent. Their breaths came in short huffs, warm and tangled, slipping between mouths in desperate rhythm. Hands fumbled and grabbed at clothing as they spilled out of the car, bodies pulling impossibly close, like magnets that refused to let go. They stumbled inside, still wrapped around each other, every step an excuse to lean in, to touch, to feel. A sudden quiet pulled her back just long enough to check on Margaux. Through the cracked bedroom door, she saw the small figure curled under soft blankets in a unicorn onesie. Chloe was beside her, wings spread like a fragile guardian angel, and Romain was slumped on the beanbag, his face a mess of “fairy-turned-pirate” makeup, utterly asleep.

She smiled softly, heart pinching.

The moment passed and they melted back together.

“Your room, or mine?” she whispered, voice thick with breath and promise.

“Either, if, you are sure?” His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer still, as she nodded energetically.

Her hands found his hair, fingers threading through curls, then trailing down to the front of his shirt. Soft sounds escaped her lips, half moans, half laughter. They broke apart just enough to giggle when he discovered a ticklish kiss on a sensitive spot at her neck. Smiling, laughing into the kiss, they backed onto the bed. He slipped her dress off slowly, eyes dark and full of wonder for a few seconds before he covered every inch of her face with gentle, teasing kisses, grinning all the while. He traced slow, feather-light kisses down her jaw, his smile mischievous but eyes burning with something deeper.

“You’re too beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Makes me want to forget everything else.”

She laughed softly, breath hitching. “Oh, really? Maybe I should take advantage of that.” He grinned, fingers slipping under the hem of her underwear, thumbs brushing the skin beneath. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

There was a pause, electric, full of promise, before he eased her back, lips finding the sensitive curve of her neck again, softer this time, coaxing. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, voice playful but breathless: “Well, then, show me how much you mean it.” She swallowed, heart racing, but her mouth still found the words. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a professional race car driver, you’re surprisingly clumsy with buttons.”

Nervous, but not enough to stop teasing, she raised an eyebrow. “So, uh, you’re sure about this? Because last time I checked, I wasn’t exactly the ‘date-of-the-year’ type.” He bent down, breath warm against her skin, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you kidding? You’re the only one I want to be here with.” Her breath hitched, a mix of nerves and something fiercer stirring inside. “I haven’t done this in ages. Like, real dates. And this? Not what I expected.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, voice husky. “Neither did I. But maybe that’s what makes it perfect.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Perfectly terrifying, you mean.” His hands slid down, tracing the lines of her ribs, and she felt the electricity of his touch teasing and certain all at once. “Terrifying, maybe. But I promise I’m good at taking care of terrifying things.” She let out a shaky breath, a laugh breaking through. “Well, Mr. Caretaker, start showing me then.” His grin was wicked, hands moving with purpose as he leaned in again, every kiss and touch laced with a hunger tempered by something gentle like he was learning every curve, every shiver, every word she didn’t say. He paused, eyes locking with hers, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So, where exactly do you want me to start? Because I’m good at multitasking.” She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “Wow, confident. I like it. But let’s not get too ambitious, Romeo.” His fingers trailed down her side, light and deliberate. “Ambition’s kind of my thing. But I can take it slow. Very slow.” She swallowed hard, heart pounding louder than any engine. “Slow’s good. Slow’s safe. For now.” He dipped his head, breath warm against her skin, and she couldn’t help but shiver. His mouth found the delicate curve just below her hipbone, lips teasing, then pressing with more intent.

“Okay, multitasking starts now,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, breath hitching between quiet laughter and soft gasps. She bit her lip, trying to sound unimpressed but failing spectacularly. “Smooth talker. I’m warning you.” He pulled back just long enough to grin up at her, eyes dark and serious. “Only for you.” Then he went back, slower this time, like he was memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every whispered word she didn’t dare say out loud. And she let herself fall into it, nervous, teasing, and utterly alive under his touch. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending sparks through her nerves. She arched beneath him, fingers tightening in his hair as a breathy gasp escaped her lips.

"Fuck!"  The word came out ragged, half-laugh, half-moan, as his mouth pressed harder, hotter, like he was savouring the taste of her. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady, but there was no rush, just the slow, maddening drag of his tongue, the way he paused just to feel her tremble. "Still terrifying?" he murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her hips jerk.

She let out a shaky exhale, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. "More," she breathed, barely a whisper, and he obeyed, his tongue dipping deeper, coaxing out a broken sound as her back arched off the sheets.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, possessive and grounding, while his mouth worked her with relentless precision. His tongue curled in a way that made her thighs clench around his shoulders. A whimper caught in her throat as he dragged his teeth lightly, just once before soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue.

"God," She arched, her heel digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating against her, and she could feel his smirk.

"Told you I multitask," he murmured, before one hand slipped between them, thumb pressing in slow circles just above where his mouth had been.

Her breath hitched as his fingers and tongue worked in perfect, devastating rhythm, slow, then relentless, then slow again, dragging her toward the edge with agonizing precision. Every nerve burned, every gasp came sharper, until her hips jerked against his mouth, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Lando" His name tore from her throat as the tension snapped, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves.

He didn’t let up, drawing it out until she was trembling, until her thighs clamped around him in helpless oversensitivity. Only then did he pull back, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before crawling up her body. He hovered over her, forearms bracketing her head, sweat-damp curls falling across his forehead as he studied her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, rough and deliberate.

"Still with me?" he murmured, voice roughened.

She nipped at his thumb, breath uneven. "Depends. You planning to talk all night or?" Lando exhaled a laugh, shifting his hips just enough to tease, the heat of him pressing where she ached. "Just checking," he said, dragging his nose along her jaw. "Wanted to hear you say it."

Her nails scored down his back. "Now," she demanded.

His laugh was dark and hungry as he caught her wrist, pinning it above her head.

"Demanding," he murmured, but there was no protest in it, only heat. His hips rolled forward in one slow, deliberate stroke, filling her with a groan that tore from his throat. She arched beneath him, breath catching as he pressed deeper, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

She dug her heel into his back, urging him on. "Shut up and move." Lando obeyed, dragging out almost completely before thrusting back in with a sharp snap of his hips. His thrusts turned punishing, the slick slap of skin filling the room as he drove into her with raw, unfiltered need. She met him stroke for stroke, her back arching off the mattress, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in her gut.

"Look at me," he growled, fingers tightening on her hip. Her eyes flew open, locking onto his, dark, hungry, ruined, just as his thumb found that perfect spot between them, circling hard.

The pressure snapped, her cry tearing through the air as she shattered around him, muscles clenching so tight he groaned through gritted teeth. His breath was ragged against her neck as he slowed to a torturous pace, hips rolling in deep, deliberate circles that made her toes curl.

"Think you can handle one more?" he murmured, teeth grazing her earlobe.

Her laugh came out breathless, half-moan, half-protest. "Mmf you," a sharp gasp cut her off as his thumb pressed down again, ruthless and perfect, "are insufferable." Lando grinned, all teeth and wicked intent, before snapping his hips forward hard enough to steal her next words.  "That a yes?" Her nails bit into his shoulders as she arched, voice fraying at the edges, so she nodded instead.

"Say it," he said, fingers tightening in her hair as his hips stuttered against hers. "Gotta hear you say it."

Her breath hitched, lips parting around the words he wanted, needed. "I'm close," she gasped, arching as his thumb circled that sweet, torturous spot again. "So close." "Good." His praise was rough, possessive, mouth crashing against hers in a messy kiss. “Do it, come now."

The command, the way his voice broke on the words, unravelled her completely. A sharp cry tore from her throat as pleasure ripped through her, waves of it, relentless, stealing the air from her lungs. His own release following after. The room was quiet, except for their breathing. Not soft. Not yet. It still came in waves, uneven and catching in the throat like it didn’t quite know how to settle. And then he grinned.

She barely caught the flash of it before he shifted, kissed her cheek once, then again, and again, all over her face in quick, silly bursts. Her forehead. Her nose. Her jaw. A smattering of affection that felt like he couldn’t stop if he tried. She let out a laugh, sudden and breathless, covering her face with one hand. “What are you doing?” He kept going. “Showing off,” he said against her temple. “Victory lap.” “God, you’re unbearable,” But she was laughing too hard to make it convincing. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You love it.” She huffed, wrapping her arms around him, letting herself be pulled back into his chest, both of them breathless now for a whole different reason. They lay tangled, smiling into each other’s skin, hearts racing but slowing with each second. Then, like a tide creeping in, the quiet returned. The curtain shifted with the breeze. The distant bark of a dog. The faint creak of the house settling.

And just like that, her thoughts began to catch up. She shifted, sitting up a little too fast, the sheet slipping from her chest as she turned away, legs over the side of the bed. The cool air against her skin felt like a jolt. Lando lifted his head. “Hey,” “I just need a second,” she said, voice tight. Not angry. Just threadbare. He sat up too, tugging his boxers back on. He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, hands resting gently on her knees. “You’re not a mistake,” he said quietly. “This, whatever this is, it doesn’t scare me.” “It scares me,” she whispered. He nodded once. Didn’t flinch. “Because of her?” She nodded, throat tight. “Then let it scare you,” he said. “Just don’t shut it down before it starts." She looked at him. Really looked. He looked open. Steady. Not perfect. Not certain. But here. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “We figure it out.” “And if you leave?” “I will,” he said honestly. “Eventually. That’s my job. But I don’t want to leave this, not you.” Her heart ached at that, split down the middle between hope and something sharper. “You say that now, you barely know me.” “I’ll say it tomorrow too,” he said. “Promise?” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She smiled. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t easy. But it was real. She reached for his hand. “Stay,” she said. And he did.

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The light came in soft and golden through the thin curtain, like it knew not to rush them. She stirred first, one arm across Lando’s chest, her leg tangled with his under the sheets. He was warm, calm. Still mostly asleep. And it was tempting, dangerously tempting, to stay that way. To let the world wait. But the world didn’t wait. She slipped out of bed quietly, pulled on the shirt he’d worn last night, her underwear from the chair, and padded over to the window. The village outside was already beginning to stir. Lando shifted behind her.

“Hey,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

She turned. “Hi.” A beat passed. Then she crossed to the bed, sat beside him, and said softly, “We need to keep this quiet.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Right. For how long?” “Just until I talk to Margaux. And Bas.” “Bas?” His face shifted, confused. “You don’t owe him that.” “I don’t,” she agreed. “But I’ll give it to him anyway.” Lando nodded slowly, watching her carefully. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.” She squeezed his hand, then stood. “Let’s get downstairs before anyone notices.”

They almost made it. The hallway was clear. The stairs creaked once, but quietly. She glanced back at Lando with the ghost of a grin, and when she turned forward again, Bas stood at the bottom step, towel slung over one shoulder, crate of glasses in hand. He clocked her first. Then Lando. Then her shirt, Lando’s shirt.

His jaw twitched. Nobody moved. Lando took one more cautious step, catching the tension too late. Bas didn’t speak. Just muttered something in Flemish, something creative and very much not church-appropriate, and walked off, fast, through the kitchen and into the storeroom. She closed her eyes briefly. Then handed Lando the crate. “Can you find Margaux? Keep her distracted?”

He nodded, already setting off. She followed Bas.

The storeroom smelled like lemon oil, aging potatoes, and quiet resentment. Bas was stacking bottles with too much purpose.

“Knock, knock,” she said, not bothering to. “I heard you coming,” he muttered. “You always do.” He didn’t look up. “You sneak around like someone who’s never owned a squeaky floorboard in her life.” “I wasn’t sneaking.” Bas dropped a bottle into the crate with a little too much force. “No?” “I was delaying.” He turned to face her finally. “That’s worse.” She folded her arms. “I didn’t mean for it to be a secret.” “No, Capitaine,” he said, with a dry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You just meant to keep the ship sailing while I clung to the side.” She winced at the old nickname. “Don’t call me that.” He shrugged. “Hard habit to break. You always were the bossy one.” “You never minded that before.” “Yeah,” he said. “Well. I minded it the morning after you left my bed and never looked back.”

The words hit sharper than she expected, even now. She didn’t flinch. “That night was a mistake.” “You didn’t say that then.” “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He looked at her, tired. “You just wanted someone who wouldn’t ask questions.” Silence stretched. Then she stepped forward. “You know me, Bas. You’ve always known me. Since we were kids throwing rocks at the school bell. Since you dared me to kiss Luc Delacroix and I broke his nose instead.” “God,” Bas said, a laugh catching in his throat. “Luc cried so much, his snot got on my shirt.” She smiled, briefly. “You let me wear that shirt for a week.”

“I was in love with you.” He didn’t say it with any drama. Just a flat, sad truth that hung in the air like humidity. “I know,” she whispered. “And I waited,” he said. “Like an idiot. I thought if I stayed, maybe you'd look at me the way you used to look at her dad.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “You were never an idiot. You just wanted something I didn’t have to give.” Bas looked at her hand. Then her face. “Is he serious?” “I don’t know yet. But he’s kind to her.” “That counts.” “It’s everything.”

He gave her a long, quiet look. Then nodded, slow. “You gonna make me work tonight?” “Absolutely.” “Even karaoke?” “You’ll sing if I say so.” “Still the Capitaine, then.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Only because you let me be.”

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Margaux was holding a wrench. This alone should have been cause for concern “Are you sure this goes there?” she asked, standing on the swing’s wooden seat with one foot and pointing like a dictator at the bolt Lando was tightening.

“Nope,” he said. “But if it breaks, I’ll blame you and flee the country.” Margaux giggled. “You’d never get away. I’d tell Jacky.” He gasped in mock betrayal. “You wouldn’t.” She grinned. “She knows everything. She’s probably watching right now.” “Do you think she spies with binoculars?” “She uses birds,” Margaux said, deadly serious. “Little ones.” Lando laughed. “Noted. No escaping village surveillance.” They were halfway through rebuilding the swing, old rope, new bolts, wood that had been sanded unevenly by someone who clearly had more confidence than tools. Lando was sweating through his shirt, kneeling in the grass, holding a power drill that clearly did not belong to him. Margaux, meanwhile, had appointed herself site supervisor, snack overseer, and honorary Empress of the swing.

“Can I try it now?” she asked. “Give me two more bolts and a miracle.” She sat cross-legged in the grass beside him. “You’re funny.” He grinned. “You always like bossing people around?” “I learned it from my mum,” she said, with absolutely no shame. Lando paused, glancing toward the inn. “She’s good at that.” “She’s good at everything.” His smile softened. “Yeah. She is.” Margaux lay back in the grass, arms stretched wide like she was making a snow angel in summer dust. “She used to push me on the swing after dinner. But it broke. So, we just kind of stopped.” Lando didn’t answer. Just picked up the last bolt and quietly locked it in.

Inside, she watched them through the kitchen window. The way Margaux gestured, all drama and limbs. The way Lando crouched beside her, nodding solemnly, pretending to follow every mad idea she pitched. He didn’t talk down to her. He didn’t perform. He just was. And her daughter was laughing. That sound, light, high, unguarded, it pulled something tight in her chest and unwound it, slow. Maybe she didn’t know what this was yet. But she knew what it wasn’t.

It wasn’t chaos. Or damage. Or a quick fix. It was better. And that was terrifying. She stepped away from the window. Her hands were still damp from scrubbing breakfast plates. But her heart was louder than the tap and the clock and the whisper of her own second-guessing.

It was time to ask the question that mattered most.

Margaux was still flushed from playing, hair full of bits of grass, shirt damp with whatever had been in Romain’s garden spray bottle. They were upstairs now, the window cracked open to the lavender breeze, the stars just beginning to prick the sky. She was tucking the sheet up under her daughter’s chin when Margaux blinked up and asked, “Can Lando come to story time tomorrow?”

Her hands stilled. “I’m not sure,” she said gently. “He might be busy.” Margaux shrugged. “He tells stories funny. Not like a teacher. Like he forgets the ending and just makes one up.” She smiled at that. “That sounds about right.” She sat beside her on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest. Like when I asked if you brushed your teeth and you said technically no.” Margaux’s eyes sparkled. “Okay.” “It’s always been just us. You and me. For a long time.” Margaux nodded. “Because we’re a team.” “Exactly,” she said, her voice thickening slightly. “But if someday, there was someone else. Not instead of you. Just with us. Would that be okay?” Margaux blinked. “Like another teammate?” “Yes. Maybe. Someone who made us laugh. Who was kind. Who cared about you as much as I do.” Margaux pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then: “Is he like Lando?” She stilled. “Maybe.” “Then it’s okay.” Her heart twisted. “But if he’s like Luc Delacroix,” Margaux added gravely, “then absolutely not.” She let out a laugh, quick and cracked. “You remember Luc?” “He told me broccoli was dessert. He can’t be trusted.” They both laughed, and her eyes stung. Margaux reached for her hand. “You can be happy, Maman. I don’t mind.”

That broke something open, soft and unbearable. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispered something into her curls she couldn’t even hear herself. Then Margaux yawned. “Can I swing tomorrow?”

“Only if it doesn’t rain.” “Lando said it’s strong now. He said we could fly.” “He’s good at making people believe that.”

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Later, she found him in the garden, sitting on the swing he’d just rebuilt, head tilted back toward the stars. When he heard her footsteps, he turned, smiling, warm, expectant. She didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, letting their shoulders brush.

Moments later, Margaux burst through the door in pyjamas and boots, arms flung out like wings.

“You’re meant to be asleep, Framboisine!” “You said we could fly! I want to try.” Lando laughed, standing. “Alright then. Strap in.”

He lifted her gently onto the swing. And the two of them, him on one side, her on the other, began to push. Slow, rhythmic, steady. Margaux squealed as her feet kicked higher and higher.

The stars above twinkled. The garden swayed in quiet motion. And for the first time in a long, long while, it didn’t feel like letting go. It felt like moving forward. Together.

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The inn was alive by midday. Weeks had passed since the date, and Lando had integrated himself further and further into the village life. Chloé had brought a speaker, and a playlist called happy-sad but mostly wine, which was already blasting through the garden. Jacky swept through the kitchen like she owned the place, dropping off a tray of almond croissants with strict instructions not to warm them, unless you want the almonds to go sad, and no one wants sad almonds. Willem brought wine. Six bottles. Two chilled. “I figured we’d need two for each ghost,” he said, and no one corrected him.

Henri showed up in his mechanic overalls, grease still on his arms, dragging his two sons behind him, one helpful, Romain purely here to eat, dressed entirely in black, sunglasses included. “I’m here for emotional solidarity,” he announced, then immediately burst into tears after one of the kids handed him a flower.

Lando stayed close, hands busy all day. Carrying chairs, pouring drinks, letting Margaux boss him around with a flower crown and a plastic sword. He was supposed to be training. Two weeks left before the next race. But today, this day, he stayed. No hesitation. Bas was there too, quieter than usual. He helped without asking. Set up the sound system. Cut bread in silence. Watched her from the edges like he always did, present but not reaching. The music built as the sun sank lower. Not sad songs. Not hymns. But the sort of music you could dance to barefoot, with a wine glass in one hand and your grief folded like a napkin in your pocket. She moved through the garden like someone being held up by everyone. Laughed at Romain’s melodrama. Hugged Jacky too tight. Let Willem kiss her cheek. And every time she passed Lando, she touched his arm. Just briefly. Like a tether. Later, when the plates were nearly cleared and people were starting to steal cushions for the grass, he caught her just behind the bar, stealing a swig of something stronger from a coffee cup.

“Hey,” he said, sidling up beside her. “Hey yourself.”

They stood like that for a moment, the music drifting through the open windows. He glanced at her. “Do you like dancing?” She arched an eyebrow. “No.” He mock-winced. “Oh. Okay.” She smirked. “Ask me anyway.” His grin returned. “Will you dance with me?” She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” They stepped out into the garden, where Jacky was already dragging Henri into a swaying sort of half-waltz. Lando didn’t lead. Not really. He just let their hands find each other, let the rhythm carry them. She didn’t move much, just enough to match him. Enough to stay close. She looked up once. His smile was soft, not quite steady.

“You’re bad at this,” she whispered. “So are you.” “Good thing we’re pretty.” He laughed. “Exactly.”

Around them, the village spun on, buzzing with old jokes, remembered names, shared wine and long-held love. But between them, under the strings of lights and the weight of memory, it was quiet.

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By the time the sun had dipped fully behind the trees, the garden was glowing. Not just from the string lights or the candles tucked into empty jam jars, but from the warmth of people who had made this day what it was, what it always was. A celebration. A tether. A refusal to forget. Margaux, sugar-hyped and pink-cheeked, was falling asleep under a table with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. Chloé had drawn a heart on her forehead in pink pen, and no one had stopped her.

One by one, the goodbyes began. Jacky was first, of course. She pressed two kisses to each of their cheeks, then pulled her into a hug that was longer than necessary, tighter than expected. When she finally let go, her voice was thick. “Your mother would’ve been proud. You’re still her girl. Just with more wine and worse posture.” She laughed through her nose. “I’ll work on that.” Chloé kissed the top of Margaux’s head and whispered something in her ear. Margaux nodded solemnly. It was probably a secret. Or a threat. Romain tried to go next but burst into tears halfway through his goodbye speech. “You are the village’s backbone,” he sobbed. “The soul! The very croissant crust of this place!” “No more pastries for him,” someone muttered. Henri and his eldest shook her hand, formal, warm. “Strong girl,” he said in that soft way of his, like a mechanic who knew how fragile engines really were. Then came Willem. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her for a long time, eyes full of something ancient and gentle. Then he kissed the top of her head.

“You did good, Lieveke.”

That was all. She nodded, throat tight. Bas was behind him, hands in his pockets, gaze low. He lingered a second longer than he had to, then looked up at her, not quite smiling, but close.

“Same time next year,” he said, pecking her temple. She nodded. “Same time.” He glanced once at Margaux, still curled up under the blanket, then gave Lando a look. Not threatening. Not warm. Just measured. Then he turned and walked out, no fuss, no backward glance. And then it was just them.

She and Lando stood there in the quiet, the garden littered with empty glasses and folded napkins. Margaux asleep in the corner. The stars coming out without asking. Lando exhaled, hands in his pockets.

“This village,” he said. “They don’t just love you. They carry you.” She looked at him, eyes rimmed pink, smile flickering. “Sometimes I think they are me.” “I’ve never seen anything like it.” “It’s not always good.” “I know,” he said. “I want you even when it’s shit.” She blinked. “But this,” He gestured to the night around them, the candles still flickering, the music now faded into the hum of cicadas. “This isn’t shit. This is love in its truest form. A whole village remembering for you. Celebrating for you. And I,” He stopped, like the words had gotten too big. “I’m just lucky I got to see it.”

She looked away, but her hand found his. Held on. For a long time, they said nothing. Then she whispered, “She’s waiting.” He nodded. “Then let’s go.”

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The churchyard was quiet in the way only old places can be. The gate creaked on its hinges as they pushed it open. Gravel crunched under their shoes. The stones glowed pale in the moonlight, rows of names and dates, all softened by time and lichen. Margaux walked ahead, her blanket still draped around her shoulders like a cape. She knew the way. She always did. She stopped at the same three stones, side by side beneath the rowan tree. Bent down. Touched the middle one with both hands. Then started talking. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Today was busy. Everyone came. Bas made your favourite cake, Romain cried again. Maman didn’t sing this time, but she danced a bit. Also, the swing’s fixed now. Lando helped. He’s not bad. Bit weird. But funny.”

Her voice drifted on the breeze, steady, almost cheerful. She sat cross-legged between the graves, humming as she pulled a handful of pebbles from her pocket and started sorting them by colour. Her mother stayed standing a little back. Still. Tense. Lando moved beside her. Didn’t speak. It was only when Margaux started humming something soft and off-key that she said, “That one on the right. That’s him.”

Lando nodded.

“He was meant to propose. That fishing trip. My dad was there too. I think he wanted to ask for permission properly then. He was old-fashioned like that. Romantic in a weird, boyish way.” Lando didn’t interrupt. “I was supposed to go with them,” she added, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t. I was too sick. Morning sickness. All-day sickness, really. I stayed in bed, and he kissed my forehead and left.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, pressing into her ribs. "They never came back. The storm-” her voice cracked. She inhaled through her nose, sharp and fast. “No one found them for days. And even then, pieces. Just pieces.”

Lando stepped closer. Close enough to offer something but not take anything away. She looked at the graves, then up at the sky. Her voice cracked on the edges, almost breaking before the words even made it out.

“It was hard, Lando. It was so hard. I used to walk around all day thinking,” she paused, breath trembling, “I was even jealous of euthanised dogs, why can they be put out of their misery?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was sacred. Weighty. Lando didn’t flinch. But his face shifted, like the words had lodged somewhere deep, somewhere that would ache later.

He stepped closer, not touching her yet, but there with her. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I mean, I knew it must’ve been hell. But not like that.”

She didn’t respond. Her arms were still wrapped tight around herself, like she was holding something in, something vast and ancient and screaming.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he added. “Except, fuck. I wish I’d known you then.” “Why?” “Because no one should ever feel that alone,” he said. “And if I couldn’t fix it, I could’ve sat beside you while it stayed broken.” Her eyes met his then, wet, tired, guarded. He held her gaze, steady. Then, softer now: “What do you want from me?”

She blinked. The honesty of it undid her a little. Not pity. Not a fix. Just the willingness to be asked. She turned fully toward him. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”

Silence stretched long between them. But it didn’t feel empty. She watched Margaux press pebbles into the dirt like tiny gifts. Then let herself smile, barely. Just enough. “You know,” she said, her voice returning to something lighter, “for a guy who’s paid to drive fast, you walk really slowly.” He smirked. “I like the view.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus.” They didn’t move. Just stood there. But somehow, it still counted. He looked at her. Really looked. “You’re tough.” She nodded. “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can. You have. You still do. You always will.” Then his hand found hers, fingers warm in the cool air. “I’ve just joined in, too,” he added softly. “Now we’ll share. And take care of each other.”

She squeezed his hand. Then turned her face toward the gravestones. And cried. Not loudly. Not broken. Just real. And this time, she didn’t cry alone.

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The day he left was warm. Too warm for the end of August, the kind of heat that made people slower, quieter. Everything shimmered just slightly, like the village was holding its breath. His car was parked outside the inn, packed but not cluttered, he travelled light. Always had to be ready to go. Margaux was crouched on the front step in her socks, poking at the gravel like it might spell something out for her if she looked long enough. She didn’t say much. But she kept inching closer to him every time he moved, like if she stayed near enough, he might not leave. She stood by the door, arms crossed, mouth tight.

“You don’t have to look like I'm going to war,” Lando said gently, slipping his sunglasses onto his head. “It’s just Zandvoort.” She didn’t smile. “You say that like it doesn’t matter.” He moved closer. Not touching her, but near, “It matters. That’s why I’m coming back.” “People say that all the time.” “I’m not people.” She gave him a long, wary look. "I know.” He let the silence stretch. Then added, “You can still watch me screw up from here. That’s not nothing.” Her smile finally cracked through, thin, but there. “Be safe,” she said. He nodded. “Promise.” Then he crouched down to Margaux’s level. “You gonna keep your mum in line while I’m gone?” Margaux nodded solemnly. “She makes weird noises when she’s cleaning. I’ll record them.” “Perfect.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck without warning. Tight. Quick. Then let go and darted back inside like nothing had happened. He stood, eyes on the door she disappeared through. The rest of the village had gathered out front. Jacky with a basket of snacks for the road. Romain already misty-eyed. Chloé holding a homemade sign that read, Zandvoort = Hot Dutch Sand + Fast Pretty Men. Henri shook Lando’s hand like a father. Willem clapped his shoulder like a soldier. Bas just gave him a quiet nod. When Lando looked back at her, she was still on the step. Still watching. He opened the car door, then paused.

“You know where to find me,” he said. She nodded. “Go win something.” He grinned. “No pressure, then.”

Then he got in, started the engine, and drove. Everyone waved. She didn’t. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she wasn’t ready.

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The inn was full again but not like it had been two weeks ago. This time, the noise came from the screen. Friday morning. Free Practice One. She stood behind the bar, dish towel in hand, screen pulled up on her old iPad propped against the register. Margaux had made a paper cutout of Lando’s helmet and taped it to the corner.

He went fastest. Top of the table. Her heart surged before she could stop it. It wasn’t pride, exactly, it was relief. Like watching someone she loved balance on a wire and land without a wobble.

“Alright then,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “That’s one.”

Free Practice Two was wetter. Rain slicked the track. The spray off the rear tyres turned the screen into abstract art. She had a cloth napkin clenched in one fist, half-folded. Forgot about it halfway through. Lando finished fourth. Oscar was second. Coming into the pit lane, the camera cut just in time to catch his front wing brush against Lewis Hamilton’s rear tyre. She stopped breathing. The screen didn’t show panic. The commentators didn’t either. No damage. No drama. Still, her fingers were locked around her tea mug like it might break loose and sprint.

“You alright?” asked one of the regulars at the bar. She blinked. “Fine.” Saturday morning. FP3. She was in the kitchen, watching from a corner near the coffee machine. Then the screen went black for a second, red flag.

Logan Sargeant has gone off at Turn 10. When the cameras returned, the car was in flames. She gasped, dropping a spoon into the sink with a clang. The whole inn seemed to go still for a second. But the voice in her ear was calm. He was okay. He was out. Still, her hands trembled.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.

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Qualifying arrived with sun. The air in the inn had shifted. Tighter. Lighter. She let herself sit down for once, flanked by Chloé on her left and Romain on her right, both buzzing like caffeine and mischief. Bas hovered near the edge of the room. Pretending not to care. Watching everything. Margaux was in Jacky’s kitchen, elbow-deep in cookie dough, apron covered in flour.

Q1—easy. Q2—fine. Q3—flawless. The lap was smooth, poised, sharp at the edges. Controlled fury. Lando went purple in every sector and crossed the line ahead of Verstappen. Pole position. The inn erupted. Chloé screamed. Romain jumped up and knocked over an entire tray of glasses. Someone behind the bar whistled like it was a wedding. Even Bas, quiet, watchful Bas, grinned.

She didn’t cheer. She just exhaled. One deep, long breath she hadn’t realised she was holding all day.

They decided before the cookies were even cooled. Romain suggested it. Chloé seconded it. Jacky made it law. The race will be at the inn, they declared. Everyone’s coming.

Willem brought out the good wine. Someone found the extension cable from the mairie. Jacky promised to make her “emotional support tarte.” Everyone had a job. She didn’t argue. But that night, when the kitchen was half-clean and the house had gone mostly quiet, she lingered at the counter with Jacky beside her, wiping glasses by hand like it mattered.

“I’m scared,” she said. Jacky didn’t look up. “Of what, ma fille?” “That Margaux will get attached. That I’ll let her. And then,” Jacky placed the towel down slowly. “Are you really scared for Framboisine? Or is that just the excuse that feels safer?”

She didn’t answer. Jacky waited. “I’m scared to touch happiness,” she admitted. “Only to have it ripped away again. I’m scared that he might not understand, it’s always Margaux first. She is the pinnacle of my every action, my every word, my entire being. And yeah, I can learn to love him, but she comes first.” Jacky nodded like she’d expected nothing less. “And why does that scare you?” She hesitated. “Because what if he doesn’t understand that? What if he puts me first?” Jacky smiled, soft and sharp. “Is that not allowed?” She looked down at the bar. “I don’t know.” “If he loves you,” Jacky said, “then he will put you first. But if your entire being is her, then surely that translates. Everything he does will also be for her. Because of you. Love doesn’t divide; it expands. And I do not think you need to worry. That man, he adores her.”

They both turned, as if on cue, toward the window. Outside, Margaux stood in the garden, orange ribbons in her hair and face paint sloppily smeared on her cheeks. Chloé’s handiwork, no doubt. She was holding a tiny Dutch flag and staring at the screen like it was sacred.

Afternoon arrived. The garden was full. She didn’t sit. Just stood near the bar, arms folded. Watching. The race was chaos. Safety cars. Strategy calls. Overtakes that made people scream. And in the end, Lando won. Not just won. Owned it. Pole to flag.

The garden erupted like the sky had cracked open. Romain nearly passed out. Bas high-fived a child. Willem declared Lando “one of us now,” and no one disagreed. She didn’t cheer. Just smiled. Quiet. Proud. When no one was looking, she slipped out to the bench by the cafe, where the Wi-Fi was stronger.

She pulled out her phone. Typed: Well done, Lan. It was beautiful x Sent it. And went back.

The music had started, soft and swingy. Someone had dragged the old speaker out and wired it to the inns power supply. Kids ran barefoot, chasing leftover confetti. Jacky danced with Romain. Chloé spun in place like no one was watching. She found Margaux near the table of pastries, still sugared up, still bright-eyed.

“Dance with me?” she asked. Margaux grabbed her hand like she’d been waiting all day. So, they danced. Not well. Not gracefully. But together. And that was more than enough.

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The car pulled up just before ten. Same engine. Same dust kicked up off the gravel. But something about it still made her breath catch in her throat like it was the first time. He stepped out wearing sunglasses, trainers that still had flecks of Dutch sand on them, and the kind of casual confidence that made you forget how many cameras followed him daily. The village erupted before he could knock. Jacky pushed a croissant into his hand and declared him a national treasure. Henri gave him a thump on the back and said he should consider switching careers to cheese-making, because “only a man that calm under pressure can work with rennet.” Willem saluted with a glass of something definitely not juice. But Lando barely saw any of it.

He saw her. She was standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, trying not to smile too much. Or maybe too early. Margaux beat her to it. She ran, socks slipping on the gravel, arms flung wide. He caught her with ease and spun her once. “You won,” she yelled.

“Not without my lucky charm,” he replied.

She giggled, then scrambled down, grabbing his hand. “You have to come. Everyone has to know. Chloé said she’d paint a whole mural of you!” “Oh god.” Margaux tugged him toward the road. “Come on, hurry!” Lando glanced at her once, briefly. She nodded. So, he let Margaux drag him away. That left her on the step. And Bas. He was by the gate, arms folded. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching. “Don’t,” she said before Bas could speak. He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I wasn’t." She gave him a look. Bas shrugged. “Fine. I was going to say, he looks like a man about to propose in the middle of a bakery.”

She rolled her eyes and turned inside.

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They were upstairs fifteen minutes later. The room hadn’t changed. Same sheets. Same dusty window. Same space between the bed and the wardrobe where she sometimes dropped laundry and forgot about it for two days. But now he was in it. And she couldn’t stop moving. Picking things up. Straightening. Folding. He stood by the door, watching.

“I don’t need croissants,” he said softly. “I didn’t offer you any.” “Then why won’t you look at me?”

She froze. She wasn’t sure how to answer.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t know how much I missed you until I saw you again. And then,” She turned to him. “It’s not you.” “Okay.” “It’s me.” “Still okay.” She exhaled, tight and sharp. “I watched every session. Every lap. I didn’t breathe during Q3. And when you crossed the line, I wanted to scream.” “You didn’t?” “I made a cup of tea.” He tilted his head. “That sounds very British, not very French.” She finally smiled. Briefly. “I was scared, Lando. Really scared. I was proud, too. So proud. And that made it worse. Because it was so much. And I didn’t know where to put it.”

There was a pause. Then, gently, “Put it here.” He reached for her hand. Not demanding. Just offering. “Come to me when you’re afraid,” he said, voice low and careful. “Let me be the one to steady the ground when it starts to shake. Let me hold that weight too.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, “You weren’t here.” He nodded. “Ask me to be. And I will.” “You’re busy.” “I don’t care if I’m racing. If I’m halfway through a lap. If you need me, call. And I will be here.” She swallowed, her throat thick. Then, softly, “Bit dramatic.” He grinned. “I have a flair for it.” “Maybe you missed your calling.” “Opera?” “Soap opera.” “Bold. But fair.” She laughed, finally. He stepped forward fully then, arms slipping around her waist. “I really did miss you.” “I made tea,” she said again, like it meant more now. “I’ll drink it,” he promised. “Even if it’s terrible.” “It is.” “Perfect.”

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Wednesday night came slow and golden, the air still clinging to the last of summer. Margaux was wriggly in bed, a tangle of knees and elbows and too many questions. Lando sat beside her, letting her braid his fingers into her stuffed rabbit’s ears. “Will you be gone for a long time?” she asked.

“Less than a week,” he said gently. “Next race is in Italy. I’ll be back before you miss me too much.” “I don’t miss people,” she lied. He smiled. “That’s okay. I’ll miss you enough for both of us.” She squinted at him. “Bring me something Italian.” “Like pizza?” “No. Like earrings.” Her mother choked on a laugh. “You don’t have your ears pierced.” Margaux shrugged. “Future planning.” They both kissed her goodnight. She clung a little longer to Lando’s neck before letting go, eyes already heavy.

“I’ll come say hi when I get back,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “Okay,” she murmured. “But you better knock.”

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Later, the house was still. The kitchen light was off. The garden dark. The window cracked open to let in the sound of crickets and the faint smell of earth cooling down. They lay in her bed, legs tangled under a light sheet, the silence between them thick, but not heavy.

“You know,” she said into the hush, “you’ve already been here longer than any man I’ve ever slept with.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Bold of you to assume you’ve seen the peak of my staying power.” She laughed, quiet, tired. “Gross.” “Flattering.” She shifted to face him. “You’re really going tomorrow?” “Unless I fake an engine failure.” “Tempting.” “I’m good at making exits dramatic.” She reached out, traced a line across his chest with the tip of her finger. “And entrances.” He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. “You’re softer now.” “Don’t tell anyone.” “Especially not Willem. He’ll cry.”

They laughed into each other’s skin. Then the quiet settled again. He kissed her shoulder, slow and unhurried. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. She didn’t tense. Didn’t joke. She just let him in. There was no rush. No burn of urgency. Just a kind of mutual exhale, like they both knew what they were doing this time. What it meant.

His hands moved with certainty. Hers didn’t flinch. They kissed like people who had already chosen each other, who had made peace with the fear and decided to touch anyway. No promises were made. But none were needed.

Lando's fingers trailed across her skin, tracing the contours of her collarbone. Her shoulder rose in a gentle arc, offering him access, and he took it, claiming her with a soft, plodding kiss. Their lips touched like autumn leaves rustling against each other, the soft hiss of their breaths mingling as they savoured the moment. The air was thick with anticipation, but there was no rush. No frantic heartbeat. Only the gentle acceptance that this was their time, and they were finally ready to surrender.

Her hands drifted up, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, her fingertips dancing across his skin like raindrops on a hot pavement. He didn't flinch, didn't tense up. He just let her in, allowed her to claim him as her own. Lando's fingers found her waist, his thumbs tracing the soft curves of her hips. She didn't squeeze his hand, didn't lean into him. She just let him guide her, let his touch become the axis around which she revolved.

Their bodies met in a slow dance, skin against skin. Lando's hands explored every inch of her body, as if he were mapping out new territory. She arched into his touch, moaning softly as he traced patterns on her stomach and hips. He kissed his way down her torso, stopping to nip at her chest before trailing his tongue down to her navel. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. His rough hands slid down her thighs, parting her legs as if he'd always know where to go. She gripped the sheets, her knees falling apart as he teased her entrance with gentle fingers. She trembled beneath him, lost in the sensation of being claimed.

They moved together, their rhythm in perfect sync. Lando nudged against her wet entrance, and with a groan, he thrust inside. She gasped, her back arching as he filled her completely. He moved slowly at first, savouring the feeling of being inside. She met his thrusts, their hips slapping together in a primal rhythm. Their skin slick with sweat, they moved together in a dance that was both familiar and new. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she drew him deeper inside her.

He hummed against her neck, his hair tickling her sensitive skin. She arched her back, her nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him harder. He groaned in approval, his hands finding her ass, squeezing and massaging as he thrust into her. Their breathing grew ragged, their gasps and moans filling the room. It wasn't fast or rough, but it was intense.

Every touch, every look, every whispered word held a world of meaning. They were lost in each other, consumed by the heat of the moment. Finally, they finished together, their bodies shuddering as they reached their peak. Lando spilled into her, and she cried out his name as her walls clenched around him. They collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. They lay there afterward, wrapped around each other, limbs tangled and warm, skin cooling beneath the sheets. The room was quiet again, but not empty. Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths. For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then. “You’re squashing my leg,” she mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re squashing my chest.” “You don’t need your chest for driving.” “I literally do.” She snorted softly, shifting just enough to poke him in the ribs. “You make the worst pillow.” “Funny. I just set a lap record. Felt very supportive at the time.” “Oh, so now you’re a mattress and a show-off.” He grinned into her hair. “Multitalented.”

They lay in the haze of post-everything comfort, their bodies still humming with leftover heat and something more dangerous: peace. Eventually, she whispered, “Do you think it’ll always feel like this?” Lando tilted his head. “Good?” She nodded. “And scary.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, “Probably. But you’re allowed to be scared, you know.” She exhaled through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Tell that to my spine every time you touch me.” He chuckled. “Should I leave it a note next time?” “No, just carve it into the inn’s headboard. With a pocketknife.” He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her properly. “You’re ridiculous.” She shrugged, smiling a little. “And yet, here you are.” “Here I am.”

He brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek, then leaned in, not for another kiss, not this time. Just to rest his forehead against hers. “I really don’t want to leave.” “I know, I don’t like you leaving either.” “But I will come back.” “I know,” she repeated, more quietly now. He kissed her gently, once on the cheek, once near the corner of her mouth, and then one last time, right in the middle of her forehead. His lips lingered. “Sleep,” he murmured, and she grinned.

He was halfway to the door before he turned around. “Come.” Her eyes shot open, “What?” He stepped closer, “I mean, I know you can’t come to Italy, its too late notice. Come to Azerbaijan. It’s in two weeks. Willem and Bas can look after the inn, Jacky and Chloé can babysit Margaux for the weekend. Come.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s Margaux’s birthday.” His smile reappeared. “Okay, so come to Singapore. Its three weeks away. Plenty of time to prepare. Please.” “Okay." “Okay?” “Okay, I’ll come.” She said, grinning. Her brain hadn’t thought it through, but she wouldn’t let it. The smile on Lando’s face was worth any consequence.

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She had three lists. One for the inn. One for Margaux. One titled Things I Will Definitely Forget and Panic About in the car. It was still pinned to the fridge, half-smeared with marmalade.

Lando had left the night before, already en route to Singapore, something about a brand sponsorship. She could still smell his cologne faintly on her suitcase handle. That shouldn’t have been comforting. But it was. Now it was up to her.

She zipped up her case for the fourth time, grabbed her notepad, and marched downstairs into the organised chaos of the inn. “Willem!” she shouted, already halfway into the kitchen. Willem popped up from behind the bar like an ageing meerkat. “If this is about the wine order-” “It’s about everything,” she said. “You have the calendar?” “I’m sixty, not senile.” “That’s not what I heard,” Bas muttered from the back fridge. She spun around. “Bas. Do you have the supplier codes?” “I’ve memorised them.” “You say that like you don’t make them up every time.” Bas smirked. “Still works.” She stared at them both. These men. These chaotic, loving, half-feral village uncles who had held this place together more times than she could count. “You’ll call me if something happens?” Willem gave her a look. “You’re not going to the moon. You’re going to Singapore. With a man who makes driving look like ballet.” “Yes, and ballet is dangerous,” she replied. Bas crossed his arms. “Go. We’ve got this.”

As she wrestled Margaux’s backpack over one shoulder and checked her coat pocket for the fifth time, she turned back to Bas and Willem. Willem took the inn keys from her like they weighed more than they did.

“Don’t burn the place down,” she said, deadpan. “Pretty sure my favourite driving man would like our Inn intact when we get back.” Bas smirked. “Which one’s your favourite again?” She rolled her eyes. “The one currently halfway to Singapore and pretending he didn’t forget his sunglasses.”

They both laughed. And as she stepped out into the crisp morning air, Margaux skipping ahead of her, she realised she hadn’t needed to say his name for them to know exactly who she meant. She still checked the door locks. Twice.

Jacky’s house was already full of glitter and noise when she and Margaux arrived. Chloé was trying to learn how to make lanterns out of tissue paper. Romain was dancing with a colander on his head. It felt like leaving Margaux in a well-organised circus.

“You packed snacks?” she asked. “Two lunch boxes,” Jacky confirmed. “Emergency numbers?” Jacky pointed to a laminated sheet on the fridge. “Margaux’s bedtime?” “I’ll fight her into pyjamas with my own two hands,” Jacky said solemnly. She crouched down in front of Margaux, who was already tugging off her shoes and reaching for the glitter glue. “You good, Framboisine?” Margaux nodded seriously. “Tell Lando I said hi.” “You’ll see him next week.” “I know. Just in case he forgets.” She hugged her tight, then stood and immediately double-checked her overnight bag. Jacky placed a hand on her arm. “Go.” “But-” “Go,” Jacky said again. “Bring me back a photo of that boy in bad lighting. With a tan line.”

She laughed, against her better judgment. Hugged Jacky too. Then walked out the door. Her chest was tight. Her legs moved anyway. She was going. Singapore was calling. And Lando was already waiting.

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The city hit her like a wave, hot, dense, humming with electricity. Singapore was nothing like the village. There were no gravel paths or hanging flower baskets. There were glass towers, neon lights, and heat that clung to your spine. It smelled like sugar and spice and melted rubber. The hotel was too clean. The bed too square. She stared at the bathroom sink for five minutes, trying to figure out how it worked. By the time Lando knocked on her door Wednesday night, she’d changed outfits three times, cursed the humidity twice, and had no idea if her hair was supposed to look this big.

He wore a simple shirt. Linen. Open at the collar. No fanfare. “Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over her. “You look-” “Sticky,” she cut in. He grinned. “Yeah. That.” The restaurant was on a rooftop, quiet and tucked away, not a flashbulb in sight. There was a candle on the table and too many forks. Lando made a face at the menu, then ordered two things at random and shrugged. “You’re not nervous?” she asked. He sipped his drink. “I’ve survived Monaco dinner service with three Michelin chefs and a vegan on fire. This is nothing.” She stared at him. “That feels like it needs more context.”

He just smiled. They talked about nothing, mostly Margaux’s glitter obsession, Jacky’s tarte rulebook, whether or not frogs had knees. But somewhere beneath the joking, there was a softness. An unspoken we’re doing this. When they returned to the hotel, she stood outside her door for a second too long. Lando leaned on the wall beside her.

“You know you don’t have to impress anyone tomorrow,” he said. “I’m not trying to.” “You are.” She didn’t deny it. “I already like you,” he added. “You’re very confident.” “I like you nervous too.” She rolled her eyes. “Go to bed.” “Yes, Framboisette.” He winked and disappeared down the hall.

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Thursday morning came loud. Her hotel room buzzed with nerves as she pulled on a sundress, twisted her hair up, and hesitated twice before putting on her sunglasses. Too much? Not enough? The paddock was chaos. People. Cameras. Equipment being wheeled past her with military precision. Heat shimmering off the asphalt. Lando met her at the entrance. He was in his team gear now, walking fast, phone in hand, smiling like he wasn’t about to be dissected by every journalist on site.

“You alright?” he asked. “I’m good.” “Liar, but you look gorgeous.” He reached out, briefly, gently, and took her hand. Just for a second. But it was enough.

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Media Day was a masterclass in misdirection. Lando walked in with a grin, answered questions about tire degradation and race strategy like a seasoned diplomat, and completely deflected any attempts to dig into his personal life.

When a Sky Sports reporter asked, “Are there any special guests with you this weekend?” he shrugged and said, “Just my trainer and a very dramatic jetlag.” She was watching from the hospitality area, arms folded, sunglasses on indoors. The smirk on her lips was subtle but deeply satisfied. “Dramatic jetlag,” she muttered under her breath. “You should hear yourself at 3 a.m.”

She hadn’t expected to be handed a lanyard that said GUEST: FULL ACCESS, but Lando had slipped it into her hand that morning with a wink.

“VIP treatment,” he’d said. “Even comes with unlimited fizzy water and watching grown men scream into headsets.”

FP1 was hot. The air shimmered. The walls felt closer than usual. She watched from the McLaren pit wall, tucked beside an engineer who handed her a headset that wasn’t even connected. Lando went second quickest. Charles Leclerc topped the timesheets.

Not bad. Not perfect. Her fingers tapped nervously on her knee the whole time. FP2 was chaos. She flinched when Lando’s rear end kicked out of Turn 8, brushing the wall. He caught it, just. Slid, corrected, kept going. By the time the session ended, he was top of the board. She didn’t speak for a while.

“Is he always like this?” she asked the engineer beside her. “Only when he’s having fun.” She rolled her eyes. “He has a very strange definition of fun.” Saturday morning, FP3. She was in the back of the garage now, sunglasses perched in her hair, holding a cup of too-hot coffee she wasn’t drinking.

Lando was flying. No brushes. No drama. Just clean, confident speed. When the session ended, he was top again. She didn’t cheer. But her hand found her chest and stayed there, steadying the thing inside it. He came back to the garage, helmet off, sweat-slick curls everywhere. He looked for her first. Always.

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She stood just outside the McLaren garage, watching mechanics dismantle a floor like it had personally offended them, when someone stopped beside her. Quiet. Tall. Polite smile.

“Hi,” the guy said, accent sharp but soft. “Oscar.” She blinked. “Oh. You’re the-” “Yeah. That one.” She laughed. “You’re so calm. Is that an Australian thing or just you?” Oscar tilted his head. “Might just be the trauma.” Before she could respond, Lando jogged over, still in race boots, holding a banana and looking mildly sweaty.

“Oh no,” Oscar said. “He’s in snack mode. Run.” “You’re just jealous,” Lando replied, half-breathless. “My potassium levels are elite.” “He talks a lot,” Oscar said to her, deadpan. She smiled. “Tell me about it.” Lando looked between them, eyes narrowing. “This feels like an ambush.” Oscar nodded. “Correct.” Then, from behind them: “Are you plotting, or just bullying Lando?” Max Verstappen appeared like a heatwave, cocky grin, hands in his pockets, very much wearing his media-mandated shirt correctly. “I think it’s both,” she said. Max grinned. “Smart girl.” Lando groaned. “Why do all my rivals flirt with my-?” She raised an eyebrow. “With my guest?” Max winked, purely to annoy Lando. “If you’re not claiming the noun, I might.” She chuckled. “Bas back home will be thrilled you’re making moves. He was rooting for you at Zandvoort.” Max lit up. “Bas? I like him already.” Oscar deadpanned, “Does Bas want a grid penalty?” Max snorted. And just like that, they stood there, her, Lando, Oscar, Max, joking like it was normal. Like this glittering world had always been part of hers.

Until a camera clicked. Then another. Someone behind the barrier angled their lens, zoomed in. She stepped back, just slightly. Lando caught it. Didn’t make a show. Just leaned in and murmured, “They’d panic if you so much as sneeze beside a Red Bull.” “Do I look sneezy?” “You look like a problem.” “Thanks.” “I like problems.” She gave him a look. “Don’t make me shove you into the pit lane.” “I dare you. They’d definitely take your photo then.”

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Qualifying didn’t start well. Lando looked frustrated in the garage. Her own nerves buzzed like static. Q1 was tight. Q2, worse. And in Q3, the first two laps were scruffy, hesitant, like the car was dancing one beat off rhythm.

Oscar was purple in sector one. Max was fast everywhere. She stood off to the side, chewing a straw from her drink cup like it was personal. Then, on his final flying lap, something shifted.

He crossed the line and lit up the timing screen, P1. Ahead of Max by a tenth. The radio crackled in his helmet: “You’ve done it, mate.” He whooped. Loud and happy. The car rolled back into parc fermé. She didn’t run to him. But when he walked past the barrier, still in his helmet, he slowed. Leaned in. Kissed the side of her head. No words. Just that.

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Race day. The city steamed in the heat. Tyres squealed. Hearts inched up throats. She watched every lap like a prayer she hadn’t written but desperately hoped would land. He had a near miss on lap 16, brushing the barrier so close it left her breathless. Lap 28, he dove into the pit lane late, almost too late. Still, he held it. Every restart. Every threat. He didn’t just win, he owned it. Over twenty seconds clear at the chequered flag. Max second. Oscar third.

In parc fermé, Max pulled off his gloves and grinned. “I thought you were going to lap me, mate.” Lando shrugged. “That was the plan.” Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look like you were sweating.” Lando winked. “Secret weapon.”

Later, on the podium, champagne flew. Lando didn’t even flinch when Max sprayed his face with it. She watched from the garage. Smiling. Not wildly. Not like the others. Just steady. Whole.

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In the post-race interview, a reporter asked: “You’ve been on incredible form lately. Three poles. Two wins. What’s changed?” Lando scratched the back of his neck and smiled. “Well,” he said, “my team’s amazing. Car’s feeling good. I’ve started eating better. Superfoods and all that.” “Oh?” the reporter laughed. “Kale? Spinach?” “Nah,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Two raspberries a day. That’s all I need to win.”

She choked on her drink. Framboisine. Framboisette. She didn’t need him to say it. He already had.

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They celebrated with the team. Champagne. Dancing. Someone played an ABBA remix too loud. By the time they reached the hotel, it was well past midnight. They were both too drunk to think, too happy to care.

They didn’t make it past the edge of the bed. They just kissed. And laughed. And kissed again. And when sleep finally pulled them under, it did so with their fingers still laced together.

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It was one of those dusky afternoons where the air inside the inn smelled like warm wood and simmering garlic. Outside, Margaux was chasing a cat that definitely didn’t want to be caught. Inside, Lando was leaning against the counter like he belonged there, which was dangerous. Because he didn’t. Not really.

“You’re doing the face,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “What face?” “The one you do when you’re about to ask me for something.” “I don’t have a face.” “You absolutely have a face.” He paused. “I might have a face.” She arched an eyebrow. “Out with it.” Lando crossed his arms. “Abu Dhabi.” “No.” “You didn’t let me finish.” “I don’t need to.” He tried to look casual. “It’s the last race of the year. Big one. Kind of a thing.” She started stacking clean plates. “Congratulations.” “You should come.” She laughed, short and flat. “You’re adorable.” “I’m serious.” “That’s the problem.” Lando pushed off the counter, moving closer. “Look, it’s not Monaco. It’s not yacht parties. No flashbulbs in your face. It’s all inside the paddock. It’s got childcare. Snacks. Shade.” “Not convincing.” He leaned in. “Max is bringing Penelope.” She froze. “The five-year-old?" "The one who called Helmut Marko a dusty broom with a driving licence? Yeah.” Her lips twitched. “That was iconic.” “She and Margaux would get on.” “That’s not the point.” “Also, Hulkenberg’s kids will be there. They’ve got a whole crafts setup. Oscar’s planning to bring colouring books to the driver briefing.” She rolled her eyes. “Lando-” “You’d have your own suite. Full privacy. I’ll sneak you in the side gate if I have to.” “You make it sound romantic.” “It is romantic.” “Jetlag and tantrums are romantic?” “They are when you’re around,” he said, grinning now. She laughed despite herself. “You are unbelievable.” “And yet, here I am. Still asking.” She turned back to the sink. “I have a business to run. A child to wrangle. A life that doesn’t pack into a carry-on.” Lando moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, let his chin rest on her shoulder. “I know all that,” he said quietly. “And I love all that. But maybe just this once, let the village take care of it. Let someone else carry the list.”

She sighed. Margaux stormed in with two mismatched shoes, a backpack, and a fistful of toast. “Do planes have Netflix?” she demanded. Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you promise not to chase Oscar.” Margaux blinked. “No deal.” He turned to her mother. “You’re outvoted.”

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Two days later, she handed over the keys to the inn. Willem took them like a holy relic. “I expect a full report on Abu Dhabi snack options.” “I’m more concerned about the bar tabs,” she said. Bas smirked. “Don’t worry. Willem’s cutting himself off after his third glass.” “Of the week,” Willem added helpfully.

She hugged them both, tightly. Bas more than necessary. Willem like a daughter. Then she turned to Margaux, who had packed her sunglasses, and an entire tea set.

“You ready?” Margaux gave her a look. “I was born ready.” Lando, leaning in the doorway, smiled like he was already halfway on the plane. “Let’s go,” he said.

And just like that, they did.

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The paddock was too clean. That was her first thought as they stepped in Thursday morning, everything shined. Floors polished to mirror brightness. Every logo crisp. Every team member walking like they knew they were being watched. Margaux, on the other hand, looked like a walking sticker book, hair in plaits, orange cap too big for her head, and a McLaren lanyard around her neck like it was a royal sash. By the time they’d made it ten metres, Penelope had already found them.

“You’re the toast girl,” she announced, eyes wide. Margaux blinked. “Yes?” “Come on, we’re making slime behind the Red Bull motorhome.” Margaux turned to her mother. “I have to go now.” “You haven’t even-” “Slime.” And that was that.

She spent the next two hours walking laps of the paddock with an iced coffee that kept melting, trying to keep her daughter in sight while dodging TV crews, photographers, and someone who definitely just mistook her for an Alpine strategist. When she finally found Margaux again, she was sitting cross-legged beside Oscar Piastri, explaining the plot of Frozen 2 in worrying detail. Oscar looked up with the expression of a man facing his greatest challenge yet.

“She’s very thorough,” he said. “She’s auditioning you for the role of Uncle,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “I gathered.” Margaux looked between them, then back at Oscar. “You’re in.” Oscar blinked. “Was there a vote?” “No.”

He accepted it with a quiet sigh, pulling out a snack pouch from his pocket and handing it to her like it was part of the job description. During FP1, Oscar wasn’t driving, rookie Hirakawa had taken the seat. Oscar sat beside them in the hospitality suite, watching telemetry like it owed him money. Margaux curled into his side, legs swinging. Lando finished second, just behind Charles Leclerc.

“Not bad,” she said quietly. Oscar didn’t look up. “He’ll pretend it doesn’t bother him. It absolutely does.” She smiled. “You’re funnier than I expected.” “I save it for special occasions. Like being hijacked by small humans.”

FP2, both cars were back out. She watched Lando top the table. FP3, Oscar returned the favour, first place. Lando a breath behind. They didn’t speak much about it. But she noticed the way Lando grinned when he saw Oscar’s time. Not threatened. Just thrilled for his team. It was strange, this world. Loud. Sharp-edged. Hyper-controlled. But it was also soft in places. And her daughter had never looked more at home.

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Saturday. Qualifying. She stood behind the screens, nerves balled so tight in her chest they might’ve had their own pulse. Lando went fastest in Q3. Oscar followed. A McLaren front-row lockout. The garage went wild. Mechanics whooped. Someone behind her cried.

Lando pulled into parc fermé like it was instinct. And when he climbed out, helmet still on, he scanned the crowd, found her, and didn’t even hesitate. Just reached for her, curled a hand around the back of her neck, and kissed the side of her head like it was something he did every day. She didn’t breathe for five full seconds.

Sunday. Race day. The air hummed with heat and nerves.

Lap 1 was chaos. Max lunged into Turn 1 and clipped Oscar’s front wing. It wasn’t malicious. But it was reckless. Oscar’s voice crackled over the radio, dry as bone, “Move of a world champion, that one.” She nearly choked on her water. Oscar dropped to P20. But he clawed his way back, smooth, strategic, inching past car after car until he crossed the line in tenth. Max found him post-race, helmet off, head down. They spoke quietly. Then fist bumped.

Done. Squashed. No drama. Meanwhile, Lando was flying. Not just leading. Commanding. Lap after lap. Gap growing. When he crossed the line, twenty seconds ahead, McLaren exploded.

Screams. Airhorns. People jumping into each other’s arms. The drivers’ championship was theirs. Not just the race. Everything.

Oscar had joined them for the team photo. Champagne sprayed like firecrackers. And when they cut to Lando’s interview, he was already grinning, hair soaked, champagne in his ear.

“You looked completely at ease out there today,” the interviewer said. “Was it the car? The strategy? Or something else?” Lando wiped his face with his sleeve, still breathless. “Honestly? I just felt settled. Like I knew where I was going.” “That a new mindset?” He glanced off-camera, just for a second. His grin softened. “Not new. Just real. Finally.” She stilled. The crowd was still cheering, the lights flashing, people shouting his name. But she just stood there.

Hands loose at her sides, pulse racing.

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That night, the paddock was a rave. Lights. Music. Champagne on tap. Penelope had invited Margaux for a sleepover, complete with four types of popcorn and a movie tent. She hesitated. But Jacky’s voice echoed in her head: Let her go. Let her live a little.

So, she did. And with her daughter safe, she let herself breathe.

She and Lando partied with the grid. With mechanics. With rivals. Everyone.

Drunk. Joyful. Messy. He kissed her like the world had ended and this was the afterlife. And at some point, voice low in her ear, he said, “Next time the grid needs a break we’ll all come to your village. Hide out. Drink wine. Let Willem lecture everyone about cheese.” She laughed into his neck. “Pretty sure Max would end up running the bar.” He smiled against her skin. “Then It's definitely happening.” She kissed him again, grinning now, her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. For a moment, just one beat, they weren’t at the centre of the racing world. They were already there. Back home.

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The inn had never looked so alive. It shimmered with frost on the windows and firelight from inside, garlands strung across the beams, tables covered in wine, bread, laughter. Every time the front door opened, someone new stepped through, and every time, the whole room seemed to shift to make space. It was winter break. But it felt more like Christmas and midsummer had collided and decided to throw a party.

At the centre of it all was Lando. He stood behind the bar, because of course he did, pouring glasses of cider like he hadn’t just won the constructors world championship three weeks ago. He was laughing with Charles and George, dodging Yuki’s elbow as he tried to balance three tiny plates of food and a dangerously overloaded fondue stick. Franco was already on his second round of wine; cheeks pink and animated. Ollie Bearman had brought a snowball inside, claiming it was a "guest of honour." Esteban and Pierre were locked in a debate about who looked better in flannel. Neither did, and she told them so. Margaux darted between people like a spark in human form, wearing a paper crown and dragging Penelope along by the hand. They’d already covered one wall in sticky stars and half-finished lanterns. Max, watching them from a corner near the fire, had the softest look she’d ever seen on his face. Even Daniel Ricciardo had arrived, too loud, too charming, already asking for shots and hugging people like he owned the place.

“I brought tequila,” he declared. “And several questionable life choices.” Jacky, from behind the buffet, shouted, “Leave the choices at the door. The tequila can stay.” The room roared. It should’ve felt surreal, these men, these names, these lives, folded into her tiny village like it was just another pit stop. But somehow, it didn’t.

It felt right. Because Lando didn’t stand out like a visitor. He moved through the space like he’d grown up here. He held her hand when no one was watching. Shared a joke with Willem. Whispered something to Bas that made him shake his head and smile. It had only been four months since they’d officially started this. Since he’d kissed her in the quiet of her room, in the space where grief had once lived. But he fit. So completely, so easily, it made her wonder how they’d ever not been this.

And the inn, her inn, glowed from the inside out. Like it knew.

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It didn’t take long for the drivers to start collecting villagers like souvenirs. Willem had claimed Carlos Sainz within ten minutes, dragging him into a debate about whether real wine should ever be served chilled. Carlos looked both alarmed and enchanted. Kimi Antonelli, quieter than most, had somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor with Jacky’s cat in his lap and three of the village kids building a tower of marshmallows on his shoulders. Lewis Hamilton helped Henri carry firewood out back, both deep in conversation about meditation and French bread. When they returned, Lewis had his sleeves rolled and flour on his hands. Henri looked like he’d just discovered religion.

Pierre Gasly flirted shamelessly with Chloé until Romain tossed a tinsel scarf around his neck and said, “She’s taken, you Christmas elf.” Pierre bowed dramatically and offered to help serve drinks instead. Chloé and Romain started making TikTok’s, singing wildly off-key. Lando wandered past in the background mid-laugh, arm slung lazily around her shoulders, and almost didn’t even notice the camera. She did. For a moment, she almost told Chloé to cut it. But then she didn’t. Let it post. Let it live. It wasn’t hiding anymore; it was just life.

Oscar, with Margaux attached to one hand and a mug of cider in the other, was cornered by Madame Lefevre, the elderly postwomen, who declared she’d once been proposed to by a Belgian race car driver in 1962. “Told him no, of course,” she said. “He was allergic to cheese.” Charles ended up playing piano, poorly, while Alex Albon and Yuki sang along with alarming confidence. Even Max joined in for one off-key chorus, Penelope on his shoulders and shaking a tambourine like her life depended on it. Esteban discovered the village had a homemade chili sauce competition and immediately entered. George Russel was last seen walking into the garden with a tray of drinks and three grandmothers hanging off his arm. Similarly, Daniel had made it his mission to charm every single person over the age of seventy. Within half an hour, he was seated at the centre of the dominoes table with four elderly women, each of whom referred to him exclusively as mon petit soleil. One had braided a sprig of rosemary into his hair. Another was feeding him slices of quince from a napkin. He didn’t question any of it.

“This is the most powerful coven I’ve ever joined,” he told Lando, very seriously. “If I disappear tonight, it’s because I’ve been adopted.” “Fair,” Lando said. “You always said you wanted a French retirement.” Daniel gestured dramatically with his wine. “I shall open a vineyard. Play boules. Write a memoir.” “You can’t speak French.” “I don’t need to. They feel me.” From across the room, his new fan club raised their glasses in unison. He winked.

It wasn’t just chaos. It was community. And she watched it all from behind the bar, heart full to the point of ache, knowing this wasn’t just a party.

It was a moment. And it was hers.

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The kitchen was somehow even warmer than the main room, steam rising from pots, wine bottles cluttering the counters, and flour on every surface like it had snowed joy. Jacky stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled vaguely of cloves and rebellion. She slipped in quietly, half-hoping for a quiet breather, half-hoping Jacky would read her mind and pour her something strong. Without turning, Jacky said, “He fits.” She smiled. “I didn’t say anything.” “Didn’t have to.” Jacky tapped her temple. “I’ve got a radar.” She stepped beside her, leaned against the old wooden counter. “You were right.” Jacky made a satisfied noise. “Say it again. Louder.” “You were right,” she groaned. “There it is.”

They laughed. And then, Jacky reached over and pulled her into a one-armed hug, apron and all. Flour transferred onto her jumper. She didn’t care.

“I’m glad you let yourself have this,” Jacky murmured. “You’ve been giving to everyone else for so long, it’s about damn time someone gave something back.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Still.” Jacky nodded once. “Alright then. But next time, bring more chocolate to the village party.”

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Later, outside, she stood by the garden gate, the cold air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. Lanterns bobbed overhead. Margaux was on tiptoes, arms outstretched, helping Lando tie one above the archway. He held her steady, laughing quietly, eyes only on her. Beside her, Bas sipped from a mug, quiet as ever. “You look like you’ve got something to say,” she murmured. “I usually do,” he replied. She turned to him. He didn’t look away from the scene in front of them. “He’s good. Especially with Framboisine.” She nodded. “You did good. He’s good. I’m happy for you.” He paused, then added, softer, “I held on for a long time, thinking maybe you’d come back to what we were. But it wasn’t real. Just two people keeping warm in the dark. He’s your light now.”

Something shifted in her chest.

Bas glanced sideways at her, smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m happy for you. I mean it.” She bumped his arm gently. “I know.” They stood there in silence a moment longer, lanterns glowing gold above them. Then Bas added, “Still think he over-salted the potatoes at dinner, though.” “Get out.”

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Near the fire pit, Chloé and Romain swayed lazily to music only they seemed to hear. Fairy lights tangled around their shoulders, wine in one hand, each other in the other. Romain dipped her too far. Chloé screamed with laughter. Someone clapped. Someone else tried to join and tripped over a log. It was messy. Loud. Full of love. She watched them with a full heart. Willem found her just before midnight, when the music softened and the stars took over the ceiling. He pressed a kiss to her temple, the scent of wine and firewood lingering on his jumper.

“You did it,” he said. She smiled, eyes glassy. “I knew you’d make it work. I’m proud of you, girl.”

She leaned into him. Just for a second. That was all she needed.

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The party trickled out like candlelight, flickering down to embers, one laugh at a time. Empty glasses lined the tables. Someone had fallen asleep under a pile of scarves. The fire pit had shrunk to a soft orange glow, snapping every so often like it still had something to say. Margaux had made her rounds like royalty, hugged Oscar tight, fist-bumped Max, told Daniel she was “still thinking about the rosemary ladies.” She yawned through it all but refused to be carried. When she was finally tucked into bed, crown slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, she wriggled under the blanket and declared, “Next time we do this, I’m driving. Lando can sit in the back.”

She snorted. “Sure. I’ll let him know.” Margaux was already half-asleep. “Tell him I want music.”

She and Lando sat on the old stone bench just outside the inn, coats over their shoulders, legs pressed together. The cold was settling in, biting gently at their cheeks, but neither of them moved. Behind them, the inn still glowed, gold light in every window, laughter echoing faintly from the kitchen. The stars had come out sharp, white, endless. Lando shifted slightly, reaching across the space between them. His fingers found hers. Threaded. Held.

“I love you, you know.” No hesitation. No big lead-in. Just that.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just leaned into him, rested her head against his shoulder. “I know,” she said. Then, softer, “I love you too.”

He let out a breath. Not relief. Not surprise. Just something he’d been holding since the moment she let him in. They kissed, slow and certain. When they pulled apart, their hands stayed joined. Behind them, the inn glowed quietly. Alive with music, memory, and everything they’d built together. Home.

[jamminvroomvroom]

coming back to literally just say this:

[jamminvroomvroom]

Tesco cake; lando norris

summary: your birthday party is a disaster, luckily lando comes and saves the night

➽───────────────❥

pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M)

tw: smut +18, semi public (again im just sorry at this point lmao)

word count: around 10k

feedback is appreciated!! <3

completed another lap around the sun yesterdaya and wrote this for all those birthday girls who haven't felt special on their day, may a lando come with a crappy cake and lot of laughs.

((( also ! this is not an invitation to jump in a stranger's cars and spend the night with boys you barely know lmao! if you wanna do that, take safety precautions pls! )))

➽───────────────❥

oh but you got a sports car, and we can uh uh in it

Max’s house was packed and smelled like too many bad things at once: cheap perfume, spilled alcohol, weed and sweat from too many bodies crammed into not enough space. The bass from the speaker system was way too loud for a residential building and it rattled the walls, making the picture frames buzz slightly and your chest vibrate with every beat.

It was your birthday.

Apparently.

You knew this because someone had put a glittery pink sash over your shoulders that read “Birthday Girl” in a loopy font, and because you’d gotten a “SURPRISE!” screamed at you when you walked in earlier tonight.

That was pretty much it.

Pietra, your best friend from uni, had organized the whole thing. She’d said you needed to do something fun this year. “No way you gonna rot at home on your birthday”

She was thrilled, dressed in glitter and already two drinks in when you arrived. You didn’t even have time to take your shoes off before you were handed a plastic cup of something neon and bitter.

She was your best friend, yes, but little did she know this was the opposite of fun for you.

Now, hours later, you stood somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, nursing your third drink, which was mostly melted ice at this point, while your cheeks ached from trying to keep a smile on your face, to look like you’re having the time of your life.

Thing was: it was your party, but no one really noticed you.

Not in the this is your night! way people were supposed to. You’d recognized maybe three faces other than Pietra and Max (her boyfriend whose house this actually was).

Everyone else? Strangers. Friends of friends. People with perfect dresses and curated laughs who barely looked at you unless you were standing in their way of the fridge or the bathroom.

There was no cake. No gifts. No moment of people singing off-key while you blew out the candles and made a wish. Just shots poured in the kitchen and someone dry-humping to a remix of Doja Cat in the hallway.

And you were trying.

You were trying so hard to have fun, to match the mood, to not be the person sitting in the corner scrolling Instagram and pretending they weren’t completely out of place at their own birthday.

Trying. That was the word of the night.

Trying not to look out of place.

Trying not to resent how much fun everyone else was having when you just wanted to go home, put on pajamas, and blow out a single candle on a brownie while watching something dumb on Netflix.

And still… a small part of you didn’t want to leave. Not yet. You didn’t want to be the buzzkill birthday girl. You wanted to get it. You wanted to have the kind of fun Pietra always had. You wanted to look back and say, yeah, that night was wild.

You wanted to be the main character for once.

So you laughed when people laughed. You accepted drinks you didn’t want. You danced a little when Pietra tugged your wrist and spun you around like it was prom and not a house full of drunk strangers.

You even let someone you vaguely remembered from uni light a joint in front of you and pass it over. You took a drag like you weren’t completely awkward about it, held it too long, coughed until your eyes watered, and then pretended it was fine.

Eventually, you ended up perched on a kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, trying to sip your warm drink and not look like you were counting the minutes. You could still hear the music pounding from the other room, some remix of a song that had been everywhere on TikTok.

Just five minutes of quiet, you told yourself. Five minutes to pull yourself together, reapply the smile, and dive back into the party like you belonged there.

“Didn’t expect to find the birthday girl hiding back here.”

You looked up, startled. Lando Norris stood in the doorway, backlit by the flickering lights of the living room. He looked almost cinematic in that moment: black jeans, worn but expensive-looking, a plain grey t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places, and curls falling messily over his forehead. His hoodie was slung carelessly over one shoulder, and he was twirling a bottle cap between his fingers like it had offended him.

Lando Norris. Max’s best mate. F1 star. British celebrity. A small crush you refused to admit out loud.

You straightened up. “Not hiding,” you said, a little too quickly. “Just… taking a break.”

He smirked, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing to the fridge. “Funny, ‘cause this is the second time I’ve seen you disappear in the last hour.”

He noticed?

You rolled your eyes but smiled faintly. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

He opened the fridge, crouched slightly to look inside, and shrugged. “Not really. Just hard to miss the girl in a pink sash who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

You didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t wrong.

Lando grabbed a can of something, cracked it open, and leaned back against the counter opposite you. He didn’t say anything else at first, just watched you over the rim of his drink, eyes scanning your expression like he was trying to read past the surface.

“You’re not really having fun,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.

You gave him a flat look and forced a chuckle. “I didn’t realize my party came with a therapist.”

He grinned. “I charge extra for birthdays.”

You sighed, fingers running along the rim of your cup. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know most of the people here. And there’s no cake, by the way, if you were wondering. Feels like the party is for everyone else but me, just a lot of tequila and people making out in corners.”

Lando tilted his head, still watching you. “So why stay?”

The question was so simple yet so complicated to answer.

You hesitated. “Because everyone else is having fun. Because Pietra planned it. Because I’m supposed to be that girl tonight. The fun birthday girl.”

He shifted slightly, that easy confidence never faltering, but his eyes had softened a little. “Maybe you don’t have to be anything.”

You blinked. It sounded easy when he said it, but it felt like a revelation.

Lando took another sip of his drink and stepped closer, shrinking the distance between you two. You noticed the subtle scent of his cologne, clean and understated, with something a little sharp beneath it, like cedar or salt.

Actually, you didn’t even know, you knew nothing about men fragrances after all. But he smelled good and it was invading your surroundings with every movement he made.

His words still echoed too loudly in your mind.

Maybe you don’t have to be anything.

And you wanted that to be true. God, how you wanted it. But reality was heavier than that.

“It’s not nice to leave your own party,” you said after a beat, voice softer now, maybe even a little apologetic. “Especially when someone threw it for you.”

Lando gave a short, quiet laugh, like he wasn’t mocking you, just amused by how earnestly you said it. He took another sip from his drink and leaned against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he shifted again, just enough to give you space but still stay close.

“Yeah, I mean… sure,” he said slowly, like he was working it out in real time. “But is it nice that no one’s really even looked at you since the party started? I mean, you’re wearing a Birthday Girl sash and I had to find you in the kitchen because no one else noticed you’d left.”

You opened your mouth, ready to object, but nothing came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.

“And Pietra,” he added with a slight smirk, “much as I’m sure she loves you, is probably upstairs shagging Max right now. So let’s not act like she’d actually notice or care if you ducked out early.”

You scoffed. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grinned and shrugged like he couldn’t be blamed for saying what you were already thinking.

“I’m just saying,” he added, his tone was softer now, less teasing. “Don’t bend yourself backwards to stay in a room that doesn’t make space for you. Even if someone decorated it with cheap balloons and blasted Pitbull remixes.”

You looked at him and the corners of your lips slightly tugged upward, slow and almost involuntary.

A smile. The first real one of the night.

You hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected him to say something like that. Something that didn’t feel like a throwaway line or a cliché.

He caught your expression immediately, and a lopsided grin curved across his lips.

“There it is,” he said, victorious. “A smile. I knew it was in there somewhere.”

You shook your head, the smile still lingering despite your best efforts to downplay it. But you could feel it, how the mood between you had shifted again. Lighter now. You didn’t know what it was exactly, only that you didn’t want to ruin it by getting too self-aware.

So you did what you always did when things started to feel too close. You changed the subject.

“And what about you?” you asked, stepping back just enough to lean against the edge of the counter, your arms loosely crossing over your chest. “What are you doing at my birthday party? Don’t you have some F1 trendy event to attend?”

Lando smirked, taking a sip from his drink before responding. “Max invited me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Max invited you… to my party?”

“I wasn’t gonna come at first,” he added, quieter now. “Long week. Jet lag. The usual. But I’m glad I did.”

There it was again, that tone. Soft, a little amused, but sincere. Like he wasn’t trying to flatter you, just telling you what he saw. And you hated how it made your chest flutter in response.

Lando took another step closer. Not invading your space, just folding into it like he’d always belonged there. He leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that your arms were almost brushing.

“Why?” you asked, voice soft, barely louder than the low thud of bass from the other room. “Having fun?”

He tilted his head, like he was weighing whether or not to give you the full answer. Then, with a slow smile, he said, “Yeah, I mean I found the birthday girl hiding in the kitchen and she turned out to be a lot more interesting than the party itself.”

You gave a soft laugh and rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

The tension between you shifted again. Not awkward, not flirty. Something in between. Like you’d both stumbled into a version of the night neither of you had been expecting.

Lando looked down at your drink-less hand, still resting by your side. Without a word, he brushed his fingers lightly against yours. Not a grab, not a move. Just a gentle touch, enough to tease and initiate a small physical contact.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t, really. Not with the way he was looking at you now.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, voice low and casual, like he was simply suggesting a change of playlist, not a small act of rebellion.

You chucked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the living room, where the music had picked up again. “This party sucks. And you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You’re hiding in the kitchen.”

You gave him a pointed look, though your mouth was twitching with the start of a reluctant smile. “That doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“Come on.” His tone was coaxing now, almost boyish in its charm. “Let’s leave and go literally everywhere else.”

You laughed under your breath. “Together? That wouldn’t look suspicious at all.”

He grinned. “I don’t care.”

That gave you pause. The way he said it. Like the idea of caring what people thought had never once stopped him from doing what he felt like doing. And yet, he didn’t feel dangerous or wild.

You held his gaze for a beat longer, your mind racing.

“Where are we even going?” you asked, your voice barely above the bass vibrating through the floor.

Lando's grin mellowed into something playful, still him, but threaded with intention. “A birthday girl deserves cake, doesn’t she?”

You blinked at him, probably blushing.

“There’s no cake here,” he added, as if that fact alone was an injustice that demanded rectifying. “It’s actually criminal. A party with no cake? I think we can do better than that.”

“You want to go find a cake?” The words came out half-disbelieving, half-intrigued. Like you were trying not to get swept up the craziness of his offer.

You should’ve said no. Should’ve kept your feet firmly planted, shrugged it off with some breezy excuse. Go back into the party and try to let the music drown out whatever strange electricity had crept in between you and this boy with curly hair and a grin that could pull tides.

But the thought of slipping out into the night with him, of escaping this mess of music and expectation and putting on a face that didn’t feel like yours, it felt like breathing after holding it in for hours.

“Come on,” he said. “Get your jacket.”

You looked at him for a heartbeat, your breath caught somewhere in your chest. Then you broke eye contact with a small shake of your head, more in disbelief at yourself than at him, and turned toward the chair where you’d tossed your jacket earlier. Your fingers trembling just slightly as you grabbed it.

Thirty seconds later you were following him out of Max’s place.

You walked side by side, close but not quite touching, his hand brushing yours once, casually, like it was nothing.

“So,” you said, trying to break the silence and the tension curling in your chest while waiting for the elevator “Is this your thing? Rescue sad girls from their own birthdays?”

Lando turned to you with that signature grin, the one that had probably melted a thousand hearts, and tilted his head. “Only the really cute and really tragic ones.”

You rolled your eyes but bit your lip to hide your smile. “Wow. So you’re pitying me”

“Mh, no not at all.” He shrugged, leaning against the wall with an ease that came so naturally to him. “You just looked like you weren’t having the night you deserved.”

Lando was charming, yes. But he was also nice. Kind in a quiet, consistent way that felt dangerous. Because it made it hard to guard yourself. Hard to keep the walls up when he wasn’t trying to break them down.

He was also making you feel seen. For the first time. And that made you analyze everything.

You fought back a grin.

Don’t overthink this. It’s just cake. It’s just a walk. Just a boy you barely know, or maybe never really did.

What were you even doing? Literally everything could go wrong.

But you decided, right then, not to let your thoughts ruin the moment. It was your birthday, damn it. He was right. You deserved to laugh. You deserved to feel something good.

So you let yourself smile as you followed him through the nearly empty lot, your heels clicking against the pavement, until you spotted the sleek black Lamborghini parked beneath a streetlamp.

Of course. Of course he drove a Lamborghini.

Lando unlocked it with a casual tap of his key fob, the lights blinking once.

He walked over to the passenger side, the soft click of the unlocking doors breaking the quiet of the night. Without saying a word, he opened it for you with a mock-serious flourish, then extended an arm, palm up like he was guiding you into a royal carriage.

“Miss,” he said, tone grave but lips twitching, clearly amused with himself.

You laughed, caught somewhere between impressed and amused. “Wow. Thank you!”

You were still smiling to yourself when he closed the door and rounded the front of the car, slipping into the driver’s seat with the same cool ease he carried everywhere. He caught the look on your face as he started the engine and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, grinning as the dashboard lit up.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

God, he was charming. Too thoughtful. Too casually nice for his own good. And definitely for yours. The way he moved, the way he paid attention to you in little ways like holding the door, that subtle touch to your back. It felt all so natural. But it was doing things to your brain. Making your thoughts feel louder than the low hum of the engine.

He pulled out his phone and opened Google Maps, fingers tapping against the screen as he scrolled.

“Alright,” he muttered, half to himself, eyes scanning the map. “There has to be a Tesco or Sainsbury’s open somewhere. Come on.”

You leaned over slightly, peering at his screen before his thumb paused over a pin on the map. “There we go. Twenty-four-hour Tesco, eight minutes away.”

Lando pulled onto the main road, one hand casually resting on the wheel, the other still holding his phone in his lap.

You glanced sideways at him, trying not to stare. He looked calm. Confident. Absolutely stunning. The kind of person who made it feel like anything could happen and it might actually turn out okay.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” you said quietly.

The eight-minute ride felt like two seconds, too quick to fully sink in, until suddenly he was pulling into a dimly lit Tesco parking lot.

“Here we are,” he announced like it was the grandest destination in the world, his grin widening as he cut the engine.

You caught your reflection in the windshield for a moment: hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been all night.

Two hours into your birthday, and finally, maybe, you were starting to have some fun.

Inside the store, the harsh fluorescent lights were a stark contrast to darkness of the night, but the familiar aisles and quiet hum of refrigeration units were oddly comforting.

You followed Lando down the baking aisle, your footsteps echoing softly with his.

He stopped in front of the fridge and started scanning the options. “Alright, what kind of cake does the birthday girl want? Something classic? Chocolate?”

You glanced at the neatly arranged cakes, their frosted perfection almost surreal in the stark lighting. “I don’t know... chocolate sounds good,” you said finally, shrugging like it was the safest choice.

Lando nodded approvingly, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Chocolate it is. Can’t go wrong with it”

He reached out and picked up a modest chocolate cake, the kind that promised comfort more than extravagance, and held it up like a prize. You caught the soft gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, as if this little mission had become more important than either of you expected.

“Now,” he added, turning to the next aisle with that same confident ease, “we need candles. Can’t have a birthday without candles.”

He handed you a small pack with a careful tenderness, his fingers brushing yours just enough to make your pulse hitch.

Lando carried the cake and candles to the self-checkout with a kind of casual confidence that somehow made even a 2 a.m. Tesco run feel cinematic. You trailed behind him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, watching as he scanned the items with one hand, the other tucked easily into the pocket of his hoodie.

Once you stepped back out into the night, the cool air kissed your cheeks, and the world felt quieter somehow, like the city itself had turned the volume down.

“Mind holding onto that while I drive?” Lando handed you the Tesco bag and unlocked the car with a click.

You nodded, accepting the Tesco bag from him as he opened the passenger side door for you again. A quiet “thank you” passed your lips, but the smile tugging at them gave more away than you meant to. There was something disarmingly endearing about Lando’s late-night chivalry—like it wasn’t just instinct for him, but intentional. It made your chest flutter in a way that felt far too dangerous at 2 a.m.

As he rounded the car and slid back into the driver’s seat, you held the bag in your lap, the candles rattling softly against the plastic container of cake. You glanced over at him, curious and a little breathless from how this strange, impulsive detour had somehow become the best part of your birthday.

“So,” you said, side-eyeing him as he shifted the car into gear. “Are we heading back to Max’s or…?”

He shook his head, lips quirking into a small smile. “Nope. Got somewhere better in mind.”

You gave him a sideways look, eyes narrowing slightly with playful suspicion. “Where are we going, Norris?”

He glanced at you briefly before turning his eyes back to the road, the city lights reflecting on the window and in the curve of his grin. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

You did. More than you probably should have.

The next ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye. London looked somewhat different this late and you sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional click of the indicator and the quiet thrum of the engine.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to him, to the way his fingers moved on the steering wheel, relaxed and sure. It was ridiculous how effortless he looked, how being near him pulled at something you weren’t sure you were ready to name yet.

Finally, he pulled into a narrow side street and eased into a small parking area tucked between a few low buildings.

The second you stepped out of the car, you understood.

The view opened up in front of you like something out of a movie.

You were high up on South Bank, overlooking the Thames. Tower Bridge was lit up in the distance, glowing like a crown across the water. The London Eye turned slowly, faintly glowing behind the trees, and the spire of Big Ben stood tall and golden in the skyline. The city stretched out like a blanket of stars, each light shimmering in its own rhythm.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. “Wow…”

Lando stepped up beside you, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah.”

“Are you trying to impress me, Norris?”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling before drifting you eyes to the view again.

“I did a photoshoot here once, couple years ago,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Middle of the day. Full crew, chaos everywhere. But I remember looking out and thinking… this place deserved silence. Stillness.”

You glanced back at the view. “It’s beautiful.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, you both just stood there in the hush between city sounds, the only thing moving the occasional breeze that played with the hem of your jacket and the ends of your hair.

Then Lando exhaled, breaking the spell with a small grin. “Alright. Let’s get that cake now”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, as if it had been sitting at the base of your throat all night, just waiting for the right moment to escape.

“Yey! Cake time,” you rejoiced, spinning on your heel and making your way back to the car.

Lando followed at a leisurely pace, hands still tucked in his hoodie pockets, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you.

You reached back into the car, careful not to jostle the bag too much, and pulled out the chocolate cake with the kind of reverence it deserved. It wasn’t fancy a little smushed from the ride, but it suddenly felt like the most important cake you’d ever held as you gently placed it on the hood of car.

Lando helped you peeling back the lid with slow, careful fingers, like it was something breakable. Or maybe it was just that the moment felt that fragile.

From his pocket, he pulled out the pack of pastel-colored candles you’d grabbed from Tesco, opening it and tapping a few into his hand.

“Okay so,” he said with a crooked smirk, tilting his head as he examined the cake’s surface. “We’ve got space for, what… five candles?”

You laughed softly, already shaking your head.

“That’s how old you’re turning, right?” he teased with a playful tone.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, trying to hide your grin. “You’re actually so rude.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile wouldn’t go away.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like this, like something was blooming in the center of your chest and you didn’t want to stop it. It was ridiculous, really, how a supermarket cake and five mismatched candles could feel so important. So personal.

Lando stepped in closer, the warmth of his body brushing your side as he leaned over to help you press the tiny candles into the soft frosting. Your arms moved together in this quiet rhythm, his fingers brushing yours here and there as you worked, and neither of you rushed. The silence between you had settled into something comfortable, like you were both reluctant to break it.

Once the last candles were in, Lando reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a black lighter. His brows pulled together as he lit each one, shielding the little flames from the night breeze with his hand, his thumb instinctively curling inward as if protecting something precious.

“There,” he said softly once the final flame flickered to life, standing upright again.

You stared down at the cake, then up at him. “I can’t believe you actually did this.”

His expression softened, mouth curling into something gentler. “Why not?”

You shrugged, hugging your arms around yourself against the breeze. “I don’t know. We barely know each other and… this? It’s… really nice.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with that same unreadable expression.

Then, in a voice barely louder than the wind, he said, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could say anything else, he did it. He started to sing. Just a few notes at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure whether to commit.

“Happy birthday to you…”

“Oh no,” You let out a stunned laugh, instantly covering your face with your hands.

He grinned, eyes crinkling as he kept going, singing the whole song just a little off-beat for comedic effect.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Now, time to make a wish.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, but when you turned your gaze down toward the flickering flames, something shifted inside you.

The warmth of the engine beneath your fingertips, the city glittering in the background like spilled stardust, the boy beside you who somehow felt both brand new and strangely familiar, all of it felt like a moment suspended in time.

What would you even wish for?

You didn’t really want anything extravagant.

But you closed your eyes anyway.

And in the quiet between your heartbeats, you wished. Not aloud, not even fully formed but something close to “more of this”. More moments where you could feel good with being reckless, where you could breathe deeply and laugh until your stomach hurt. Moments where things felt easy. Real. Light.

Moments where you could feel seen.

You opened your eyes again, meeting Lando’s blue ones briefly before leaning forward and blowing out the candles with one long breath. The tiny flames snuffed out one by one, tendrils of smoke curling upward into the night air.

He clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm, grinning like a kid who’d just watched fireworks. “Atta girl, nailed it.”

Lando then reached for the plastic cake knife tucked in the side of the container and carefully made the first slice, eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated concentration. “Alright,” he said, biting his bottom lip as he focused like he was performing surgery. “Two big slices!”

You giggled, folding your arms and watching him, your body still buzzing faintly from the moment you’d just shared: from the laughter, the quiet wish, the way his eyes had lingered on yours like they saw something most people missed.

When he finally lifted a generous slice with the flimsy plastic knife, it promptly fell sideways onto the container lid with a soft splat.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans with a grin, “we, uh… may not have plates.”

You laughed again, real, loud and delighted, and then accepted a chunk of the cake he passed to you with his bare hands. “It’s okay, we’re embracing chaos, at this point.”

He tapped his slice against yours like it was a champagne toast. “Cheers.”

And for a few minutes, you sat there like that, side by side, sharing lopsided bites of chocolate cake in the warm glow of the London skyline, Tower Bridge lit in the distance, the sound of the Thames moving just beyond the railings.

There was no small talk, no need to fill the space. Just the occasional shared look, the bump of shoulders, the quiet between you stretching wide and comfortable.

Eventually, you set the last bit of your cake down beside the container and wiped your fingers with a napkin he passed you, still smiling faintly.

“Thank you,” you said softly, turning toward him now, the weight of the moment finally catching up with you. “Really, Lando. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

He blinked, surprised by the shift in your tone. His expression softened instantly, and he tilted his head a little, his voice just as gentle. “Told you. You deserved a good one.”

Your heart thudded, not in that dizzy, anxious way it sometimes did when your thoughts ran ahead of you, but in a steady, weighted rhythm. Like it knew exactly where you were, and exactly who you were with. “Yeah, you’re right...”

You looked down at the cake, half eaten and crooked on the plastic lid, and something in you clicked into place.

Fuck it.

You set it down gently on the hood of the car, not breaking eye contact as you did.

And then you took a step closer.

Lando’s brows lifted slightly, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He didn’t ruin the moment. He just stood there, still and waiting, watching you with those wide, curious eyes like you were the most fascinating thing he’d seen all night.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly against the collar of his hoodie, steadying yourself more than anything. He leaned in just a fraction, barely perceptible, but you felt it.

And then, with one breath, you closed the space.

Your lips met his in a soft, slow kiss that silenced everything else. No sounds of traffic in the distance, no hum of the city lights, no intrusive thoughts clawing their way in. Just the warmth of his mouth and the way his hands, tentative at first, came to rest gently at your hips, grounding you in the moment.

He tasted like chocolate and something unmistakably him, and he kissed you back with such quiet intention, like he’d been waiting to do it all night but didn’t want to rush you.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you gave when you didn’t know what it meant.

It was soft. Anchored. Real.

When you finally pulled away, it was only by an inch, your forehead lingering close enough to brush his.

Lando let out the smallest laugh under his breath, like he wasn’t entirely sure that just happened. His eyes flicked to your mouth and then back to your eyes, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“Wasn’t planning on kissing you, I’m sorry,” you admitted, voice soft, almost shy.

His eyes softened. He shook his head almost immediately, the corners of his lips tugging up, not in amusement, but in something gentler. Close to relief.

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “Honestly… I was.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and he gave you a sheepish little smile, his hands gently sliding from your hips to your waist, steadying you. Or maybe steadying himself.

“I was gonna wait, though,” he continued, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. Again.

“Didn’t wanna be that guy, you know? Creeping in on your birthday like some cliché. Thought I’d at least get your number first and maybe go out on a date before I tried anything…”

You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound echoing off the quiet city around you. Something about the way he looked at you: like he was still amazed you were here, that this was happening, it made your heart skip and your skin warm, even in the cool night air.

And before you could say anything else, Lando’s hands found your face, cupping it so gently it made you forget how to breathe for a moment.

He kissed you again.

Not tentative this time. Not questioning or soft. This one was firmer, anchored in certainty, in heat, in the low burn of chemistry that had been slowly curling around you all night. It wasn’t rushed, it was intentional.

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks as his mouth met yours, and you didn’t hesitate. You leaned in, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie near his chest, needing something to hold on to because everything else suddenly felt weightless.

Your back pressed gently against the hood of the car as he stepped in closer, his body warm against yours, grounding you with every inch.

You could taste laughter still on his lips, feel the way his breathing shifted when you deepened the kiss just a little, how one of his hands slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a quiet exhale that made your knees go soft.

“Lando…” you whispered against his mouth, the syllables shaky and too honest. “You said I deserved a good night.”

He pulled back just enough to see you, just enough to let his eyes search yours. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone.

“I did,”

“I want to have a good night,” you said, barely more than a breath.

His gaze flickered, the meaning not lost on him.

He knew what you were alluding. So he stilled for half a heartbeat, and you could see it: the way he recalibrated, checked himself. Lando might have looked relaxed, but you saw the exact moment he stepped into the moment fully, no longer dancing on the edge of it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, quiet and calm, though you heard the question buried beneath it. “It’s not what this is about…”

Your fingers tightened in his hoodie.

“I know, I know…”

And then everything changed, because you added: “ve never been more sure about anything.”

His hand slid into the back of your hair, warm and careful, as if he were trying not to jostle the moment too hard, like you were glass he wasn’t ready to shatter. But the kiss that followed, that wasn’t careful. That was full and greedy and slow in the way that meant he was trying to take his time, trying not to devour, even as his mouth tilted into yours with heat that didn’t lie.

He let his fingers skim down to your waist, both hands now cradling your hips, and as he stepped you gently backward, the curve of his lips ghosted over yours again.

Your back hit the car and you felt the way his palms splayed wide along the back of your naked and smooth thighs, guiding. His fingers hooked just enough under your knees to give the suggestion. You shifted, letting him lift you with a small grunt of effort onto the hood of his car, knees parting instinctively.

He stepped forward to stand between them with an ease that could have melt down any girl’s heart.

That angle changed everything.

Suddenly his chest was right there, level with yours, and his hands didn’t hesitate, finding your hips again, thumbs stroking along bare skin where your dress had ridden up.

You tilted your head, watching him as his eyes swept down your body slowly, deliberately, like he was giving himself permission to look.

“I want you to know… I didn’t bring you here with any intention.” His voice was rougher now, quieter.

You didn’t even blink.

Your hand slid up to cup the side of his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone, guiding his gaze back to yours so he could see the truth as clearly as you felt it.

“I know,” you whispered. “Lando. I kissed you first, remember?”

Some invisible wall cracked open and he stepped all the way through, no longer trying to calculate or control the moment.

It was different now.

There was no tension in his body, only heat and longing and a kind of sweetness that unspooled with every stroke of his tongue against yours, every soft inhale between kisses that sounded like he was trying to memorize how you tasted.

He pressed a kiss to the center of your neck, just beneath your ear, then again lower, and lower still, trailing a map on your skin as you tipped your head back to give him more room.

And oh, he groaned when you did. A sound of approval that buzzed against your skin as his tongue flicked out to taste the salt of you where your pulse fluttered hard.

His hands were moving too now.

But even then, even with his mouth on your neck and his hands beneath your dress, there was no rush in him. No crude hunger. Just a kind of aching patience, like he wanted everything but wanted to take his time earning it.

And god, he was so good at kissing. Not just skilled, but present with every press of his lips.

“I’d love to touch you,” he whispered, voice rough like gravel scraped thin with emotion. “I want to. So bad. But… I would be totally okay if you didn’t want this to happen here like… out in the open”

He trailed off, clearly giving you the out, even as his thumb brushed your lower lip but never pushing.

You laughed softly, breathless, a little dazed from his mouth, and kissed him again. Quick and teasing this time, pulling back before he could deepen it. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, voice low with heat, brushing your nose against his.

“There’s a whole car behind us, you know,” you whispered. “We don’t have to do this on the hood.”

For a second, Lando just looked at you, blinking once, then breaking into a grin so bright and filthy that it made your chest clench.

“Yeah, you’re right” he said, chuckling a little bit keeping his tone serious “But that still applies, y’know.”

You kissed him again, to reassure him and give him a fingere answer. And he seemed to get it immediately because one of his hands slipped around to the small of your back, the other trailed up, knuckles brushing the underside of your thigh where your dress had bunched.

He squeezed, pulling you flush against him on the hood, and your body responded automatically, grinding against the pressure of his hips with a soft, needy whimper in your throat.

“Back seat,?” he murmured against your skin.

You giggled, light and breathless, and slid your arms around his neck, letting him help you down. “Back seat.”

He caught you effortlessly, hands strong and sure under your thighs as he lowered you off the car hood, your bodies never quite separating. Even when your feet touched the ground, you were still in his arms, still held, his mouth dragging over your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

He laughed again and then slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you both to the rear door of the car. He opened it with one hand, never letting go of you with the other, and then gestured gallantly with a tilt of his head.

“After you,” he said, grinning.

He followed, door closing behind him with a soft thunk, and as soon as the latch caught, something between you changed again. He leaned in without a word, hand catching the back of your neck, pulling you to him.

The kiss this time was messier, hungrier, full of urgency he hadn’t let himself indulge on the hood. His hands found your waist, tugging you closer as he shifted in the narrow space, and your legs opened to make room, thighs parting around him.

You wanted all of him. Right here in the darkened space of the backseat, where the world narrowed down to breath and skin and that dizzying, perfect electricity that only existed between two people who knew this wasn’t just about sex.

For once.

You could feel him smiling when you arched into him, a cocky, breath-warmed curve of his lips against your cheek.

“God, you’re unreal,” Lando murmured, voice reverent, like the words had broken out before he could stop them.

And the way he said it, cool and teasing but laced with awe, like you were the sexiest thing he’d ever touched, it made your skin shiver.

His hands weren’t rushing, weren’t fumbling. They knew what they wanted. He pushed your dress higher, thumbs hooking the fabric and sliding it up your thighs until it bunched around your waist, then his palm found the curve between your legs.

A deep inhale. Then a low, smug exhale when he felt it.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours like he needed to see your face as he traced over the damp cotton of your panties. “Already this wet for me?” His fingers pressed gently, dragging slow lazy circles, his knuckles grazing the edge of the damp spot spreading wider with every pass. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

The space was tight, his knees bumping between yours, your back shifting against the seat as he leaned in, crowding you completely.

And then, his fingers finally slipped past the waistband, sliding under, and your breath caught hard as he groaned again, deep and low, the sound like it had been torn from his chest.

His thumb pressed to your clit and stayed there, firm and steady, while two fingers slid through the slick heat of you slow and patient, like he wanted to feel every inch.

“Jesus, baby,” he said, “So fucking wet I’m sliding right in.” And he did, curling just enough to make your hips jolt.

His fingers sank deeper with that perfect curl and the gasp that left your mouth was broken, high and helpless, with your head falling back against the seat as your hips instinctively rocked into his hand. You didn’t even mean to do it. But your body just moved, greedy and aching, chasing every pulse of pressure his fingers gave you.

You were soaked all of a sudden. You could hear it every time his fingers pumped in, the slick wet sound filthy and perfect in the closed, humid air of the car. And Lando… he was eating it up, enjoying every second with eyes fixed on your face with the kind of focus that made your chest squeeze tight.

It was absurd. All of it.

Not even an hour ago, you’d been sitting in the corner of your own birthday party, surrounded by people who smiled too wide and asked all the wrong questions, feeling invisible at your own celebration.

And now?

Now your head was thrown back in the steamed-up cocoon of Lando’s car, your thighs spread wide around his narrow hips, your panties pulled to the side as his long, perfect fingers worked inside you like they’d been crafted by a god with nothing better to do than design the exact way you liked to be touched.

So now you were moaning, writhing, clenching around him every time he curled those fingers just right, while the goddamn remnants of the Tesco birthday cake were probably still stuck in your teeth.

And it felt like a dream. A delirious, aching, impossible dream.

A boy with cake crumbs on his shirt and the fastest hands in F1 was making you feel more chosen in fifteen minutes than most people had in years.

And then, it happened so fast. Or maybe not fast enough.

He shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle of his wrist with that effortless finesse, and suddenly his fingers slammed against something deep inside you that made you suddenly feel devastatingly good.

And the noise that tore from your throat wasn’t a moan. It was a sob, a broken, grateful cry that punched out of you like it had been waiting your whole life to escape. Your entire body jerked in response, thighs clamping around his hand even as your hips rolled down to meet the next thrust, desperate and uncontrollable.

“There,” Lando breathed, eyes wide and wild with something bordering awe. “Right there, huh?”

And then he kept going.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers hit that same spot over and over, unrelenting, like he’d found the part of you that made you sing and had no intention of letting it go. The heel of his palm crushed against your clit with each motion, every thrust coiling tighter, higher, harder inside you until you were shaking, babbling nonsense against his jaw as he kissed you again.

You couldn't think. Couldn’t see.

“Fuck, Lando…”

The pressure detonated. You came around his fingers with a wet, clenching pulse that didn’t seem to end, your body bucking against him as his name tore out of your mouth in strangled, gasping whimpers.

And you should have been spent. Should’ve melted right there in the heat of it, let him cradle you until the buzz faded.

But you didn’t want to stop.

Your hands moved on instinct, fingers scrambling for his belt, tugging open the buckle with clumsy desperation. You pulled at his jeans, dragging the zipper down even as you crashed your mouth to his again, kissing him like you needed air from his lungs. Lando let out a breathless laugh and pulled back just enough to yank his hoodie over his head, tossing it behind him somewhere in the front seats.

“Hey—hey, wait,” he said, voice low but steady, one hand catching yours just as it slipped inside the waistband of his boxers. He held you there, not stopping you, but grounding you. His fingers were still sticky with your arousal, warm against your skin. “Are you sure?”

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, the sincerity in them so naked it made your throat tighten. “We don’t have to do this just ‘cause it’s been a shit birthday or… I don’t know.”

The question wasn’t just words. It was in his touch, in the way he held you like you were breakable, precious. And you’d never felt less fragile than you did in that moment.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in a slow touch, so tender it made his breath hitch.

“I said I want this,” you whispered, “ And not because it’s my birthday. Or because I was sad and you bought me a cake.”

“I want this,” you repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss: cheek, jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I promise you.”

Then you pulled back just far enough to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, curls damp from the heat between you, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, and his cock straining against his boxers under your palm. But his eyes… his eyes were soft. Waiting. Giving you space.

A slow smile curved your lips as you leaned in and whispered, hot and sweet against his skin:

“Now shut up, and get a condom.”

Lando’s laugh was breathless, shaky, and so fucking turned on. “Yes, ma’am,”

He moved fast, fumbling with the glovebox with one hand while the other never left your body, fingers sliding along your thigh, tracing lazy shapes in your skin like he couldn’t not touch you. He found the little silver packet, tore it open with his teeth like he’d done it a hundred times before he rolled it down his length smoothly.

You couldn’t stop staring. He was flushed down to his chest, muscles shifting under that perfect, lean body as he settled back between your legs. His cock was already leaking before he even touched you, it stood proud and heavy in his hand, and the sight alone made your thighs fall open wider in welcome.

Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were suddenly on you: one strong arm sweeping under your thighs, the other gripping your waist, and with a breathless yelp you were lifted effortlessly off the seat. You squealed, half-laughing, half-shocked, hands scrambling f on his shoulders on instinct as he shifted you into his lap like it was nothing.

“Lando!” you gasped between laughs, still breathless from arousal and now from surprise, your thighs bracketing his hips.

He grinned up at you, that infuriatingly confident smile laced with just the right amount of sweetness, like he lived to make you laugh like that.

“C’mere” he murmured “If we’re really gonna do this, I want the birthday girl to fucking ride me in the backseat.”

He was watching you like he wanted to burn every second of this into memory. His hands slid down, slow and patient, fingers curling under the edges of your ruined panties, still damp and clinging to your thighs.

You lifted your hips and let him ease them down your legs, the fabric dragging sticky and slow over your slick skin. He let the panties fall to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours as he smoothed his hands up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing you completely.

You felt open, bare, seen in a way that should’ve made you feel vulnerable, but it didn’t. Not this time. Not with him.

You could feel him there, hot and hard, pressed against the soaked heat of your cunt. It made your stomach flip, made your heart race, made you need him.

“Ready?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He gripped himself in one hand, the other steady on your hip, and guided you down slowly, the tip of his cock parting your folds with maddening, delicious pressure.

“Oh fuck,” you hissed, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you sank onto him, inch by inch.

It was a lot. He was thick, long, stretching you open in a way that made your thighs tremble instantly. You paused halfway down, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, and he didn’t push. He held still, hands rubbing soothing circles into your hips while his lips started pressing tender kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, that nickname giving you shivers “So fucking good. Take your time. You feel incredible.”

You whimpered, eyes shut, muscles tight with the effort of taking him. But slowly, breath by breath, you began to lower yourself again, feeling every thick, pulsing inch as he slid deeper inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You bottomed out with a gasp, your body fully seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” you whispered, breath shuddering. “You’re… big.”

Lando’s laugh was low and wrecked “Yeah?” he said, hands smoothing up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your breasts.

You nodded, unable to form words.

“Take a second, then” he murmured, kissing your chest and trailing up to your shoulder again.

You did, staying still as your muscles slowly adjusted, the stretch turning from burn to pleasure. You could feel your heartbeat in your cunt, every throb dragging against the thick press of him inside you. And when you finally rocked your hip, just a little, you both groaned in unison.

His hands slid back to your waist, fingers splaying, guiding your movements as you began to ride him in slow, tentative rolls.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so fucking good”

The praise went straight to your core, as potent as the stretch of him inside you. You rocked against him again, a little harder this time, your thighs clenching around his waist. He moaned, his head dropping back for a second before snapping up again, eyes locked on the way you moved.

You needed more. More than slow and soft.

So you shifted your balance, planting your feet on either side of his hips and leaning back until your spine arched and your palms found leverage on his thighs.

And fuck, the new angle…

Your head fell back with a sharp moan, your hips beginning to move in deliberate, grinding circles now, your ass slapping softly against his thighs as you started to ride him with intent. Each thrust dragged him over that sweet, devastating spot inside you, and he felt it. How clenched and tight you were, how you were squeezing him.

“God, look at you…” he mumbled between his teeth “Riding me like it’s what you were made for.”

And then his hands were on your breasts.

He leaned forward, strong arms wrapping around your torso to pull you closer, mouth trailing hot, open kisses down your chest. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking gently before teasing it with his tongue, his hand kneading the other breast as if he couldn’t decide which one he loved more. The sensation made your hips stutter, made your breath break in your throat.

“Fuck, Lando—”

“Yeah” he growled. “Take what you need, baby.”

You reached up blindly, one hand bracing against the car’s ceiling to steady yourself, careful not to bump your head as your pace built.

But even with him inside you, even with his mouth on your breasts and his hands guiding your hips like they were the most sacred thing he’d ever touched, it wasn’t close enough. You needed more. Needed him. Surrounding you, holding you, breathing you in like you were the only air in the car.

So you shifted again, chest heaving as you leaned forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in until there was nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the frantic rhythm of your bodies moving together. He went willingly, groaning into your mouth as your lips found his again. This time it was all tongue and teeth.

You moved like that: close, tight, grinding down onto him with deeper, rolling thrusts that had his head falling forward against your shoulder. Every sound you made now was right in his ear. You felt him shudder every time you gasped his name, felt the tremor that ran through his thighs when you moaned, “Lando, fuck… feels so good…” like it was the only truth left in the world.

And then his hand slid between your bodies again.

You felt it, slipping down your belly, finding that swollen bundle of nerves just where you needed it most. His thumb pressed in slow, steady circles against your clit, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your hips, and your whole body jerked, a shudder ripping through you as your forehead dropped to the crook of his neck.

“Oh god” you whimpered, arms tightening around his shoulders and ails digging into his back. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he groaned while his teeth were gently scraping along your jaw. “Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart, takin’ my cock so well.”

Every filthy word made your hips move even harder, your walls clench around him. He was everywhere: inside you, around you, with you. His voice in your ear, his hand on your clit, his cock filling you so deep it made your legs tremble.

“You close?” he was now kissing along your collarbone softly. “Can feel you fucking gripping me …”

You nodded, not even trying to hold your moans anymore.

“Good girl,” he breathed while his fingers were circling your clit even faster now. “That’s it, then. Come on, birthday girl. ”

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave breaking clean and wild against rock. Violent and consuming. You cried out arching your back and locking your arms tightly around his shoulders as your cunt clamped down on him with need.

Your hips didn’t stop tho, or maybe couldn’t stop.

You still moved.

Even as the waves of pleasure tore through you, your body kept rolling, grinding, giving, chasing every last bit of stimulation because you wanted him to feel it too. You wanted to pull him over the edge with you, keep him deep and tight and overwhelmed until he had no choice but to let go.

And he did.

“Shit,” Lando choked, his voice ragged and shaking as he bucked up into you one final time, deep and desperate, fingers digging into your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His whole body locked beneath you, breath punched out of his lungs as he came, hard, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into the condom with a groan that vibrated against your collarbone.

You clung to him, chest to chest, body slick and trembling and full, your cunt still fluttering in the aftershocks of your own climax, milking every pulse of his release. He moaned again, quieter this time, buried against your skin, the sound soft and wrecked, like he was being undone even as he started to come down.

This time, you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Your bodies were pressed together, molded in sweat-slick intimacy, your heart hammering against his as your fingers slid through the curls at the back of his neck.

It was a long moment before either of you could speak.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered finally “That was…”

“Incredible,” he finished, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were still blown wide, hair clinging to his damp forehead, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. “You’re incredible.”

You laughed softly, a helpless, breathless sound that shook through you. You blinked down at him, your legs still draped around his waist, your dress hiked up, your panties missing somewhere on the car floor.

“You’re still inside me,”

He smirked, cheeky even while panting, his hands smoothing up your back. “I know,” he said, voice warm “Don’t wanna move. And If you gave me like ten minutes, I’d go again.”

You burst into laughter, collapsing onto his chest, burying your face in his neck. “I don’t think I can.”

The haze softened into something golden, sweet. He held you close, one hand stroking slow circles on your bare thigh while the other stayed curled at your lower back, like he was afraid to let go. You nuzzled closer, kissed the skin just under his jaw, and let your eyes flutter shut for a second.

It was four in the morning.

You could see the faintest pale light beginning to spill over the horizon, brushing the fogged windows with a ghost of dawn. The air in the car had cooled just enough to make your skin goosebump where you weren’t pressed to him. And you were wrecked. Spent. Sticky and sore in all the best ways.

And still… you’d never felt more alive.

You hadn’t expected anything. Hadn’t wanted anything, not really. Not a surprise party let alone a hookup.

And yet, here you were: two orgasms deep, wrapped around Lando Norris in the backseat of his Lamborghini, your dress hiked to your hips, your panties forgotten, your legs sore from straddling him.

It was absurd.

And perfect.

Eventually, Lando sighed, tilting his head to kiss your temple as he gently shifted beneath you. The movement was slow, careful, and when he finally slipped out of you, the sensation made you shiver. He hissed under his breath, half-sensitive, and reached down to peel off the condom. He tied it off, searching the car blindly until he found one of his sweatshirts and used it to gently clean you up between your thighs. You winced as he wiped over your oversensitive cunt, but he was gentle, murmuring soft apologies as he worked.

“We made a fucking mess.”

You giggled, wriggling at the ticklish sensation, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek again.

“I’ll take you home, now” he said softly. “Make you some tea, yeah? Then maybe…” He ran a thumb down your spine, slow and suggestive. “If you're up for it, we see what round two looks like in an actual bed.”

[jamminvroomvroom]

I’VE MISSED YOU ━ L.N

in which you’re unable to stay away from lando like you’d intended after his win in monaco

warnings; unprotected sex, reader needs to stand up but whatever, public sex lowkey, oral m receiving, plenty of praise, degradation like once, hair pulling, choking, thigh riding, rough smut i guess i think that’s it ! lando could be toxic he could be genuine we don’t know ! unedited rn xox

you swore you’d stay away.

you were beyond settling, unable to pretend to be satisfied with what lando could offer these days.

it wasn’t your fault you weren’t good at keeping your word.

“where are you going?” lando’s voice chimed innocently from where he was sprawled on his bed, watching as you stumbled around the room.

the sheets draped over his lower half did little to offer modesty, tanned and toned abdomen on display decorated in red lines left by your nails only moments ago.

you ignored his words as you shrugged your underwear up your wobbly legs ━ eyes scanning the room in search of all your clothing, lando not having been precise in discarding them across the floor.

“we are well pass this,” the brit practically scoffed, jokingly speaking; not understanding why you’d been so quick to scurry off. soft touches and you cuddled up to his chest was what he was used too.

“this was a mistake.” you huffed, not offering him a glance. sounding annoyed, because you were. with yourself.

he’d laughed. laughed. you envied how unbothered he could be, rolling your eyes as you found your skirt, shimmying it up your legs as lando stood and tugged his boxers on.

“ouch,” he mused; hand resting over his heart as if your words had stung.

he didn’t believe them, so they wouldn’t effect him.

“i told you this isn’t happening again,” you offered an explanation, not that he asked for one; lips pursed and you could cringe at how unconvincing you sounded.

he assumed that had been a lie when you said that all those weeks ago. and then presumed he was correct considering you ended up back here in his sheets tonight.

“yet here you are,” lando chuckled; and your self annoyance was beginning to spread with his inability to realise you were trying to be serious.

“it’s not happening again.” you finally looked at him, and lando would be worried with how stern you looked if he actually believed you.

but he didn’t. maybe because you were the one who seeked him out tonight, or maybe because he didn’t want to believe you. regardless; such conversation was one he’d like to avoid.

you huffed when you couldn’t find your shirt, lando watching in slight amusement ━ not complaining of the sight, red and purple marks scattering your skin thanks to himself.

“have i lost my touch?” lando joked; well aware that wasn’t the case. not when you’d just cum around his fingers and cock three times.

you took a short breath, standing straight and stopping in your movements to face him.

“i’m no longer fine with just being a fuck of convenience,” you told him honestly, shoulders shrugging and only then did you capture his face falter momentarily.

eyebrows pinching together, lips tugging into a small frown which left as quick as it came.

“that’s what you think this is?” his question was somewhat accusing, but he sounded so laid back it wouldn’t make sense for it to be as such.

he ducked down and swiped your shirt off the floor; but he refrained from offering it to you.

you didn’t want to answer his question, despite it being an obvious answer. not needing it rubbed in that your wants didn’t align. but when you went to grab the material from his hand, he was quick to draw it back; eyebrows raising in question. silently telling you to answer him.

“how else would you describe it?” you challenged; head tilting aside as you refrained from rolling your eyes.

he faltered once more; this wasn’t what he signed up for. he avoided this last time, when you had ‘ended’ this arrangement that had been ongoing for months now.

“fun.” lando shrugged, and when you let out a dry laugh he wanted to wince, groaning as he shook his head. “you know what i mean,” he attempted to follow up.

he didn’t know what to call it, but he knew convenience wasn’t the right word. you were much more than just convenient.

“i know what to expect from you lando,” you hummed; successful in grabbing your shirt from his hand this time; pulling it over your head. “i’m not gonna ask for more. but this isn’t enough for me anymore,” you shrugged.

your explanation was fair, he couldn’t complain. couldn’t throw it back in your face, tell you he already warned you he didn’t want anything serious. make it your problem. or tell you that you were wrong, your expectations were wrong.

because they weren’t wrong.

this was his problem, because you made sense. you were doing what was right by you. so why did it make him feel like shit? he should be grateful you weren’t putting him in an awkward spot he’d been in too many times, forced to let others down.

“thanks for the fun night,” you’d smiled; and he had to refrain from scoffing in disbelief. it being his turn to struggle in mustering a smile.

you knew that wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, but you had hoped it’d be the last time you were so close to the driver. the last time you melted in his touch and came undone from a mere few whispers and lingering touches.

you’d hoped that’d be the case, and it seemed more and more likely as the months went past.

he knew you were in monaco, he always knew which races you were attending; despite you never telling him. it was almost a game, how you would somehow end up at his hotel or bed room despite no plans to do so.

he’d barely crossed your mind, it wasn’t like it was hard to avoid a driver. hot property, even more so here in monaco. there were stars and chaos every where you turned in the paddock, security crowded around anyone with some sort of status; it was impossible to stumble across the mclaren driver.

ignoring his presence was a lot harder however when he was stood on the top step of the podium, as if the posters of his face and name everywhere wasn’t enough.

suddenly his face was plastered everywhere at once, and only his. name dropping from everyone’s lips.

you’d like to think there was no bad blood; but he was hard to resist and you almost hated him for it. suddenly he was everywhere ━ yet not in reach.

a good thing.

so, you were optimistic. if getting near him was hard before, it’d be ten times harder now. man of the moment; you felt as if you would be in the clear.

so how the fuck did you manage to be only five people back in the line for the exclusive monaco club, VIP passes still hung around your necks, when lando arrived.

ushered through the front doors, no need to pay or wait like every other eager party go hoping their name had made it to the list, cash at the ready to pay their way in.

he shouldn’t have spotted you, not with the hectic lights and people cheering him on and attempting to grab his attention.

but he did, of course he did.

“hey, hey. they’re with me,” lando stopped in his tracks; ushering you and your friend out of line towards him ━ your face hardening as he smirked cockily towards you.

you wanted to stay where you were. tell him you would wait and get in yourself. pride too strong to spare yourself 10 minutes and a couple hundred dollars.

your best friend however was not passing up an opportunity to get in for free, nor cause a scene as people quickly made way for you. so you couldn’t put up much of a fight as you stepped out of line and followed the driver and a few others inside.

it almost felt shameful, as if you were just some pretty girl he’d picked out to entertain himself with. but you only viewed it that way because you feared that had been true in the past.

“would you believe me if i said this is almost the highlight of the day?” lando spoke to you with a wide grin, head ducked down towards you to ensure you heard him over the music growing in volume as you entered the venue.

you’d scoffed, rolled your eyes even; it appeared opting to be cold was the easiest option. friendliness never lasted with you two; being friendly became flirty. flirting lead to touching and suddenly you’d be trapped beneath the nearest surface and his hot body.

“no.” your answer was short, ‘forgetting’ to mumble the obvious, a congratulations. you’d feel bad if he wasn’t getting it from every angle however.

his grin only widened however, bemused at your words. you weren’t surprised, you doubted anything would wipe the smile of his face right now.

a breath of relief escaped you when someone grabbed at his arm and tugged him along, turning his attention elsewhere as you turned to your friend.

drinks were a need.

in hindsight opting to stay in the secluded area provided for the mclaren driver was probably a bad idea; but it was so crowded you stood by your earlier thoughts.

he’d be out of reach. everyone in here was striving for his attention, it wouldn’t be hard to avoid it.

the free drinks and friendly faces proved as enough of a distraction; music and alcohol flowing through your veins, so much so you’d join in on the cheers every-time someone toasted to the driver, or his name popped up on a board with bottles of champagne arriving.

an arm wrapping around your waist should’ve been alarming, but shamefully you recognised the bracelets and touch immediately; body naturally welcoming such action instead of pulling away.

“you haven’t congratulated me.” his voice was low and in your ear, accent thick and you had to take a sharp breath. it was stupid, ridiculous the way such an action could have your mind growing hazy.

“haven’t i?” you posed the question innocently, bringing your drink to your lips as if it would offer you refuge from the temptation behind you.

you’d lost your friend ages ago, and suddenly you couldn’t recognise many people around you. or maybe you didn’t make an effort to, because the company you quietly craved was the man behind you.

“nope,” he popped the ‘p,’ lips lingering next to your ear momentarily before he pulled away to also bring his drink to his lips, you taking the moment to turn around and face him. “not very nice you know?”

you’d rolled your eyes again, a small laugh escaping you. wanting to point out the fact that everyone was dropping to their knees to ring his praise. he didn’t need it from you.

did it make your heart skip a beat that he wanted it though? of course it did, despite your brain screaming that it shouldn’t. it was too easy to cling onto anything this man did.

“well done,” you spoke, voice laced with sarcasm despite their being truth to your words. “i’m so, so, so proud of you.”

he’d chuckled, face lighting up in amusement once more; a vast contrast to every other conversation he’d had tonight. the very reason he’d sought you out.

he thought it spoke for something, the fact his mind had been consumed with so many thoughts of you despite the win he’d just accomplished.

“thank you.” he grinned, and it was as if on queue he was being tugged away once more; and suddenly, you could breath again.

you took the time to grab some much needed air, a balcony not too far. it was a bit of a blur, the next hour or so.

ending up back on the dance floor, familiar faces all around, drinks continuously flowing ━ reuniting with your friend who’s lipstick was now smudged and hair slightly tangled, your hands quick to fix it up with small giggles.

you were loosening up, so much so when lando next appeared with two drinks in hand and daring eyes you couldn’t help but accept.

you were dying by your own hand, you should politely decline and slip back into the crowd. but he was always so hard to ignore, especially in a black button up and messy curls.

you’d cheers, both raising your glasses to your lips; somehow both still relatively sober in comparison to those around you.

lando had been doing too much talking to get much alcohol in him, also pacing himself ━ in no way would he be crashing out early.

you knew your limits, you too didn’t want the night to end prematurely.

“you’re not mad at me are you?” lando’s question had to be shouted for you to hear, your eyes narrowing at such as you shook your head.

you were somewhat surprised at his efforts, his ability to seek you out in the crowd that was here for him. all for what? to ask you that question?

“why would i be mad at you?” you deflected. because you knew he had a point.

you weren’t mad at him, obviously. he hadn’t done anything; you’d been the one to… get attached. but you were quite clearly being distant and cold; and you didn’t feel like explaining why.

he shrugged his shoulders, face scrunching up as if he was thinking momentarily, giving you time to admire how pretty he looked. how his large hand wrapped around the glass, the way his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

“you’re avoiding me.” he quirked a brow, and you were rolling your eyes once more, like a broken record. the grin on his face showed he didn’t care to sound desperate; that he was well aware why you were acting in such way.

he remembered the last conversation between the pair of you. how you swore off the two of you. much to his dismay.

“i’m not,” you huffed. “i’m keeping friendly distance,” you corrected playfully, eyebrows raising as he nodded unconvincingly ━ lips parting in fake shock.

it was pathetic, you already could feel it. your self restraint slipping away. suddenly posing yourself the question, would it be that bad if you entertained yourself with the idea of him just one more time?

“right,” lando practically sung, a laugh following suit as he downed the rest of his drink. “there’s no fun in that.”

you’d just shrugged at his words, no answer for him because you agreed. this wasn’t fun, it was hard. it would be so much easier to let yourself take the usual reckless route.

so you chose easy, and when someone appeared to place a drink in lando’s hand and capture a few minutes of his attention, you allowed the driver to throw his arm over your shoulders; tugging you closer to his side. he didn’t want you slipping away into the crowd again.

you let yourself stay in his grasp, mindlessly swaying to the music and awaiting for him to finish talking.

you should’ve taken that time to realise this was what you were meant to avoid, to duck out from his hold and busy yourself once more.

but instead you found yourself leaning into his side; admiring the way his fingertips danced on your collarbone ━ oblivious to prying eyes and jealous gazes from those who were hoping to be in your place.

his cologne was intoxicating, his touch was familiar and inviting; and the way he was keeping you close and still paying you attention while everyone tried to get their two cents in with the driver had your stomach flipping.

you hadn’t realised their was a gap in the constant conversation and on flow of people, not till lando’s lips were back next to your ear, a delicate kiss being placed to your neck.

“i’ve missed you,” he’d whispered; your head tilting aside invitingly ━ such contrast to your initial and intended behaviour. but the moment his lips met your skin, all rational plans were out the door.

“good.” you replied, knowing to not grow excited by such confession. not needing to say the words back because he already knew you missed him. you were always missing him.

another kiss was pressed to your skin, and another.

“i mean it.” lando mumbled; your eyes fluttering shut briefly at the feeling of his lips still peppering your skin, the heat spreading to your face.

you were glad you’d made your mind up, having come to the conclusion that one more night with him couldn’t be that bad. thought process definitely influenced by your sexual desires rather than rationality. but it meant you weren’t dwelling on his words and picking them apart, instead focused of the way his hand was now resting on the side of your leg.

“is there a bathroom near?” your question was all lando needed to hear, the pair of you not so subtle as you weaved through the crowd.

his lips were on yours the moment you were in the bathroom, your back being pushed against the door to shut it ━ his fingers finding the lock and the moment he heard it click his hands were on you.

it was messy, and rushed; adrenaline pumping between the pair of you much like the muffled music seeping through the door.

your hands were pawing at each other, his at your waist, then your hips, then your legs; touching what he could of you over the silk dress,

your hands were in his hair, then running down his chest; attempting to pull him closer despite his body pressed against yours.

his hands moved to grab yours, before lifting them up and over your head; pinning them to the door as his lips moved to your jaw, then to your neck.

“lando,” you breathed in need; eyes shutting as you attempted to push forward off the door, wanting to touch him in anyway. you were no match for his strength however.

he tsked quietly, kissing at your skin with such intent it had you whimpering.

“what do you want?” his question was almost a taunt, knee pushing between your thighs because he knew exactly what to do to have you squirming.

you felt helpless, needy and desperate. but not one bit regretful or ashamed you found yourself here again.

“you, anything,” you breathed; hips rutting against his leg slightly; the action not unnoticed as a cocky smirk grew on his lips.

your eyes poured into his, watching as he bathed the sight of you in ━ flustered and worked up already.

“yeah?” he hummed, releasing your hands now so he could cup your cheek; making it hard for you to nod but you attempted to regardless.

“want you to fuck me,” you elaborated; taking the chance to touch him, hand going straight to the buldge in his jeans which had him hissing.

you two would often take your time. lando liked to have you spread open for him, a few orgasms deep thanks to his fingers or tongue first before fucking you. take his time in kissing every inch of your body, exploring your mouth; kissing you and touching you all he could.

but both of you had a sense of urgency tonight. keen to feel him inside you, aware their was plenty of people awaiting the driver; that the night had barely begun in the grand scheme of things.

the fact you’d avoided him for so long, like promised but god it’d been too long. he would struggle to draw this out the way he wanted to.

“barely touched you baby,” he pointed out with a smirk; as if he was not feeling the same need you were.

you would’ve paid more attention to the way your stomach flipped at the casual drop of the nickname, but his actions captured your attention before you could dwell.

it was a relief as he moved you to the sink counter, pressing on your back to bend you over the surface; your hands finding a grip on the counter as your eyes settled on him in the mirror. a position you’d only be in for him.

spreading your legs was easy as you watched him, flipping the skirt of your dress up and merely pushing your panties aside; fingers swiping through your wetness, entering you once then twice.

“gotta make sure this isn’t a mistake hm?” lando’s question was a taunt, quoting you, hands leaving your figure as he unzipped his pants and freed his cock, leaving you to whimper and watch in the mirror.

he didn’t make the move to touch you, prolonging your torture; hips swaying slightly as you dwelled on his words.

his eyes were pouring into yours through the mirror, your cheeks heated. his reminder that you had once claimed you didn’t want this anymore had you speechless, not suddenly rational.

“what changed your mind?” his hands moved to squeeze your ass, cock pressing against your entrance; leaving you with nothing but anticipation and emptiness. “cause i won? good enough for you now?”

you would’ve rolled your eyes if you weren’t in such a compromising position, his wicked grin enough to show his words were simply throw away comments, not an insight into his actual assumptions.

“lando please,” you whined; hips attempting to push back onto him but his hands on your ass held you in place; chest rising at the sight of you so needy for him. a sight he’d never get sick of.

“your words not mine baby,” he reminded you; tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you momentarily, your pants and inability to keep still due to your need for him always something he loved to be witness too.

he was usually gentle with you at first, would warm you up; start off slow and build up to the pace that would have tears streaming down your pretty face. but he was eager tonight, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, and by the way you were looking at him in the mirror told him you felt the same.

“gotta fuck some sense into you yeah?” his question was matched with his hand tangling in your hair, grasping a few strands before tugging you up harshly; your back meeting his chest and a gasp escaping you, a whimper following. “yeah?” he repeated when you failed to answer.

you tried to nod quickly, hips pushing back once more to little success with the position he had you in.

his lips were next to your ear now, and the chuckle he let out had your thighs attempting to squeeze together.

“please,” you whimpered; desperation growing pathetically quickly. it was almost pathetic, how he could shorten your vocabulary to pleas and curses in such little time.

lando would like to say he could do this all night, but that would be a lie. he groaned audibly at your whimper; chest now pushed forward towards the mirror beautifully, still with a perfect view of your face as well.

he gave you no warning as he slid inside of you, your jaw going slack as he bottomed out; letting go of your hair and pushing your back down once more.

your hands flied to the counter again, moaning at the stretch as he groaned at the way your walls hugged him tightly.

he didn’t give you the usual time to adjust, moving immediately and thrusting deeply inside of you, hands using your hips to meet his movements.

“swear you’re fucking made for me,” lando groaned as his head fell back, pounding into your tight cunt repetitively, your moans escaping each time as your face contorted in pleasure.

it was too good, you weren’t sure how you could ever actually give this up.

you attempted to keep your moans hushed, although with the volume of the music you weren’t at much risk of being heard; which was lucky. because you were struggling to keep quiet; failing actually.

your eyes rolled back when lando didn’t fail to hit that spot inside of you repetitively, hands still gripping your hips tightly.

his grunts and groans were addictive, so much so you wanted to open your eyes and bask in the sight of him; but the pleasure was too much to do so.

lando however wouldn’t settle for such, hand tangling in your hair once more, tugging once and pulling your head up slightly; clear intentions to his actions.

“eyes on me pretty girl,” he breathed regardless, and you did as he said; being met with his ones through the mirror; lazy smile gracing his features as you whimpered and gripped the counter tightly.

you’d never expect to get off so quickly from pure penetration, but you were. suppose it was made easier with the sight of him and his hands gracing your skin; plus his filthy mouth.

“so good,” you whined out; not that you needed to vocalise such thing, it was already clear; but he loved your praise as much as you loved his.

he’d hummed in agreement, squeezing your ass in appreciation as his groans began to grow in frequency.

he was close, but in no way would he ever cum before you. his hand sneaking around your waist and dipping in between your thighs, finding your clit with ease.

suddenly you were seeing stars as his fingers circled your clit expertly, like he knew you like the back of his hand.

“cum for me baby, go on,” his words of encouragement were all you needed to hear as he continued to thrust in and out of you; releasing on his cock practically immediately at his demand.

your walls squeezed him perfectly, his name so pretty coming from your lips ━ his own high hitting him as he came inside of you with a groan.

it was oddly satisfying, a quick release; a new experience for the pair of you; both panting and coming down as he slid out of you.

he was gentle, a contrast to before, as he turned you round and sat you on the counter.

your breaths were heavy as you watched him, his hands reaching up your thighs and tugging your underwear down your legs before shoving them in his pocket, only then pulling your dress down for you.

“pervert,” you mocked with a teasing smile, his own one growing as he rolled his eyes ━ hands moving to rest on your thighs.

“collecting trophies today,” he shrugged; a laugh escaping you as your face screwed up ━ his humour never lost on you as you pushed against his chest.

“i should slap you for that,” you taunted, failing to pretend to be disgusted as you grinned at him ━ cheeks still flushed and chest still rising and falling as you caught your breath, a small chuckle escaping him.

there was a few moments of silence as lando adjusted himself, zipping his jeans back up and straightening out his shirt; your own hands moving to flatten your own hair.

“you gonna stick around?” lando’s question fell upon you with his intent gaze, eyes showing genuine interest.

your own eyebrows quirked in interest, unexpectedly. you’d assumed this was it for the night. he got his fix.

“maybe,” you shrugged; not in a teasing way, but genuine. you weren’t going to overstay your welcome. you were sure the casual party goers would be falling off the next couple hours, the ones who just wanted to get a glimpse of the driver.

you were assuming you fell into that category, not his inner circle.

“you should,” he hummed; and you couldn’t help the scoff that escaped you and the driver almost frowned.

“you need to celebrate,” you hummed; patting his chest lightly with a small laugh.

his eye roll was one of sass, like you should’ve expected. what you didn’t expect was for him to insist on you keeping him company.

“yeah, i plan on.” he spoke like it was obvious, thumb rubbing your inner thigh mindlessly.

you didn’t respond, looking over your shoulder into the mirror; wiping the slight smudges of your mascara, which thankfully didn’t cause any issues.

next was the corner of your lips, ensuring no lip gloss was where it shouldn’t be; lando watching you as you did so.

“didn’t you tell me when i next win a race i could do whatever i want with you?” lando was gaining your attention again, finger under your chin and directing your gaze back to him by turning your head; still stood between your legs.

you giggled, eyebrows raising; not needing much reminder of the words you definitely muttered. or maybe messaged; maybe both.

“that was because i wasn’t in miami,” you hummed, head tilting aside. “you don’t invite me to races, remember?” you sassed.

you watched as his face faltered, before his eyes narrowed into a playful glare; one you returned with a teasing smile; as if to say you weren’t being serious.

you two moved pass your comment, you made sure of it; although it would linger on lando’s mind.

“come on, you have people waiting i’m sure,” you hummed; patting his chest and ushering him back so you could hop off the counter, onto wobbly legs.

you rejoined the crowd as discreetly as possible, despite your lack of underwear and sticky thighs; however you were in no way to be ashamed, not with some of the activities going on around you.

people cheered when lando came into view, the man enveloped immediately.

“don’t you dare go anywhere!” lando managed to yell out to you before he was dragged off again; leaving you to laugh and only hum.

it was only your friend who met you with suspicious eyes, you found it comical she was the first person you came across; sheepishly smiling.

“oh you’re so full of shit!” your friend yelled, your cheeks heating as you shook your head; even pouting as you realised you had no defence.

or shame or regret. yet, at least.

“stop,” you whined as you hit her lightly, huffing as you grabbed her drink off her ━ downing it quickly as she laughed.

“no judgement; i knew you wouldn’t stay away,” she mused ━ and your eyes were rolling once more that night, shaking your head as if you had no idea what she was talking about. as if you too shared the same thought process, as much as you’d deny it.

you moved the focus of the pair of you on quickly, returning to dancing and socialising ━ people coming and going as the hours ticked by into the early morning, crowd thinning but not by much.

lando’s words were ringing in your head; don’t go anywhere. but when it was almost four you were thinking of leaving, doubting lando would be making your company once more this night.

why you wanted to keep him company? you wish you knew. if you could figure out why you were unable to avoid the man your life would be a lot easier. but maybe tonight was different, maybe it was a comfort.

a comfort to know he would spend a memorable night of his life, with you. a night he’d never forget; you’d be right there. it would be nice to know you weren’t the only one clinging onto the idea of the pair of you; that he too would reminisce and think what it.

your doubt continued to grow though, alongside the temptation of your comfortable bed.

you were stupid to doubt him however.

you spotted him easily, considering the crowd that seemed to follow him everywhere tonight.

you watched as his eyes darted around the room, almost urgently, searching out something or someone.

searching out you.

when his eyes met yours you watched as he grinned widely, shoulders relaxing as he suddenly moved with intent; weaving past the people surrounding him towards you.

you watched in amusement, almost shock; surprised he’d meant it. confused if you thought too hard.

“you’re still here,” he was still grinning ear to ear, hand finding your waist almost immediately when he was in reach.

you mumbled something playfully about how it wasn’t by choice, earning a laugh.

“we’re moving up to a booth,” his statement was an invitation; and suddenly plans of going back home were long forgotten.

all it took was a nod before his hand took yours, fingers intertwined and he was leading the way to a booth, that was decorated in more bottles of champagne and a ‘congrats lando’ sign; lucky party goers and friends filling the seats, you shuffling in next to the driver.

lando’s hand didn’t leave you. whether it was on your thigh, your hand, your waist; your shoulder; he was always touching you as the conversations flowed.

you failed to notice the way he tugged you closer to his side when you laughed a little too hard for his liking at one of his friends jokes. or the way his eyes were lingering on you every moment he had a break in conversation.

you knew what it looked like however, the pair of you. you knew your friend would laugh at the sight, ask you what the fuck you were doing. but as the crowd continued to fall off and disperse, and you gained more of lando’s attentions; you had little room to care.

the booth had emptied out, for how long who knows; you hadn’t caught on to the way lando had not so subtly hinted to the last couple of guys lingering to leave.

“have i told you how good you look tonight?” lando’s question was accompanied by his hand returning to your thigh, resting higher than it had earlier on ━ head tilting towards you.

you’d giggled, leaning back into your seat and shifting to face him, side pressed against the back of the booth as opposed to your back now.

“no,” you told him; eyes flickering over his face, the moles you’d counted too many times whenever you woke up first after a night together; his features always so much harder to ignore up close.

“look beautiful,” he hummed, and though he sounded incredibly sincere you couldn’t help but laugh.

“what? you do, you are,” lando huffed; not amused with your laughter ━ although the sound of your laugh had his lips naturally curving upwards despite his dismay, hand squeezing your thigh gently.

your cheeks heated despite you shaking your head, hands moving up in innocence.

“i didn’t say anything,” you defended; not elaborating on what appeared to be doubt. not at your own expense. more so just his intentions.

you didn’t want to hear his compliments that had your heart fluttering. or notice they way he was looking at you which such admiration.

you couldn’t afford to let your mind pick at and analyse every word and action with a hope that maybe he too felt the same as you.

lando hummed aimlessly at your defence, hand dangerously high now on your thigh ━ but it felt right, like it belonged there. regardless, the feeling of it creeping upwards had your sense suddenly on high alert.

“i’ve missed you,” lando’s words left his lips before he could stop them, but he didn’t show any regret or panic ━ eyes pouring into yours.

it’s the second time he’d said such thing tonight, and you still didn’t want to hear it. even in your tipsy state, it sent alarm through your nerves. don’t believe him, don’t get your hopes up.

your eyes were quick to leave his, hand reaching for your champagne glass in front of you; humming to try dismiss his words, missing the way his eyes squinted as he watched on.

“you don’t believe me,” he chuckled lowly as you sipped your drink, frame tensing as you prolonged shifting towards him again.

you weren’t given much choice though, his hand ━ the one not planted on your thigh, grasping your chin between his thumb and finger, bringing your attention back to him as you placed your drink back down.

his eyebrows raised expectantly, silently telling you to speak. to confirm his suspicions. his thumb absentmindedly wiping a drop of champagne from the corner of your mouth as he waited.

“you don’t know what you’re saying.” you spoke softly, masking the weight of your words with a soft smile; watching as his face flickered in thought.

“you don’t know that.” he was quick, unlike you, tone one of certainty you almost envied; his grasp still set on your chin as if he was scared you’d try escape his gaze once more. a reasonable fear.

“yeah okay.” you admitted defeat, in no way wanting to discuss this right now. not while you were so close to him, so keen to get under him once more. you couldn’t think straight about him when he was invading your senses.

he didn’t believe you suddenly believed him, but he wouldn’t push further; not when you were still in grasp and glowing in amusement.

the driver went to speak again; but for once you got on the front foot. there wasn’t much distance between the pair of you, so kissing him before he could get any words out was easy.

and maybe lando should’ve held his ground, stayed true on his intentions to reassure you. but naturally he found himself kissing back.

the light grasp on your chin turned to a firm hold of the side of your head, beckoning you closer as your hand planted on his chest.

you pulled away momentarily, barely; just so your lips left his; feeling his breath fan your face. you felt as if you’d overstepped, knowing he had reservations about pda in public. people spoke, and you weren’t his.

his fingers ran through your hair delicately, as if he knew what thoughts were going through your head; and he didn’t hesitate to guide you back towards him; lips meeting once more.

it was more heated this time; nowhere near as messy as the one in the bathroom though.

he needed you closer, shifting his grip to your hips to pivot you up and onto his lap, your body sliding perfectly between his and the table behind you, straddling his lap with no complaints.

it was out of character, knowing someone could walk up into the secluded section and see the pair of you, but if he didn’t care, neither did you.

your dress rode up your legs from your new position, not enough to expose you thankfully; but considering your underwear still sat in the drivers pocket, the rough fabric of his pants against your clit had you whimpering against his lips.

the sound went straight to his cock, which was already straining against his pants; he’d been fighting a semi since you slipped into the booth next to him. but the way you were slowly and not so subtlety grinding your hips against him made it a lot harder to ignore.

it also had an idea forming in the wicked mind of his.

you were left to catch your breath as he pulled away this time, hands lifting you momentarily and easily handling you to straddle just one of his thighs now, your cheeks heating as you immediately caught on. it wasn’t the first time you’d been in this position with him. except last time it was in the privacy of his apartment while he was on a work call.

“anything i want right?” he breathed out, intense was his stare as his hands spread across your sides, smoothing your dress down despite wanting to rip it off of you.

it was like a trance when he got like this, eyes darker ━ the way his jaw was clenched, his gaze alone having you feel the need to squirm and stutter.

your head looked over your shoulder, just once, needing the confirmation you were as alone as you could be; music still pumping, voices still heard from the dance floor down below. but you were alone up here.

that’s all you needed to know.

“yeah,” you confirmed, hands grasping at his shirt where they were previously planted on his chest ━ left to watch as his lips curved upwards into that damn smirk.

“go on then,” he hummed, adjusting slightly in his seat, getting comfortable as his head tilted back ever so slightly. “use me to get off.” he sounded so casual, your cheeks heating up as you suddenly wished you’d accepted that last round of shots half an hour ago.

but you didn’t need any more motivation when his hands tightened on your waist and dragged your hips for you ━ your jaw going slack from the sudden pressure.

his lips twitched upwards cockily once more, watching as it sprung you into action; your hips following his movements and rutting against his thigh, chasing the feeling you knew only he could give you.

the drivers hands folded behind his head now, watching intently as your bottom lip ran between your teeth, eyes flickering up and down your frame.

“atta girl,” he praised through a soft hum, and you had to bite down harshly on the inside of your cheek to refrain from moaning.

he looked fucking incredible; and you were missing the feeling of his hands on you, hips working faster as if it’d motivate him to touch you again.

he had you read, he always did. he knew what you wanted; could tell by the way your eyes were pleading with his. how you were fighting back a pout and whine. your grip on his shirt had tightened, practically tugging at the material.

lando could be cruel, but he was in no mood to deny himself tonight - he’d give you something; hand moving to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your soft lips.

you didn’t miss a beat, allowing the digit to enter your mouth without any hesitation; lando watching the way your eyes almost glistened in submission as he pressed down on your tongue.

you didn’t miss the way his breath hitched, grunting slightly at the mere sight of you ━ your hips still grinding against him desperately as you treated his thumb as if it was his cock.

he was almost in disbelief, how he had you like this for him, where really anyone could see if they were to walk up the stairs. it was ridiculous actually, and stupid; both of you being incredibly idiotic, but too lust driven to care.

he wasn’t oblivious to the fact you made him think irrationally.

“fucking look at you,” he muttered under his breath, head tilting in slight awe; but there was a teasing tone underneath. “so pretty like this, so needy hm?” he was speaking so sweet it was sickening considering he was looking at you with a taunting grin.

you whined, unable to shut yourself up this time, surprised you’d kept quiet so long. your thighs twitched a few times, still desperately chasing your high like he’d told you too.

it was building, your stomach was tightening and you could feel the way your hips were beginning to move erratically. as could he.

“come on baby,” he encouraged ━ sliding his thumb out of your mouth, selfishly wanting to hear you despite your best efforts to stay quiet. “cum for me yeah, all for me,” lando edged you on; strategic as he tensed his leg and jolted it upwards once then twice.

it was all you needed, your second orgasm of the night hitting you as you shook in his lap.

“oh fuck,” you moaned through gritted teeth, loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough for the music to drown you out; your body folding over to hide your head in his neck, muffling any other sounds to escape you.

“there you go,” he soothed, hand sliding down your back delicately, his other brushing the hair off your face as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “good girl, so fucking good,”

even if your slightly dazed state the affection had your chest tightening, still not used to the soft moments he always found time for between orgasms.

you took a few moments to compose yourself, lifting your head sheepishly as your eyes met his once more.

“your pants are gonna be ruined,” you mumbled, pouting up at him in slight embarrassment ━ watching as he chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“last thing i care about right now,” the driver smirked, adjusting the strap of your dress that had fallen down your arm ━ eyes lingering on your chest for a brief moment as he did so.

“should i call the car?” he asked you, lips pressing a kiss to your neck now, delicate this time, purely because he knew if he got too handsy now he’d not be able to stop himself.

you nodded, no need to think about the prospect of going home with him ━ you shouldn’t be surprised at this point, you couldn’t resist him. it was a fact.

the pair of you got outside relatively smoothly, in better shape than most of the crowd who were still here. you let him drag you to the exit as he simply waved and dismissed anyone who tried to speak to him, large hand enveloping yours.

the car was waiting, a bouncer opening the door for the pair of you as you slid into the backseat, not phased by the fact the sun was now rising.

the privacy shield separating the backseat from the front was all lando needed to see before he was on you again.

rushed and messy once more, you hadn’t even got your seatbelt on ━ hands cupping his cheeks as he leaned over you, closeness a need as your lips moved against his perfectly.

your chest was practically pressed to his, but still his hand found your back, attempting to pull you closer, earning a muffled giggle as you threw one of your legs over his.

“need you so bad,” lando grumbled against your skin as his lips shifted to your jaw, then down your neck, your head falling back invitingly as you grinned.

his lips moved to your cleavage now, kissing at the skin of your breasts ━ and he was about to tug your dress down until you sat up straight and pushed him back towards his seat.

your hands found the zipper of his pants before he could get a word out, the brit relaxing into his seat, in no way going to protest.

lando watched through hooded eyes as you made quick work of freeing his cock, which was painfully hard at this point.

he hissed as your hand wrapped around him, jacking him off once, twice, three times ━ smearing the precum across his tip and down his length.

his head threw back from the initial relief, and he couldn’t stop the moan that escaped him when he felt your soft lips wrap around him.

he glanced down at you quickly, watching as you leant over into his lap, head bobbing up and down now as he gathered your hair into his hand and out of your way.

“fuck, just like that baby,” lando grunted as his hips bucked upwards, hitting the back of your throat momentarily, which made you gag but you didn’t miss a beat in your movements.

your hand gripped his thigh for stability, tongue swirling around him expertly, keen to get him off as his eyes rolled back from a feeling he could only describe as ecstasy.

he could’ve cum there and then, no shame either; but monaco was a small place and the car came to a halt much sooner than he’d liked.

you reluctantly slid off him, wiping your mouth oh so innocently as you did so ━ cheeks flushed and eyes watery, lando fiddling with his pants to try get his hard on back in his boxers.

you giggled slightly, climbing out the car ━ him not too far behind.

lando was sure to thank the driver, emptying his wallet of its cash to provide a tip ━ unsure what the man would’ve heard, but frankly he didn’t care. not when you were in his sights.

the elevator ride up to his apartment mirrored the first moments in the car, your body pressed between his and the wall of the elevator, lips in sync, make out interrupted by the ding of the doors opening.

you were kicking your heels off before he even got the door to his place open, discarding them the moment you stepped inside, before lando was using you to shut the door; not so gentle as he pushed you against the surface.

“nuh uh,” you stopped him as he leant in to kiss you once more; your hands pressing against his chest. “want to make you feel good,” you spoke softly, hands returning to the zipper of his pants to free his cock once more.

his eyes squinted in thought, keen to be inside of you; watching you squirm and hear you scream his name was all he could bloody think about.

you recognised that look. “please,” you added desperately, hands tugging the straps of your dress down, your tits spilling out, which had his eyes shamelessly flickering downwards.

lando couldn’t say no to you, not when you asked so nicely. he simply stepped back, giving you space to sink to your knees as your hand wrapped around his cock once again.

you licked up the base to the tip, eyes fixated above you, watching him as he did so; noticing the way his adam’s apple bobbed from the single action.

“tease me baby and i’ll happily play with your pretty cunt till your crying,” lando grunted out as his hand found its rightful place in your hair, a not so delicate tug for good measure.

you moaned at the action, confirming what you both knew was that you got the reaction you wanted; thighs squeezing together at the ‘threat’ but taking him in your mouth fully regardless. quick to mumble a ‘so impatient’ before hand.

lando’s actions were identical to before, except his head fell forward this time as his free hand grasped the door in front of him ━ your name falling from his lips in a groan.

it only motivated you, the grunts and small sounds he made; so keen to draw more out of him, to hear him praise you like he always does.

his sounds mixed with your own, gagging around his length ━ no matter how many times you found yourself in this spot he would always be too big, but it didn’t stop nor effect your efforts.

and it only turned him on more, refraining from squeezing his eyes shut to watch as your eyes watered once more.

“always gagging for it,” lando spoke cockily, a moan escaping him momentarily before he could continue his taunting. “bit of a slut for me no?” he chuckled lowly through gritted teeth; and he couldn’t stop the grin for forming as you moaned around him.

his head fell back now, a breath of content falling from his lips as he shut his eyes momentarily. “too good to me, fuck,” he grunted, hips thrusting forward momentarily ━ and you let him, anything to get him off sooner.

he knew he was close, but he couldn’t push the need to be inside of you. and while he thought he was out of self restraint for the night, he surprised himself in being able to pull you off of him, using the grip on your hair.

“gotta get inside you love,” he explained himself as if it wasn’t obvious, helping you to your feet as you refrained from huffing, wiping your mouth and chin of the saliva that had gathered.

you didn’t need him to lead you to his room, grateful it was the first door on the right otherwise you probably would’ve both ended up on the floor, not that it’d be the first time.

you properly unzipped your dress and stepped out of it, discarding it on his floor before sitting back on his bed ━ lando following suit, shirt discarded before he was stepping out of his pants and boxers.

you crawled back on the bed as he moved to hover over you, pushing you down to lay on your back before his lips were on yours once more.

kissing him never got old, your hands tangling in his curls as he used his knee to spread your legs apart.

you had no warning before he slid inside of you, easily doing so due to how wet you were, but the stretch was always a shock; jaw dropping as you moaned into his mouth, a sharp tug on his hair.

“fuck, always wrap round me so fucking well,” lando cursed, bottoming out and giving you a moment to adjust ━ well aware you’d be tender from the quickie earlier on in the night.

“lando, please━ fuck,” you whimpered, hands moving to grip at his back, back arching as he began to move; thrusting in and out. he wasn’t slow, but you knew he was holding back.

your eyes watched his intently, his scanning your features and admiring the way your face contorted in pleasure.

“lan, please,” you repeated, whimpering as you spread your legs a little more; keen to feel all of him.

“what? need more hm?” lando asked, the chained necklace dangling from his chest and brushing against your chin with every thrust. “needy little thing,” he grinned, and you could only whine as your eyes fluttered shut momentarily.

his hand shifted to your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and moving it upwards, pushing your knee towards your chest. the new angle allowing him to hit deeper, and suddenly his thrusts were harsher and quicker.

your eyes rolled back instantly, a squeal like moan escaping you before you could even try suppress it, nails dragging down his back as he pounded into you.

“yes, fuck, yes,” you practically chanted as he lando fucked you, hard. the way your eyes rolled back and jaw went slack only had him motivated, eager to draw out every possible sound from you.

he was relentless, you still couldn’t get used to the stamina, how there was never a break in the pace or harshness of his thrusts. no moment to breathe or try compose yourself, choked out moans almost straining your throat from how often he slammed into you.

“look at me baby,” lando demanded, wanting your pretty eyes focused on him ━ he wasn’t surprised you didn’t listen however, well, you didn’t really make sense of his words. a habit you seemed to have formed.

it wasn’t like you could help it, the way your brain seems to shut off the moment he hits that spot inside of you.

his hand around your throat was enough, eyes fluttering open and he squeezed softly; whimpering as you continued to moan and pant, met with his smirk.

“fucked dumb already,” lando grinned, almost boasting as he kept his hand around your throat; not applying much pressure but the feeling of it there alone had your hips spasming momentarily. “so easy for me baby, could have you like this all the time,”

you moaned at his words, hearing him loud and clear this time, nodding pathetically; you’d agree with anything he says right now,

“my pretty girl,” he was always quick with the praise after his harsh words, the contrast always welcome as your hands shifted from his back to his biceps. “all mine,” he reiterated.

the possessive tone he found would have you falling into wishful thinking if you possessed the ability to think straight, but thankfully you couldn’t; not when your vision was starting to be replaced with stars as he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

his lips caught yours in another kiss, tongues clashing as you moaned into each others mouths ━ his turn to falter as your walls clenched around him, a string of curses being grunted against your lips.

you didn’t need to tell him you were close, no, he knew your body to well; he pushed your leg further back, as if it was possible, you in no place to recognise any slight discomfort when all you could feel was him inside of you, stretching you out.

you felt the difference in angle again however, eyes rolling back once more as you came hard and fast, his name falling from your lips as you did so.

“good girl baby, cum for me,” lando encouraged; continuing to thrust into you as you rode out your high, back arching and pushing into him.

your walls clenched around him once more, and he came almost immediately; releasing inside of you with a loud groan, your sounds intertwining and melting into one another.

your nails were sure to have left marks along his back, body going limp beneath him as his head dropped to your chest briefly, catching his breath as he too came down from his high.

he wasn’t done though, despite it almost being 7 in the morning, he wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, the alcohol or you; but sleep was the last thing on his mind and his best guess was because of the latter.

he was moving again before you could fully recover, the sensitivity causing you to whimper immediately, his thrusts only slow now as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“know you’ve got one more in you,” he mumbled, and you wouldn’t ever disagree; nodding quickly as he gradually picked up the pace.

before he got into a rhythm however he slid out, sitting back on his knees and you simply looked at him, awaiting his next move.

he manhandled you onto your stomach easily, as if you were nothing; tugging your hips up and you followed naturally, back arching as your ass propped in the air, his hands grasping and squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back inside of you.

the change in angle once again had you moaning out loudly, hands gripping the sheets beneath you as lando found the pace he’d previously possessed.

your whole body jolted with every thrust, face gradually pushing into the covers, moans muffled as your back arched further.

he didn’t like not hearing you though, obsessed with the way you’d moan and borderline scream his name; so he flew into action, grabbing your hair and tugging so your head was lifted; a loud moan escaping you on cue.

“so fucking good, take me so well,” lando grunted his praise ━ hips slamming into yours.

you couldn’t form words, only replying in little whines and whimpers, choked out moans as your body became overstimulated.

lando knew your limits though, knew how far he could push you. his hand snaking around your waist to find your clit, and rubbing circles on your sensitive bud had your body shaking immediately.

“fuck━ lando, oh my god,” you’d practically cried out, unable to do anything but take all he was giving you, hand in your hair still keeping you in place as he pounded your cunt.

“take it love, know you can,” he grunted; fingers quickening up ━ and he was obsessed with the way your thighs spasmed, your walls clenched around him and your hand reached back to try grip his wrist.

you came again, unable to give warning as your eyes watered from the mere overstimulation.

“there you go, good girl, so so good, could watch you come undone my cock every day,” lando talked you though it, hips still moving relentlessly as he let go of your hair, your front half falling back into the mattress ━ both hands gripping your hips now as he chased his own high.

you whimpered as he fucked you through your high, and when he came inside you again you swear it all became a blur, trying to recover from your back to back orgasms.

lando slid out of you and rolled off of you after he caught his breath; which was much quicker than you. his hand delicately pushing some of your hair back had your head tilting to face him however, a lazy smile grazing your features.

“you’re incredible,” lando mumbled, admiring you quietly; and if you weren’t exhausted you would’ve laughed at him.

“shut up.” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut, legs still shaking as lando rolled his eyes ━ a stupid smile on his face none the less.

“no running out of me yeah?” lando hummed, arm moving to wrap around your frame, easily pulling you into his chest. and you should’ve been alarmed, gone into self preservation mode and pushed away.

but you couldn’t, simply accepting his embrace that you’d always crave, head finding a spot on his toned chest.

“don’t think i could if i tried,” you laughed, not sure your legs would hold your weight if you tried to stand. let alone walk.

“yeah good, that was the whole point,” lando chuckled playfully, fingers dancing up and down the side of your arm, eyes fixated on you below him.

you laughed softly, knowing this conversation needed to be addressed properly. that come morning, or well maybe early afternoon in this case, when you wake up, you’ll be met with that sinking feeling again. the one where you’ll feel the need to flea, to escape him and the domesticated side you so badly wanted to yourself.

but you’d settle for this for now, just like lando would settle for you believing this was the most he could offer. for now.

━━━

a/n: did u miss me and my shitty endings 🤭🤭🤭

soz for disappearing and soz if this is rusty asf it just came to me and it’s 3:30am but i needed to get it done 🤭🤭🤭

unedited like usual oops

[jamminvroomvroom]

baby won the monaco grand prix and i have spent the whole day being extremely normal about it… i swear…

[jamminvroomvroom]

charles leclerc literally just opens his mouth and says things like "at times i have not been merciful towards myself" and "now grandma is gone, i can't sew, and the ritual is gone" and "if this is a cage then i'd like to be kept in a cage as long as i live". like he just says these things. these things come out of his mouth like it's normal

[jamminvroomvroom]

Where did you hear he was annoyed in the garage?👀

somewhere down some ridiculous rabbit hole. some people at the race were saying they saw him go into the garage and he was visibly irritated but idk man

[jamminvroomvroom]

i’m so happy for lando but i just know that man is writing a strongly worded letter to FOM rn 😭😭😭

[jamminvroomvroom]

the gossip is feasting and i can’t look away 😂

dude i am SAT two years of bullshit has manifested into the perfect storm 🤭🤭

it was the running behind a stack of tyres for me

[jamminvroomvroom]

POLE BABY

📸: Andrej Isakovic

[jamminvroomvroom]

so many fun surprises on the broadcast 🤭

[jamminvroomvroom]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty-nine: you've been made

word count: 7.0k-ish

warnings: this chapter contains themes of violence and manipulation. reader discretion is advised.

thirty-eight | thirty-nine | forty

“…Who's Lando?”

His heart stopped.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t demand. She didn’t throw the phone at him or scream at him or accuse him of lying. Somehow, that made it so much worse, because she asked it like she already knew the answer, like it physically hurt her to even say it out loud.

Everything about her body language, every fine detail of her expression was paused, stilled like she didn’t want to believe it.

Lando stayed frozen.

Be very careful, Norris.

“Angel, what are you–”

“I picked up your phone,” she started, her voice trembling now. “Just to tell him you were resting. I was just– I wasn’t snooping or anything, okay? I was just– just trying to be nice, I promise.”

She began to ramble, the words tumbling out of her faster than she could keep up. “But then before I could say anything, he just started– I didn’t know he was going to start yelling about disappearing and jobs and going dark—”

“Okay,” he murmured softly, trying to calm her. “Okay. Just breathe—”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, practically hissing the word – though whether that was in pain or anger, he couldn’t tell. But he knew this wasn’t her usual voice – certainly not the one she used when she teased him or comforted him or even argued with him.

This was raw, wounded.

She shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t— don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m– I’m not, okay? I know what I heard.”

He stood very still. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if ready to fight whatever tangible or intangible threat had dared to bring tears to her eyes. He’d promised to protect her, after all.

But he wasn’t quite sure he could protect her from this.

She watched carefully as everything about him softened — his shoulders, his eyes, the lines of his face. But it was not the kind of soft that came from tenderness.

It was resignation.

No. You’re supposed to tell me I’m wrong. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

Tell me I’m wrong.

Please.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he admitted quietly.

“...So it’s true?” Y/N asked, her voice smaller than he’d ever heard it. Each of her words were still slow, wary, like her mind couldn’t wrap itself around this fracture of her reality. Each syllable was another chance from her for him to tell her otherwise, but he didn’t speak.

He didn’t deny it.

“And this?” She gestured vaguely between them. He couldn’t help but notice the way her hand trembled ever so slightly as she did. “You— you sleeping here, holding me like—”

She had to pause to swallow down the feeling that rose in the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Her voice was much quieter this time when she spoke.

“...Was that fake too?”

“No,” he answered immediately. His tone was firm, unshakeable. Lando needed her to know that there was never even a chance that it could have been true. “That was never fake.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in her expression twisted.

“How can I believe you? I don’t even know who you are.”

Lando opened his mouth before he closed it again. Because what the fuck could he say?

He wanted to tell her that Liam was real — that he was Liam, at least in all the ways that mattered. He wanted to tell her that the man who kissed her knuckles and slept on her couch and drank too much sugar in his coffee, that man wasn’t fake. He wanted to tell her that she had made him feel more like himself than anything else in his entire twisted empire of blood and bones.

But right now, all she saw was the lie. 

How was he supposed to undo that?

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize him — like maybe she was seeing him for the first time. Her voice, when it came, was thin and high and impossibly quiet.

“I can’t–” Her hands were shaking now, just a little. “I can’t do this.”

Those words had his heart racing, his mind instantly flashing with the image of a life where she couldn’t even look him in the eye. 

No. That’s impossible.

I can fix this.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then exhaled through his nose. “Hey,” he tried gently, stepping forward. “Listen—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, but she stood firm. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down or explain or lie again. Just tell me the truth. Who the hell are you?”

He was quiet.

Then, after thinking for a moment, he added, “…I’m still me.”

But the damage was already done. The space between them was cavernous now. 

As she looked at him with confusion swirling in those beautiful eyes, all he could do was stare. The name “Lando” now sat between them like a loaded gun on the table — impossible to ignore, impossible to take back.

“Lando’s my real name.”

That was as a good a place to start as any, right?

Y/N didn’t move. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was even breathing. The silence stretched — thick, brittle, about to snap.

He finally stepped forward, cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt or bite. Then, Lando spoke, his voice low.

“I didn’t lie to hurt you.”

“Oh, well then,” she scoffed dryly. “Guess it’s fine.”

“I never wanted to lie to you,” he quickly corrected, shaking his head as he stepped forward again, hands up in a form of surrender. “But that first night, after the shooting — I thought if anyone came looking, I didn’t want them knowing your name. Or mine. I didn’t want you tied to it.”

For a moment, she seemed to consider his words, mulling them over in her mind.

“So you gave me the wrong name,” she tried cautiously, testing the words for their truth. “To protect yourself?”

“That’s not—” He stopped himself, before he tried again. “It was a precaution. I was scared too.

She narrowed her eyes, dubious. “Were you? You didn’t seem scared. You seemed… calm.”

“I didn’t know what we were caught up in,” he replied, making sure each word is low and even. He needed her to believe him. “I didn’t want t’ make it worse. So yeah, when I saw you again… I said my name was Liam. I thought maybe I’d walk away after that. Just, like, disappear.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he repeated, his eyes locking with hers. “I couldn’t.”

And he meant it. There was something soft in the way he said it, something that almost made her want to believe him again.

For a while, there was only silence.

It makes sense, Y/N thought to herself. 

Some part of her certainly wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe him so badly. Maybe it was because he looked tired, or because he looked remorseful. 

Or maybe it was because he looked like the man who held her through the night like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He looked away, brow furrowing, like the memory genuinely haunted him.

“Y/N,” he started, a rare use of her real name instead of any of the petnames she’d started to become accustomed to. “You have to believe me. I thought using my real name would’a put you in danger.”

Her lip quivered, just barely. “So… you were protecting me?”

He nodded, his eyes searching hers, begging for belief. “From the beginning.”

She scanned his face, looking for cracks, for lies. Something that said run.

But when she met his gaze, she found that he looked like the same man who kissed her forehead goodnight. The same man who ran his fingers through her hair while they watched Hallmark movies and made dumb bets over grocery lists.

With her gaze piercing those hazel green eyes, he held his breath as she seemed to search for any reason not to believe him.

He was still familiar.

So she nodded once, shakily. The gesture caught him off guard. As soon as he noticed it in his periphery, his head snapped up.

She wore a small, tentative smile on her face. Some of the tension seemed to have begun leaving her body, the trembling beginning to lessen.

Finally, the tension in her chest loosened.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe he wasn’t some psycho monster.

She nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she breathed finally, the words tasting foreign in her mouth. Lando let his eyes slip closed momentarily in relief, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a hint of a smile. 

“...Yeah? We’re… We’re good?”

“Okay,” she nodded, confirming. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Mint.”

On instinct, he moved closer to her, whether it was to reassure her or embrace her or something else, even he didn’t know. All Lando knew was that she believed him, that things could be okay, that he wasn’t going to lose her today.

Sure, he’d lied to her. But he’d done it to protect them, hadn’t he?

Soon enough, his arms wrapped around her, the warmth of him both comfortable and familiar. With her head tucked under his chin, her face was settled comfortably in the crook of his neck, the tip of her nose tickling him as it gently grazed the skin of his pulse point.

There was probably some scientific explanation for it, but she was beginning to think that there was something calming about the mere proximity to him, as if the steady beat of his heart is what guided her own.

It’s okay.

He’s still here.

It’s gonna be okay.

As her heart finally started to settle, she continued to turn over his words in her mind. She thought back to that night, that harrowing sight engraved in her memory when she’d seen the life leave a man’s body in an instant.

She remembered the way her heart had hammered in her ears afterward, the persistent ringing, the unshakeable feeling that in some crazy way, she was going to be next. She also remembered when warm, strong hands gently came to rest on her shoulders, a kind voice asking if she was okay. She remembered how patient he was with her, how he’d made sure she was alright, and had made sure to walk her home so she’d feel safe.

There was a kindness in his eyes that she’d felt uniquely drawn to even then, the way it made her feel as warm as the cup of tea did that night.

“Hey,” she whispered, barely bothering move from her clearly very comfortable spot.

“Hey there,” he greeted in return, cooing softly.

The affection in his voice, even after Y/N had treated him like some kind of crazy person only made her feel worse. The pit of guilt in her stomach only grew heavier.

“M’sorry. That was a lot. I didn’t mean to freak out. I just–”

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, “None of that, angel. You got nothin’ to say sorry for, yeah?”

“But I–”

“Uh uh,” he tutted mischievously, mirth dancing in his eyes as he leaned back to look at her. He liked them like this, soft and sweet. Having her so close to him made his heart preform dangerous tricks, but he didn’t mind it as long as she’d keep looking at him like that.

If Y/N always looked at him like that, Lando wouldn’t mind holding her like this for the rest of their lives.

“M’ serious,” he pretends to scold her. His tone may have been mocking, but he really did mean it. “No ‘sorry’s. None of ‘em.”

“None of ‘em?” she smiled playfully, raising her brow. “But what if–”

“I'll bite you.”

“Liam! I mean– shit, sorry–”

He shot her an amused look.

“Lando,” she finally managed to get out. “Sorry,” she added as well, just for good measure.

He smirked. “You can practice saying that all you want, sweetheart. And what’d I just say about sayin’ sorry, hm? Looks like I’ll just have to—”

Lando cut himself off to playfully bite at the skin of her neck, just a gentle, barely-there graze of his teeth against one of the places he happened to know she was more sensitive.

“Woah there,” she giggled, her heart skipping a beat. “Easy there tiger.”

“You’re no fun,” he pouted, but the smile he wore was devilish. “I thought girls liked that sort of thing.”

He looks way too proud of himself for that comment.

Blood rushed to her cheeks, tinging them pink. Y/N was learning that she had a strong, love-hate relationship with how often Lando was able to do that to her. 

“You’re always so dirty,” she laughed, pushing herself out of his hold. What she didn’t see was the joy on Lando’s face, the sheer relief he felt after he’d come so close to losing whatever this was between them.

He’d given up many things in his life, but he was beginning to seriously doubt that there was ever a world where he could give up her.

“I don’t know about you,” she called over her shoulder, walking away towards the kitchen “But I’m gonna put for some tea. You want any?”

And just like that, Lando could finally breathe again.

A comfortable silence fell over the apartment, the only sounds coming from the quiet metal clinking of the kettle being placed on the stove. Even feeling the warmth emanating from the stove did something to settle her nerves, to help dissolve what remained of the earlier adrenaline.

Even still, something didn’t sit right with her. Something whispered at the edges of her mind, refusing to let go.

I’m still me.

Lando’s my real name.

I never wanted to lie to you.

It was a precaution.

Clearly, he was good at lying. Y’N would be lying if she said that didn’t make her uncomfortable, especially if she thought about how long he’d lied to her for. There’d been so many chances since then – so many drives and lunches and movie nights and coffee runs where he had the chance to tell her the truth, to make this whole thing go away.

But he didn’t. He’d lied.

And for months, she’d been none the wiser.

The uncomfortable feeling persisted, stubborn in its objective of making her think about all the non-existent reasons he had of keeping the truth from her. It annoyed her, nagging at the back of her mind like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue or a memory just out of reach.

While the water began to heat, she glanced over at where Li– Lando was busy putting on the next episode of The Good Place for them to watch. Distantly, she could hear the vague sound of the Brit going on about something or the other, maybe even his own recap of last episode’s events.

Once Y/N was sure his back was turned, she slid her phone out from her pocket and clicked it on, her blood thrumming with anxiety as the letters appeared in the search bar.

Search: lando monte carlo 

The results punched the very air out of her lungs.

Beyond Forgery and Fraud: Reaper's Circle's Drug Empire Rises

Interpol Report: Norris Suspected in Multiple International Offenses

Lando Norris Suspected in Over a Dozen Murders. No Convictions.

Y/N stared at the screen, frozen. The sentences began to blend together, a whirlwind of the same words over and over again.

Mob boss.

Murderer.

Lando. 

Him.

No. No, this couldn’t—

Article after article appeared, an endless collection of headlines tying that name, tying Lando Norris, tying him to all sorts of crimes — racketeering, arms deals, disappearances, executions masked as robberies.

A memory rang in her ear, a snippet of the evening news playing on the radio in the car.

“Authorities have not yet identified the leader of the Reaper’s Circle, but rumors suggest it's someone with deep ties in Monaco’s elite—someone like Lando Norris, who has been involved in several high-profile events in recent months…”

“–The Reaper’s Circle, an organized criminal syndicate suspected of controlling various illicit activities across Monaco and beyond…”

He’d frozen, for that split second, before the mask had slipped back into place. Even then, sitting right beside her, it’d been so fucking easy for him to lie to her.

Despite the wave of nausea, her thumb automatically scrolled faster, her heartbeat louder than the boiling kettle. Everything felt far away, like the chaos of her mind had separated itself entirely from whatever she was meant to feel in her body.

Everything was numb.

As she scrolled, photos of him appeared, joining the digital mix. It was the same face she recognized, but also different at the same time. These photos were nothing like the ones in her phone, weren’t anything like the hidden snapshots of his occasional smile or the time she’d smudged a dab of toothpaste across his cheek, his hair mussed by sleep.

The photos she saw now caused a sinking feeling in her gut. The girl scrolled through mugshots, with their striped backgrounds and prisoner numbers. She scrolled through the paparazzi pictures, stolen photos taken by those who were trying to capture a glimpse of the force known as Lando Norris.

There was a clip of his face in black and white security footage. Y/N almost didn’t recognize the sharpness of his jaw, the clean-cut suits, the cold, unreadable expression. 

Why would she?

That wasn’t her Liam. That wasn’t the man who sipped cappuccinos in her café and fixed the bent sign above her door.

That man, it seemed, didn’t exist at all.

Her grip on the phone faltered, before the weight of it slipped from her loosened grasp. She caught it mid-fall, fingers clumsy, heart sprinting, vision blurred.

Behind her, the kettle began to scream.

Back in the living room, Lando was staring at the TV, flicking between episodes as the screen cast a soft, harmless glow across his face.

She stared at him from the kitchen doorway. His profile was calm, his silhouette familiar. 

He was still her Liam, just with a different name.

No.

He was a killer.

Her stomach churned. Her throat burned. She blinked, and when she looked at him again, he looked like a stranger now.

The kettle was still screaming on the stove when she turned it off. The tea sat untouched on the counter, steam curling up into the stale, too-quiet air.

Y/N stared at the screen of her phone one last time — headlines burned into her vision, images of blood and bodies flashing behind her eyes, her own reflection warped in the darkened black of the glass.

Lando Norris.

Her heartbeat thundered. Her limbs shook, but her grip tightened.

She reached for the drawer near the sink — the one with dull steak knives, takeout menus, and forgotten batteries. Her fingers closed around the handle of the sharpest one she had. It wasn’t a real pocket knife, but it would have to do. Y/N didn’t even remember what it looked like. All she remembered was the weight of it: cold, foreign, and damning.

Her hands trembled like leaves in a storm, but she didn't stop.

Not that she felt brave. If anything, she felt sick.

But still, she stepped forward.

The hallway between the kitchen and living room felt impossibly long — like her apartment had grown into a tunnel. Every footstep felt like it echoed louder than the last. The knife clutched in her hand quivered against her thigh.

She stood just out of his sight, one hand braced against the counter’s edge, the other gripping a knife with white-knuckled desperation. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, so loud it almost drowned out his words from the next room.

Lando’s voice carried from the couch, casual and unbothered. “–Or we could just order somethin’ in,” he continued, fingers drumming lazily on his thigh. “I mean, we’d have to see what’s open right now—”

Lando’s voice trailed off when she stepped back into the room. He had turned to look at her, half-expecting to see her usual soft expression, maybe that tired but warm little smile she gave when she was just happy he was here.

Instead, Y/N stood in the doorway, the kitchen light casting a halo behind her. Her eyes were wide and glossy, her face pale and her hands shaking. A knife gleamed in her grasp, and for a second, it didn’t even look real — like something out of a movie she never wanted to be part of.

It shook faintly in her hand – not from lack of conviction, but because her body was trembling under the weight of the fear she’d kept locked behind her ribs for the past ten minutes.

Lando’s brow furrowed. “Y/N?” he asked, slowly standing. “What are you doing?”

His voice was calm — gentle, like he didn’t quite understand.

Maybe he didn’t, because he took a step forward, and she flinched.

That’s when it happened.

That’s when Lando saw it — the flicker of something in her eyes. It wasn’t the soft worry she used to carry when he came in late, or the teasing suspicion when he dodged questions.

No.

This was pure, unadulterated fear.

He stopped in his tracks, something raw and unspoken painting his expression. “Wait—wait, sweetheart, what’s going on?” His voice cracked, barely holding itself together. “Put that down. You’re shaking.”

“Don’t come any closer.”

“What?”

“Get out. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Lando’s face froze.

His spine straightened. His entire world narrowed to the silver blade in her hand and the way her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

“Y/N?” he asked quietly, standing slowly from the couch. “What are you doing?”

She flinched.

Lando stood slowly from the couch like he was trying not to startle her. It was never good form to startle someone pointing a knife at your chest. 

“You’re shaking,” he noted, almost more to himself than to her. “Let’s put that down, sweetheart. Please. Let’s talk. We can— can we just talk? What’s goin’ on?”

“Don’t call me that.” Her voice cracked on the end of it, shattering the illusion like glass. “Stop it.”

He stopped moving, and her eyes finally met his.

“I looked you up,” she whispered. “Your real name. Lando Norris.”

She took a step back, and that’s when it happened.

His worst fear.

For the first time since they’d met on that rainy, bloodstained night in the alley, she looked at him like she didn't know him.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him like she was afraid of him.

There were no words that felt like they could describe the apprehension that emanated from her in waved.

In an instant, everything had changed. Where they had been laughing and flirting before, now there was an endless chasm separating them. Where moments ago there had been fondness and affection, now there was something else entirely.

His throat bobbed. “Listen, whatever you think you know—”

“I know enough,” she snapped, voice high with panic. 

Images flashed through her mind like a broken film reel. 

The blood on the pavement that night — dark, fresh, sticky. The faint smear of red on his shoe as he stood beside her, before he moved it out of her line of sight.His long fingers, wrapped around the handle of that gun — the same ones she’d recognize anywhere after hours of watching him tracing lazy, tender shapes on her arms as they watched TV together, skin against skin.

Her breath hitched. 

He wasn’t a witness.

Lando Norris was the shooter.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice cracking down the middle. “It was you. It was you, that night.”

She took another staggering step back, the distance between them growing even greater.

“You killed him. It was you, standing in that alley. And you lied! You looked me in the face and told me you just heard the gunshots.”

There was silence, heavy and suffocating. She shook her head, as if trying to erase the image of him sitting in her kitchen, making tea for a woman he nearly silenced forever.

“You walked me home, got inside my apartment, made me think you were trying to help me. But you weren’t. You were– You were just cleaning up your mess! You were tying up a loose end.”

Still he said nothing. Instead,  the man just stared at her like she’d peeled the skin off him and was staring at whatever ugly thing lay beneath.

“Say something,” Y/N snapped. “Fucking say something!”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he started to explain, and it sounded so hollow it made her stomach twist. “I didn’t— I didn’t know you. You were just—someone who saw something. I didn’t plan to get involved, Y/N. But then I did. I did. And I tried to keep you out of it.”

“No,” she gritted, her voice crumbling now, falling apart one word at a time. “You lied to me. You let me fall for you. You made me think you were just— You made me think you were my friend. You made me care about you. You… You made me trust you.”

Lando looked like she’d just stabbed him in the chest instead.

“I am that person,” he said quietly. “I didn’t fake that. I never faked any of it.”

The blade in her hand glinted in the twilight that leaked through the slivers of space between her curtains, the moon light pouring through. The metal of it glistened menacingly as its sharp point hovered just above where his heart was supposed to be.

He wasn’t sure he had one anymore.

There was nothing she’d said tonight that wasn’t true. His hand reached for hers, unexpectedly tender as it reached for where her fingers were wrapped around the hilt, urging it closer.

I deserve this.

If I died at her hands tonight, I would be okay with that, he thought. If it meant she wouldn’t look at him like this, he’d happily take whatever punishment she’d give him. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered reassuringly, smiling sadly. “S’alright.”

Her voice cracked completely. “Stop. Please, just stop.”

Tears slid freely down her cheeks now, hot and bitter. Then, a truth finally spilled out of her too, unbidden.

“I can’t believe you let me fall in love with you.”

Lando couldn’t breathe. 

Hearing those words was a punch to the gut, stealing all the oxygen from his lungs, wounding the softest, rawest part of him. His head spun, his stomach twisting with a gutteral ache.

“No,” his face twisted, some mix of horrified and devastated. “Please. Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” she whispered. “Because you know you don’t deserve it?”

He looked away, his face hot with shame.

“I let you into my home. I let you into my life. And the whole time… ” Her hand trembled harder around the knife. “You were Lando fucking Norris. Mob boss of Monaco. You’ve killed people. You– You probably had Margot killed. You probably—”

“I didn’t.” The words escaped like a snarl. “Don’t put that on me.”

“But you could have,” she breathed. “And that’s the problem.”

He flinched like she’d hit him.

She exhaled shakily, holding the knife tighter, like it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. “You need to leave.”

“Y/N—”

He hesitated.

For just a second, Lando stood there — face wrecked, hands useless, eyes pleading for something he couldn’t ask for anymore. He opened his mouth again to explain, to lie, to beg, but she cut him off before he could even try.

“Don’t! Don’t say another word. I don’t wanna hear your voice.”

She might as well have slapped him right across the fucking face. 

It took whatever dwindling willpower she had left not to look at the wounded expression on Lando’s face. 

It was already hard to see him through her rapidly blurring vision, until it suddenly cleared. She swiped at a tear she only realized had fallen once it was streaming down her cheek, the knife still trembling in her grip. Her voice was tighter now, choked and disbelieving.

“You made me feel safe! You made me tea! You held me like I was— like I was yours,” she hissed, whispering the last word like it was dirty, a dream turned rotten. 

“And the whole time, you were just making sure I couldn’t talk? Making sure I’d forget?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

What could he say?

She shook her head slowly, the betrayal sinking deeper into her chest like the slow spread of a toxin.

“Was any of it real?” she asked, the tears falling freely now. “Any of it? The coffee, the late-night walks, the books you pretended to like? The way you looked at me?”

There was a pause as she forced herself to take a shuddering breath. 

“Was that all fake too?”

“No,” Lando blurted out, his eyes wide. He’d stood here without complaint as every word from her mouth and every tear from her eyes fractured something in his chest into a thousand tiny, splintering shards of glass, but he couldn’t let her think that. “God, no.”

Even though he hadn’t dared to hope otherwise, it was clear to Lando now that the time for apologies had long since expired. Any question she asked now was empty, because even he knew that there was no answer that he could give her now that would forgive a years worth of lies. The truth had started to settle in: there was no logical way for him to explain this away.

There was no way to hope for the precious gift of Y/N’s forgiveness just one more time.

But for better or for worse, Lando’s heart had never been particularly good at listening to reason. All Lando could think about was the way her eyes were rimmed with red, glistening with the aftermath of his betrayal.

Y/N laughed then – a bitter, hollow thing. “You know what? Forget it. Please. Just go. Just fucking go.”

Against all sense of reason, Lando took a small step forward, the tip of her blade now barely centimeters from his chest. The movement was slow and easy, laced with a sense of acceptance. Still, he looked at her with a sense of sad curiosity.

She raised the knife higher, crying outright now, her heart thudding like it was trying to escape her chest.

“Are you even listening to me? I said, get out!” she spat. “If you come any closer to me, I swear to God, I will scream. I’ll— I’ll call the cops. I’ll tell them everything.”

Lando’s face crumpled not with rage or frustration, but with grief.

“You’re scared of me,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “You really are.”

The shine of his eyes mirrored hers now, the weight on his chest pressing down until his voice broke. He took a half-step forward, desperate. “I didn’t want this. I swear to God, I never wanted this—”

“Get. Out!”

She was crying now — tears streaming freely, silently, like she didn’t even notice. Her whole body shook.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please get out before I call the cops.”

Lando stared at her, his mouth parted, eyes unreadable — but behind the storm in them was something small, something shattered.

She wasn’t bluffing. She wasn’t just scared. She was done.

That hurt worse than any bullet ever could.

So he did the one thing he didn’t know how to do.

He stepped back.

The silence that followed felt like the final breath before a storm, the quiet before the tidal wave of a tsunami.

Lando didn’t try to explain anything else after that. He nodded once, just once.

It nearly killed him.

Lando turned toward the door. He moved slowly then, like he was walking through water. Each step sounded like a funeral drum, final and echoing.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He reached for the door, his fingers shaking — not because of the threat of the knife he could tell was still pointed at him, but because of her.

Lando Norris had outsmarted enemies, evaded authorities, and cheated death itself. Yet in this moment, he didn’t fight back. He didn’t try to convince her of his innocence, or prove himself worthy of her forgiveness. 

For all his brilliance, even Lando Norris knew that he couldn’t shoot, couldn’t outsmart, couldn’t trick his way out of this. Even he knew that now, there were no more illusions.

Now, it was just him, losing the one thing he never wanted to lose.

When he reached the door, confronted with its familiar sight far too soon, Lando glanced back, one last time. 

He looked for her, for any bit of the girl he once knew. There, instead of seeing the heartbreak spilling down her cheeks or the trembling of her hands, he saw only the same determination and ferocity he’d fallen in love with. 

In that moment, he wished he could spend an eternity standing there, if not to admire her then to memorize her face, suddenly confronted with the fear of forgetting even the smallest thing about her. 

In those last moments before he granted her final wish by leaving, Lando stood frozen, eyes darting over her face like he was trying to memorize it — like this was the last time he’d be allowed to look at her. He wanted to see her, really see her.

Just one more minute.

But Y/N didn’t meet his eyes.

She couldn’t.

God, it killed her enough to watch the man she loved standing there, looking wrecked and helpless, like he was the one being torn apart.

But she couldn’t afford to care, couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes as he left.

He didn’t beg.

He didn’t try to stay.

He opened the door with slow, deliberate movements — like even that, even leaving, was hard.

Before he stepped out, Lando turned.

“…I’m sorry you found out like this.”

The door shut behind him, and then all that was left was silence.

The door shut like the slam of a coffin.

Y/N stood in the center of her kitchen, the silence roaring in her ears. Her hands were still suspended in front of her, useless and twitching as her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. The silence in the apartment pressed in around her — thick, oppressive, empty.

And then the knife hit the floor.

She crumpled a second later.

Right there, in the middle of her kitchen tile, knees hitting hard and breath stolen like a rug yanked out from under her. Her hand found the counter to brace herself, but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

She hit the ground with a soft thud, curling inward like her ribs were caving around her heart — like her body was trying to protect her from something it was too late to stop.

The first sob came out sharp, crooked. It wasn’t graceful or cinematic — just raw.

She dragged herself backwards until her spine hit the cabinet and she stayed there, slumped on the cold tile like it might somehow anchor her. Like it might remind her what was real.

The headlines were still on her phone screen. She reached for it with trembling fingers, locked it, then shoved it across the floor like it burned her.

Because it did.

Her head hit the cabinet behind her with a quiet thunk.

She squeezed her eyes. Her hands pressed against her chest like she could hold her heart in.

She couldn’t.

She’d been holding it all in like a dam — fear, anger, disbelief — but now the cracks had given way, and it all came rushing out.

Finally, she sobbed freely.

They were guttural, shuddering, animalistic cries. The kind that clawed their way out of her chest and echoed in the hollow of her apartment like ghosts. Her fingers curled into her sleeves, like if she held herself tightly enough, she could disappear back into the life she thought she had.

But there was no going back.

She pressed her forehead to the cold cabinet door, hot tears dripping down her nose. She could still smell him in the air — cologne and city rain and something warm that had always reminded her of home.

Except it never was.

None of it had been real.

Her chest tightened so violently she thought she might throw up. Her stomach churned, her head a kaleidoscope of memory and betrayal.

The way he used to tuck her hair behind her ear.

The night he stayed just to hear her read.

Her breath came out in short, gasping bursts — not quite crying, not quite breathing either. Just this horrible, shaking in-between where she couldn’t make sense of anything. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything except the acid curling in her chest.

She wasn’t just heartbroken.

She felt violated. Deceived. Used. She had slept beside a murderer. Laughed with him. Kissed him. Loved him.

The pain hit her in waves — disbelief, nausea, betrayal, grief. She wanted to scream. To sob. To undo it all.

But she just sat there, shaking, arms wrapped tight around her knees, forehead pressed to the floor. She curled tighter, hands tangled in her own shirt, as if she could squeeze the memory of him out of her skin. But it was still there — the phantom of his touch, the echo of his voice.

She had loved him.

Or at least… she had loved who she thought he was, a version of him that apparently didn’t even exist.

The thought only made her feel even more sick.

She buried her face in her knees and cried — for herself, for her stupid, naive heart, for the man she never really knew.

And the man who’d fooled her so well, she’d wanted to build a life around him.

The second the door shut behind him, Lando staggered down the stairs like a man far drunker than he was. He reached the bottom of her building and stopped beside his car, hands braced on the roof like he couldn’t stand up straight anymore.

He didn’t get in.

He didn’t light a cigarette.

He just stood there, letting it hit him.

An image flashed before his eyes, a memory of the look on her face — like he was something to be afraid of. Something that didn’t belong in her world anymore.

Each moment was permanently engraved in his memory now. His mind played a loop of it on repeat, the way she told him to get the fuck out, that he wasn’t safe, that he wasn’t welcome here anymore.

And the worst part?

She was right.

He stared up at the window of her apartment, but he couldn’t see inside. Right now, Lando had no way of knowing if she was crying or curled up on the floor or already dialing 911.

He wouldn’t blame her. She should. He certainly deserved it.

As stupid, as it may have seemed, he just wanted to know if she was okay. With no way of reaching her, he had no way of reassuring her, comforting her, telling her it’d be okay. There was nothing he wouldn’t have given up just for the chance to say he was sorry, and to tell her that none of this was her fault.

But the silence made it worse, made it real.

He whispered her name like a spell — like perhaps if he said it softly enough, it’d somehow turn back the hands of time until she was back in his arms.

But of course, no such thing happened.

She had looked at him like he was a monster.

He’d seen fear before — real fear. Hell, he caused it. But never in her. Never like that. Not from the one person who made him believe, even for a second, that he was something more than a broken man with blood on his hands.

And now?

That look was all he’d see when he closed his eyes.

Everything she said, every word, looped in his head like punishment. Like penance. And for once, there was no lie clever enough to silence them.

He slammed a fist against the roof of his car with a grunt, as if would somehow release the knot in his chest. But with the anger at himself gone, there was only heartbreak that remained.

He had killed people. Broken bones. Set fires. Crushed men under his heel like ants.

But this? This was the worst pain he’d ever felt.

It’s your own damn fault.

He should’ve told her. Should’ve left her alone the moment he saw her face that night. Should’ve walked away the first time she smiled at him like he was safe.

He wondered if it felt like this for everyone, wondered if heartbreak was supposed to make you feel like your insides had been scooped out until there was no you actually left anymore. Until you were so empty you could barely stand.

Before he could do something stupid like cry, Lando slowly got into the car and closed the door. He gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, but he made no move to start the engine.

The air in the car felt so thick it was suffocating, yet still he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

The cabin was silent except for the faint static of the air vents and the occasional sound of a passing car outside.

Lando was still. He had never felt stillness like this, not even after a kill.

He just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, heart beating too loudly in the hollow space her absence had left behind. In the black car window, his reflection stared back at him with cold eyes, pale skin, jaw clenched, hands shaking.

Not a man.

Not even a liar.

He didn’t even know what he was anymore. 

Instead of trying to figure it out, Lando just sat there, his forehead against the wheel, trying to remember what it had felt like to be Liam. To be the version of himself she had loved.

But there was no going back to that now.

Only Lando was left.

And for the first time in a long time, he hated the name more than anyone else ever could.

a/n: i'm so sorry for letting you guys and not posting when i said i would. please believe me when i say i tried, it's just that my personal life decides to bin it at the most inopportune times. i may or may not have channelled that into this chapter lol

but also thank you all so much for all your lovely reactions to the last chapter!! i would love to hear what you thought of this one...

[jamminvroomvroom]

a lifetime of summers - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which every summer, at the villa your families rent together every year, gives you a version of charles OR you and charles are childhood best friends with a complicated history. warnings: angst, language, childhood friends with complicated history, smut, angst, yearning, etc... idk what I'm missing, NOT PROOFREAD (prob typos or things that might not make sense), lots of back and forth, messy messy messy, also cute, jealousy jealousy, seriously lots of YEARNING, them being stupid also word count: ~8k author's note: this idea came to me a few days ago and i've spent as much time as possible working on it since (in between carlos version). y'know when the creativity just hits right and the words pour out of you?? that was me with this. i hope you guys like it!!!! xoxo ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

Age 7.

“I’m gonna marry you one day.”

The villa smells of sun lotion and salty air.

Your dad’s playing music through some tiny old speaker he brought. And the adults are laughing too loud over their drinks.

The sun is beginning to sink, but it’s still hot. 

You’re sticky with juice, hair tangled, and bathing suit clinging awkwardly.

Charles is chasing you. A water balloon in his hands.

You shriek, running against the hot stones. Smiling so hard that it hurts.

“Y’already got me twice!” You shout in between giggles. “S’not fair!”

Charles appears closer. Face sunburnt. A smile tugged on his lips. “You cheated at Candy Land!”

“You cheated first!” 

“Because you always win!”

And he raises the balloon over his head.

“If you throw that, I’m telling maman you said a bad word the other day.”

His smile drops. “I did not!”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Uh huh…you said ‘shit’ when you hit your funny bone.”

“It hurt!” He argues.

You stick your tongue out. 

And then he hesitates. Looking at the balloon. Then at you.

Throws the balloon anyway.

It explodes against your stomach. Cold water soaking you.

And you gasp. 

Then lunge for him. Chase him all the way into the back yard, shrieking. Laughing so hard that you both struggle to breathe properly. 

And eventually you both collapse into the grass. Side by side. Near the lemon tree. 

There’s a few moments of silence. Both of you panting from trying to catch your breath. 

“I’m gonna marry you one day.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because you’re funny. And you like ice pops. And you beat me at Mario Kart once.”

You look at him. And he’s staring at the leaves above your heads. Arms touching.

“I don’t think that’s how marriage works,” your voice soft.

“Don’t care.” He shrugs. 

You roll your eyes. “Okay. But I don’t want to wear a dress.”

“Fine. But you have to split the cake with me.”

“Only if it’s chocolate.”

“Well duh.”

And you both fall asleep like that. In the grass. Smelling like chlorine. Sticky with sugar.

-

Age 12

“Why are you being weird?”

The summer heat is burning.

Heat clings to you like a second skin. And you’re still dripping from the pool. The stone tiles are too hot to stand on for too long, so everyone moves around them quickly. Your hair is wet. Trying to read a book, but can’t focus.

Because Charles won’t stop staring at you.

Well, he’s technically not staring. But he’s in the pool in your direct eyesight. Hands behind his head as he sits on a float. Sunglasses almost too big for his face. Smirking.

And every so often, he splashes water your way.

“Would you stop?” You snap. Wiping the water off your ankles.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Blinking. Innocent.

You groan, falling back on the lounger. Trying to ignore him.

He floats closer. “You haven’t turned the page in almost twenty minutes.”

“That’s because you’re distracting me.”

And he grins. A full sheepish grin. “You think I’m cute.”

You don’t answer. Keep your eyes on your book.

“Y’gonna tell your friends I have a six pack now?” He calls out.

You raise your eyebrows, “Six pack of what?”

“Muscles.” He says. Dead serious.

And your mouth twitches. “Your voice still cracks.”

Charles slips off the floatie. Swims to the edge and rests his arms on the ledge. Chin on his forearm as he looks at you.

“Yeah? And what does it do to you when I say your name?”

Your breath hitches.

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the sun.”

He laughs. And you throw your book at him. 

He ducks under the water. And when he resurfaces, grinning…you’re trying so hard to not smile. And he knows it.

“Why are you being so weird?” you ask.

He shrugs. 

“You’re just starting to notice me now.”

And you don’t answer.

And later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth. Still burnt from the sun. You wonder what he meant.

You don’t ask.

But you do start to.

-

Age 15

“That didn’t count.”

“So kiss me again.”

The villa is quiet. 

Your parents and his mom stay up talking. Your siblings long asleep. Arthur passed out on the couch. 

A few candles flicker near the steps, but most of the light is coming from the moonlight.

You’re barefoot. The grass cool and soft beneath your toes as you walk to the lemon tree. The one where you and Charles always meet when its too late and you’re supposed to be asleep.

He’s already there. Leaning against it. 

He looks different this year. Taller. A little bit sharper. More grown into his body.

He glances at you. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to sneak past my sister.”

He grins, holding up a bag of chips. 

And you sit beside him. Your shoulder brushing his. 

Talking about nothing for a while. Catching up on the weeks you aren’t together. How he kissed a girl in Monaco and it was fine but also kind of awkward. And you pretend you don’t hate hearing it.

You tell him about the boy from school who tried to hold your hand during a movie when you went with your group of friends.

Charles almost immediately demands his full name. And address.

And you laugh.

He tosses a lemon up and catches it. Again and again.

“I heard you tell Joris that I was in love with you.” You say.

And he glances at you. “I did not.”

You narrow your eyes. A smile on your lips.

And he shrugs. “I said you were obsessed with me. S’not the same.”

And you laugh. Then scoff. “You wish.”

You shove his arm. And he grabs your wrist before you can pull it back. Fingers wrapping around you. Warm. Familiar. But somehow different.

Neither of you speak for a few moments. Just take in the sound of the cicadas, the faint chatter of the adults on the terrace.

“Y’ever kissed anyone?”

And your stomach twists. Look away. “No.”

He nods. “Me either…at least, not really.”

Silence.

And then he says, “Wanna try?”

You look at him. But he’s already looking at you. And he looks nervous. Hopeful. Like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. Nothing like the boy who used to throw water balloons and stick paint in your hair.

You nod.

And it’s awkward. Your noses bump. One of you breathes too loudly. His hands tremble at your cheek. 

But it’s sweet. Slow.

And his lips are soft.

And when you pull apart, you both stare at each other. Lips a little rosier than before.

“That didn’t count.” You whisper.

And he blinks. “Why not?”

“There was no tongue.”

And he grins. Slowly.

And then pulls you back into him.

And this time….it’s real.

-

Age 17

“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

The villa’s light glow behind you. Laughter echoing from the kitchen where your parents and his maman are finishing a bottle of wine.

You and Charles are on the terrace. Barefoot. A shared bottle of win between you. Practically empty. And his leg brushes against yours every time he fidgets.

It’s the first summer where you’ve both been allowed to really drink. Not just a stolen sip of a half-empty bottle found on the kitchen counter. Or a watered down spritz. Real drinks. Poured and given to you like adults.

And you’re a little tipsy. Cheeks warm and rosy. Limbs loose. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” you glance at him.

He nods. “Jus’ thinking.”

“You do that?”

And he laughs. “Shut up.”

You smile. Taking a small sip straight from the bottle before placing it back down. “What are you thinking about?”

He hesitates for a little. “Uh…that night last year.”

You don’t have to ask which night. You already know.

The night behind the lemon tree. His mouth on yours. And you think about it often.

“Me too,” You admit. Soft.

And he looks at you. Watch as his gaze dips to your mouth.

And then he’s leaning in.

The kiss is soft. Deeper. Not rushed. And his lips are warm. Tastes of wine and something sweet. Like the fruit you guys were picking at earlier.

When he pulls back, his voice cracks a little bit. “I want you.”

You don’t answer. Just smile soft. Pulling his hand into yours as you drag him into the villa. Into the bedroom. 

Your clothes peel off slowly. Clumsy. And he’s careful. Like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, it’ll ruin the moment. 

“Y’sure about this?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah…want it to be you.”

And he closes his eyes for a second. Like his heart is in his throat.

And then it happens.

It’s slow. Messy. You both laugh when your arms bump. And he curses softly when he cant get the condom wrapper open. But then he’s inside you, and your laughter becomes hushed gasps. Fingers digging into each other.

“Y’okay?” He mutters. His forehead pressed to yours.

And your nails dig into his back. “Yeah.”

And then he kisses you again. Harder. Holds you closer.

Later, when you’re both lying tangled in the dark…you feel his fingers tracing your skin. Both of you enjoying the silence.

Then a good few moments later.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

You swallow hard.

“Yeah.”

-

Age 19

“Y’gonna dance with him again?”

“He asked.”

“You let him kiss your cheek.”

“You fingered me in the kitchen pantry last night.”

“That’s different.”

You’re barefoot in the sand. Music loud. And Luca…or maybe it was Leo? You weren’t sure. Had his hands lightly on your hips. Flirty.

You’re laughing at something dumb he said into your ear. And then you feel it.

The heat. The stare.

Glance over your shoulder and…

Charles. Leaning against the beach bar. Beer in hand.

Eyes on you with a glint in his eye like you’ve offended him.

You try not to react. But the next time Luca spins you, you pull away with a smile and a I’ll be right back.

You only make it a few steps before Charles intercepts your path.

“Having fun?” He says. Trying to be casual. But his voice is too tight. Too bitter.

“Yes.” You brush past him. And he falls right into step with you.

“You’ve got weird taste in music.”

“That’s not my music taste. It’s called dancing.”

And he scoffs.

You walk to the side of the bar. An more private are. Grabbing his shoulder to face you.

“Are you okay?” Voice sweet. Gentle. Caring.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re glaring too much.”

And looks at you. “I just think it’s funny.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“I mean, you don’t even like that song.”

You cross your arms against your chest. And he steps closer.

“You let him put his hands on you.”

You raise a brow. “So?”

“So…you let him touch you. Kiss your cheek”

And you laugh. Soft. “You fingered me in the kitchen pantry last night, Charles.”

His jaw clenches. Hands twitch. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

You take a step closer. Testing him, And he doesn’t budge.

“It’s not the same.”

You stare at him. His cheeks are sunburned. And his eyes are so green it makes your heart rate spike. So handsome.

“So I’m not allowed to dance with a guy I’ll never see again?”

He runs a hand over his face. Grazing the slight stubble on his jaw. “You’re not just dancing.”

“No,” You admit. “But you’re not just fucking me either.”

His eyes widen. Slightly stunned.

And you don’t back down. Step even closer until your chests are touching.. “You don’t wanna talk about what this is? That’s fine. But you don’t get to act jealous then.”

“I’m not jealous.”

And you grin. Snort. Just a tiny bit.

“Okay,” he says. Throwing his hands up. “Maybe I am.”

Your stomach twists.

“I just…I don’t like seeing you with other guys.” His voice is low. 

“Well…it’s not like you don’t talk to other girls, Charles.”

And then you leave him standing there. Alone.

-

“Wanna go out for a bit?” He asks. “Just us?”

And you say yes without even thinking.

You’re on a light blue towel, sunglasses over your face, pretending to read a book. Charles is stretched out next to you. An arm tucked under his head. Throwing grapes in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.

You glance over just as a grape hits his forehead and falls into the sand.

“Impressive.”

He laughs. “The wind interfered!”

He tosses another grape. Misses again. 

And you burst into laughter.

“I’m warming up.”

He laughs with you. Giving up and rolling onto his side to face you.

He squints his eyes at you. “Do you have sunscreen on?”

“Yes.”

“Are you positive?”

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

“I think that….” His hand reaches for the bottle of sun lotion, flicking it open. “That you missed a spot.”

He squirts some into his hand, a smirk on his lips.

“Back off.”

And he reaches for you, smearing it all over your chest. You shriek, tossing your book into the sand beside you.

And somewhere between this sun lotion assault, you’re both breathless and laughing so hard.

He pins you down, dropping heaps of sun lotion onto your skin.

“Truce,” You laugh. Stomach burning from laughter. 

He nods. Smiling. Rubbing the sunscreen into your skin.

“Don’t want you to burn.”

You throw a pile of sand at him. And he doesn’t even flinch.

-

His cock is already buried inside you. Deep. Thick. Fucking aching.

“God, you’re fuckin soaked.” He groans into your neck. Hand pressed into your stomach. 

You claw at his back. Back arched. Legs spread. Shaking every time he hits that spot in your tummy just right.

He looks down at you like he’s overwhelmed. Like he doesn’t understand how you can feel this fucking good.

“Swear to God,” He grunts. Pulling back slow, then snapping his hips forward. “S’like your pussy jus gets tighter every time.”

Your mouth falls open. Gasping.

His hands slip under your thigh, pushing your knee into your chest. Fucking you deeper.

And then he moans.

“Jesus….fuck.” He chokes out. “Y’feel that?”

You sob out. 

“I’ve been inside you like a hundred times this summer and it still feels like fuckin heaven.”

His forehead drops and presses into yours. Voice rough. 

“M’not gonna last.” He huffs. “You’re too wet. Too fuckin tight.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. “Don’t stop…”

“You’re fuckin milking me.” He cuts you off. “Y’gonna come? Please come on me. C’mon baby…please, yeah? Please let me have it.”

And you fall apart. Gasping. Shaking. Coming so hard around his cock it makes his head fall back.

And he swears. Filthily. French tumbling out go his mouth.

And then he’s spilling inside of you. Chest pressed to yours. Hips jerking.

He buries his face in your beck. Collapsing on you. 

And neither of you speak for a bit.

Just catch your breath. Comfortable silence. Holding each other.

Eventually, he reaches up. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

Then whispers into the dark.

“I like it here.”

And he doesn’t elaborate.

You don’t ask him to.

-

Age 21

“He seems tense.”

“He’s fine.”

“He didn’t even blink when I mentioned that guy from Madrid.”

“I told you not to bring it up.”

Your best friend’s been here for five days and already the villa feels different.

She means well. But she talks fast, drinks fast, and has no filter. 

She also loves to talk about your love life.

The one that you’re apparently “thriving in”.

“So wait,” she says over breakfast, digging her fork into her food. “You never texted that guy from Madrid back? Y’know the one with the sexy voice?”

Across the table, Charles is picking at his plate. Fork pausing. Just for a little bit. Enough for you to notice.

You look at her, “No.”

“Why not? He was so hot.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“But he was so into you…” She takes a sip of her drink. “What about the Italian one? The one you really liked.”

Charles cuts into his eggs. A little bit harder. Knife scraping the plate.

“He ghosted.”

“Ugh, yeah total loser.” She laughs. “Oh my god, remember…what was his name? From the bar crawl.”

“Liam.” You choke out.

“Yes! Liam!” She snaps her fingers. “Didn’t he pick you up at the bar? Like just threw you over his shoulder?”

You laugh, slightly embarrassed. Nodding.

Charles sets his mug down a little too hard.

And then he stands. Takes his plate to the sink. 

And walks out.

“Was it something I said?” Your best friend asks.

-

You find him in the kitchen later. Your best friend is lounging out by the pool and you slipped inside to grab a water.

He’s rinsing the plates. Back to you. But his jaw is clenched tight.

You lean against the counter by him. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps scrubbing the dishes. A little harder than before.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” He says. “Just didn’t realize breakfast started with a running list of every guy you’ve fucked.”

You wince.

And he breathes deeply. Dropping the dish in the sink. “Sorry…that was, uh harsh.”

You give a tiny nod.

“I just…” He turns off the water. Looks at you. “Didn’t know it was like that?”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. 

“Is it a problem?”

He stares at you. Sucks his bottom lip in for a moment. Like he’s deep in thought. Before finally saying…

“No. It’s not my place.”

And there it is. 

You step back. “Right.”

And then you’re turning around, reaching in the cabinet for a glass. “Still going to the bonfire later?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, if you still want to.”

“Cool,” Your voice is light. 

-

Age 22

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m just tired.”

The long table on the terrace is full.

Extra chairs from inside scattered around it, one of your younger cousins crawling underneath it.

Your dad is asking your mom if there’s more grilled vegetables. Meanwhile your sister insists on telling the story about the jellyfish sting again.

“And she was crying so hard, she had actual snot bubbles on her face,” She says. Laughing.

You lift your hand, “I was six!”

Charles laughs. “You thought you were dying.”

“I thought it was venom!” You laugh. “And no one even helped me.”

“We were too busy laughing at the snot,” He says. Looking at you. That familiar grin pulled on his face, eyes crinkled. Like it was just you two.

And then Alex leans into him. Whispers into his ear. And whatever she says makes him smile wider. Makes him shift toward her without even thinking.

You chug your wine.

“I love that photo,” Alex says softly. And you glance at her to find her already looking at you. “The one of you and everyone in the inflatable pool. You’re the only one not smiling.”

You curl your lips. “We were sinking.”

“It’s so funny though,” She says. “You look so unimpressed by them.”

“She always looks like that,” Charles chimes in. “Probably came out of the womb judging people.”

You narrow your eyes, but the smile pulling on your lips gives you away.

Alex laughs. And your mom’s already popping open the next bottle of wine. 

And it would be perfect.

If it weren’t for Charles sitting across from you, arms wrapped around another person. Like he’s not yours anymore. 

You ask Alex about her job, and you mean it. She answers so soft and kind that it almost makes you hate her. Almost.

But you can’t. Because she’s nice.

“She’s good for him,” Your sister whispers under her breath, leaning toward you. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

You nod. “I’m just tired.”

Eventually, dinner ends. Alex excuses herself to help your mom bring out dessert. And Charles follows.

And when they come back, head thrown back laughing. 

He sets a slice of cake in front of you without a word.

And you thank him like its normal.

-

Someone suggest drinks at the beach bar. Something to do. The one with the bulbs on string down the street. 

You come barefoot, some sweet drink already in hand. Alex walks beside you, her wedges hooked in her fingers, hem of her dress brushing her knees.

She’s pretty in a way that doesn’t feel threatening. Not showy. Just perfect.

Inside the bar, you spot Charles leaned against the bar with a beer, grinning at something Arthur’s saying. And he’s wearing that linen button up that you used to tell him he looks like a recently divorced rich guy in. 

You find yourself smiling.

Alex touches your arm. “Hey…you want a new drink?”

You shake your head. “I’m good for now.”

She nods. A small smile on her lips.

“I was really nervous to meet you.”

You blink. Eyes slightly wider. “Me?”

She nods. “Charles talks about you all the time.”

You freeze for a moment.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “Not like in a weird way. Just like you’re part of the picture. In his life. Almost every story he tells involves you.”

You don’t know how to respond.

“I’m just glad you’re not..uh, like intimidating.” She laughs.

And you laugh back. “I save the intimidation after a few weeks.”

She smiles. “So I’ve still got time?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And for this moment, you like her. Even if it hurts.

Because she’s kind.

Because she doesn’t know that you and Charles shared a bed when thunderstorms were scary.

Because she wasn’t there the summer he kissed you against the sand and told you he’d never want anyone else.

You chug your drink.

Later, you’re all gathered near the back of the deck, huddled around a wooden table and wobbly stools. Someone ordered a side of fries. Someone else ordered a round of shots no one really wanted but drank anyways.

You’re pressed between Charles and your sister. You’re laughing. Tipsy. Warm.

Charles is teasing your sister about something but you’re not really listening. 

And that’s when another guy slides in.

Not dramatically. Just casual. Confident.

He’s tall. Tanned. Cute. 

He talks to the guy beside him, someone you’ve definitely seen before, and then turns to you. 

“Did I hear something about you getting stung by a jellyfish?”

You smile. “Unfortunately.”

He nods. A grin. “Survival stories always get me.”

“Tragic,” you say.

He laughs. “I’m Nick.”

You take a sip of your drink, tilting your head. “Do you open with tragedy stories for flirting a lot? Or is it just me?”

“Only for girls who look like they bite back.”

You grin. Slow. “You say that like its a challenge.”

“Depends,” He shrugs, gaze dropping to your bare legs, then back to your face.

“On?”

“Depends how hard you bite.”

And you laugh. Like really laugh. Hard. Head falling back. And then you feel it. The way Charles stills beside you. The way his fingers grip his cup just a little bit tighter.

And Nick leans in closer. More private. “So…what other tragedies should I know about you?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you want facts or warnings.”

He raises a brow. “Any preference?”

You place your cup down on the table. “I like a little risk.”

And Charles says something to your sister now. A little louder. Like he’s trying to distract you.

You don’t bother to look at him.

Nick grins. “And just how dangerous are you exactly?”

You grin back. “Pretty dangerous.”

He laughs. “Good.”

You both just stare at each other for a little. Grinning.

“You dancing?” He asks, nodding his head in direction of the dance floor.

“Are you asking or telling?”

“I’m hoping.”

You slide off the stool.

“Let’s go tragedy boy.”

And as he takes your hand. Leads you into the crowd. You catch Charles’s eyes.

Watching.

Burning.

-

The music’s slowed a little. Just swaying to the music, instead of the rapid jumping you were doing earlier. 

Nick’s hand rests at your hip. His other is holding your drink while you talk with your hands.

“You can’t seriously think pineapple belongs on pizza,” You yell over the music.

Nick grins. “It’s good.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

And you laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. He leans in, speaking into your ear.

“You know your friend’s been staring at us for like ten minutes, right?”

You blink. “Huh?”

He tips his head. Over your shoulder. And you turn just a little bit. Just enough to see Charles still sitting at the table.

Drink in hand. Not talking. Not even blinking. Just looking.

You breathe out, turning back. “That Charles.”

Nick raises a brow, nodding. “Ahh.”

“Don’t read into it.”

He watches you.

“He has a girlfriend.”

Nick hums, a teasing grin. “He doesn’t look like he remembers that right now.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Cool.”

You shrug. “You don’t believe me?”

He smiles. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. Just means if I kiss you, he might kill me.”

You laugh. “You’re awful.”

“You’re still here.”

And you look at each other. Smiling.

You kiss him. Not because you’re falling for him. But because you’re single. Because Charles brought someone else. Because he gets to have her. Because you’re tired of thinking about him.

So you kiss him to feel good. To forget. To remind yourself that you’re free.

Hands in his shirt. Hands on your waist.

And you let yourself lean into it.

Enjoy the uncomplicated.

And for a few moments…it almost works.

-

Age 23

“You brought him here.”

“Yeah. Remember you said he wouldn’t last.”

You’re late this year.

Flight was delayed. Rental car place was too busy. And by the time your feet hit the familiar stone of the villa’s terrace, the sun is already low in the sky.

Theo’s beside you. Rolling your suitcase like a pure gentleman. He’s good. Kind. Gets along with your parents. Laughs at your sister’s jokes. 

And still, your heart flutters when you hear his voice.

Charles.

Laughing louder than necessary. As if he wants you to hear it.

You follow the sound. Trying not to think about the last time you saw him. A few months ago in Monaco. A hotel room you both swore you wouldn’t end up in. Both seeing other people. Both pretending it didn’t count.

And it wasn’t even the first time.

Since last summer, it’s happened a few times too many. Whenever him and Alex called it off. On and off. On and off. You slipped between the cracks. A quiet fuck in your apartment. A drunken make out at a birthday party. You pressed against the shower tiles. Bent over his kitchen counter.

Always followed by soft smiles and easy goodbyes. A promise to act normal. 

Best friends first.

And the moment you step further into the terrace, you see him.

Charles standing against the bar, shirt unbuttoned. Tanned. Holding a drink with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how hot he looks.

And worse…Alex is next to him.

Beautiful of course. Sundress swaying. Hand on his chest like it belongs there.

He notices you before you can even speak. Smile faltering for a fraction of a second. Just enough for you to really feel it. And then it’s back.

And he lifts his glass in a salute. “You’re late.”

Alex smiles. “We thought you weren’t coming til’ tomorrow!”

You smile back. She was always so nice. “Surprise!”

Theo steps forward. Hand extended with that charm that always made it hard to hate him. “Hey…Charles, right?”

And Charles doesn’t hesitate. Shakes his hand. But its the same one he uses with driver’s he never liked. “Yeah. We’ve met.”

And it hits you like a knife to the ribs.

You remember that night clear as day. Theo was still new. Only a few dates in. And you invited him to a party. 

Charles showed up late. And barely looked at Theo. Offered him a lazy smile before finding you later into the night. Pulling you into his car thirty minutes later and fucking you in the back seat.

And Theo’s smiling. “Nice to see you again.”

Charles smiles. But his eyes stay on you. Never leave your face.

Alex swings her arm into his. “So glad you made it. Saved you the good room too.”

You smile at her. “That’s sweet of you.”

Charles lifts a brow. “Didn’t know you needed a good room to enjoy yourself here.”

And you hum. “Guess I’ve gotten a little pickier.”

He takes a sip of his drink. “Since when?”

And you shrug your shoulders. “Since I started dating someone who doesn’t forget my birthday.”

And it hits him like a bullet. You see the way his jaw shifts. Swallow.

Theo’s hand slips onto your lower back. Whispering softly into your ear. Nothing specific. Just something that makes you smile.

And Charles swear’s he might just vomit.

-

The ocean is calm. Waves hitting the rocks. A few birds chirping. Air cool before the sun is fully up.

You slip out of bed, letting Theo sleep. Making your way down the stony path that you walked hundreds of times. Towel slung over your shoulder. Hair twisted up in a clip.

And you’re halfway across the sand when you see him.

Already waist deep in the water. Back facing you. 

You freeze. Debating if you should turn around. 

But it’s too late. He see’s you. And his face shifts into something. Longing? Guilt? You’re not sure.

“You’re always here early,” He calls out.

You drop your towel, walking into the water without glancing at him.  “Not always.”

He watches you. You can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. “You do when you’re avoiding me.”

You glance up. The water cool against your skin. “Who said I’m avoiding you?”

He shrugs. “History.”

You reach him in the water. You both stand there, not touching. Not moving.

Eventually…he speaks.

“He’s staying the entire time?”

You raise a brow. “Are you asking as my best friend or something else?”

He doesn’t answer. 

You move a little closer. “You said he wouldn’t last.”

“I was wrong.” His voice is low. “Clearly.”

He swallows. Looks away from you. “Does he know?”

And your stomach twists. “Know what?”

He doesn’t say anything. Lets the silence tell you.

You feel your throat tightening. “He know’s we’re close.”

“Close.” He repeats. Half snort, half laugh.

“Best friends.”

He turns to fully face you now. Jaw clenched. 

“Right. Just best friends.”

You don’t respond. Because what else are you supposed to say? That you still feel his fingers dig into your skin. That no matter how many nights pass, you still wonder what this could’ve been if you both spoke up all those years ago.

He steps closer. Too close now.

“Y’still taste like that shitty rosé we used to drink.”

And you blink. Trying not to smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Not trying to be.”

His fingers brush against your shoulder. 

“You have a girlfriend.”

And his eyes look sad. He breathes loudly. “And you have him.”

-

The villa is loud tonight. Music is blasting. Too many drinks are being poured. Bowls of snacks turning stale.

All of you are packed into the living room. Sunburn. Sprawled into chairs or the floor. Hoodies thrown on. 

Your families are here. Everyone laughing and shouting. Bickering. Like its still 15 years ago.

Theo sits behind you on the rug, legs wrapped around you. Hand resting on your hip. And he’s been sweet all evening. He fits.

Yet every time you crack a joke. Or win a game. It’s Charles who looks at you first. Like he’s your person.

His leg bounces restlessly. 

“Alright,” Arthur announces. “We’re playing that game again. The one with the acting.” He holds up a deck of cards.

“Y’mean charades?” Alex asks. Soft.

“No.” Charles says. “The one I always win.”

And it’s you rolling your eyes now. “Y’mean the one you always cheat during?”

He leans forward. “I win.”

Theo laughs behind you.

Your sister tries to act out like Snow White. Falling over and laughing when Arthur misreads a motion. Theo keeps guessing too many times. And Alex’s impressions are almost too good.

And later…when the game’s over. You find yourself in the kitchen, stacking freshly cleaned glass and bowls onto the drying towel.

Humming to yourself.

And Charles leans against the doorway, arms crossed. Watching you with a lazy grin. 

“You two are cute,” He says.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be weird.”

“M’not.” He shrugs. Pushing off the archway and stepping closer. “It’s just…uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You let him touch you a lot.”

You pause with a glass in your hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And he smiles. Tight. Not genuine. “Nothing.”

“You’re being weird.”

He raises his hands. Says something mocking of Theo.

And it has you gasp lightly. “You’re such an asshole.” You try not to smile.

He steps even closer.

“Yeah.” He whispers. “But I’m still your favorite.”

And then he’s stepping beside you, taking the glass from your hand and dries it.

Finishes washing the dishes with you in silence.

-

“You’re staring again.”

“Yeah. Looks like you’re having fun.”

“Jealous?”

“Of him? Never.”

Silence.

“But of you? Maybe.”

The bar is tucked into the cliffs. A grand view of the sea. Well lit by bulbs on strings.

Everyone’s dressed for the night. Sun-kissed. Hair soft and flows. Laughter echoing. 

You’re on your second drink. Lightly buzzed. Your dress clinging to you just right. And you feel good. Happy.

Theo’s spinning you around. His hands warm on your waist as you move slowly in the corner of the makeshift dance floor. He’s not much of a dancer. But he’s trying. And in the end…that’s all that really matters.

He leans in close. “Y’look so beautiful.”

You smile. “Yeah?”

“I mean…y’always do.” He grins. “But-“

You don’t let him finish. Kiss him. Easy. Soft.

And when you pull back, you catch him in the corner of your eye.

Charles. At the bar.

Sitting with Arthur and Alex. Drink in front of him. Head tilted.

And he’s watching you. Not listening to either of them.

And when you’re eyes meet, he lifts his drink.

A challenge.

And later when you slip away from the loud music. He’s there. Leaning casually against the table. Shirt undone just enough to make your throat dry. 

“You’re having fun.” He says. A statement. Not a question.

“Isn’t that the point?”

He nods. “Theo’s a big fan of spinning you around like you’re some prize.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s called dancing.”

“More like claiming.” He huffs under his breath.

And you look at him.

Hard. 

Trying to read him. 

“What’s your problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Eyes dropping to the floor. Then to his half empty drink. 

“You kissed him.” He still isn’t looking at you.

You squint your eyes a little. “Yeah. I did.”

He swallows. Harsh. “Cool.”

You laugh. Dry. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m the ridiculous one?” He finally looks at you. “You’re out here making heart eyes at a guy you know won’t last more than another year.”

Your mouth falls open. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to know him. I know you.”

And he steps forward. Voice dropping.

“And I know that’s the same dress you wore the night I…”

“Charles.”

You both go quiet. 

Alex’s frame flickers by. Laughter erupts. People keep dancing.

“Whatever. You’re right. Have fun with your fling.”

You narrow your eyes. “Jealous?”

He smiles. Sad. “Of him? Never.”

A moment of silence. And his gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there.

“But you? Maybe.”

-

The trip is winding down. Bags are beginning to be packed. Towels still damp. Nights slower. Everyone pretending that they’re not ready to be home.

The sky’s dark. Everyone’s inside finishing up packing. Winding down.

You slipped out.

Without thinking, ended up here. The lemon tree.

The same as always. 

You hear footsteps. Uneven. Dragging.

And you turn. Charles.

He’s drunk. Swearing under his breath as he loses his footing. A bottle dangling from his hand. Shirtless. Barefoot.

His eyes meet yours and there’s something bitter in them. “Of course you’re here.”

You breathe. “You’re drunk.”

“A lil’ bit,” His words slur. “Celebrating your last night as someone else’s girl.”

You cross your arms. “We’re not doing this.”

But he’s already walking closer. 

“Y’know….s’kinda funny.”

You don’t speak.

“How he holds your hand like its somethin’ delicate. Like you’re some untouchable thing.” He takes another step closer. Voice shaking.

“I’ve had you on your knees on the kitchen floor.” He says, bitter.

Your heart pounds. “Stop.”

“In the pool too,” He slurs. “Begged me to not pull out. Said you wanted to feel it. Feel me.”

He doesn’t even let you speak. Just rambles on. Slurring. Drunk. Angry.

“Had you in every room in that house,” He grunts. “Fingers shoved in you while our parents set the dinner table. Bent you over the bathroom sink. Panties still halfway up your thighs because you were too desperate to wait.”

“Charles…”

“The pantry…remember that one?” His voice drops lower. “You were so wet it dripped onto the floor. Had to stuff my fingers in your mouth so no one would hear you cryin while you came.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I fucking have to.” He snaps. “Because I can’t fucking sleep this entire trip knowing he gets to touch you.”

You swallow. “I’m not some prize.”

“No. You’re worse.” He spits. Stepping close enough that his chest is close enough and you have to crane your neck to look at him. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and you handed it to someone else like I never fucking existed.”

“Stop it.”

“He doesn’t know what its like to hear you lose control. How you cry when you come. Shaking and begging.”

And your breathing hard now.

He leans in. Bending down to be eye to eye.

“He gets to hold you in public.” His eyes are glaring. “And I got your thighs shaking around my face while you said my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

Silence for a few moments.

And then…

“Tell me.” He slurs, small grin tugged on the corner of his lips. “Tell me which of us you think about when you touch yourself.”

You slap him.

Hard.

And his face whips to the side. He breathes heavily. Like he’s trying not to cry. Or scream. Or grab your face and kiss you.

He swallows.

“He gets you in the daylight.”

You don’t speak.

“He gets the sunlight.” 

And you whisper back. Soft. Heart breaking. “You only met me in the dark.”

You walk away barefoot. Tears forming in your eyes.

And Charles?

He stays at the lemon tree until sunrise. Alone.

-

You don’t talk for three months.

Which is considered a lifetime for you and Charles.

And then on a random weekday at nearly three in the morning, he sends a photo of the lemon tree in the winter.

No message beneath it.

You don’t answer.

Not for a day. Not even for three.

But then, on a random day the following week, you send a photo back.

A shot of your bedroom wall. A blurry photo of your hand holding a book in the corner.

Can’t sleep.

And the three dots appear before you can overthink it.

Me either.

And that’s how it begins.

You don’t FaceTime each other. At least, not at first. 

You fall back into a rhythm neither of you thought would come back. Almost normal. The funny kind of banter you guys always had.

Charles broke up with Alex. You broke it off with Theo.

Neither of you really said why.

-

Age 25

“Don’t sit in my chair.”

“This isn’t your chair?”

“I licked it.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“You haven’t either.”

The sun is long gone. You’re curled up in one of the cushioned chairs on the front patio. A half finished glass of wine on the stone table beside you.

The front door swings open.

“Don’t sit in my chair”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Charles drops into the cushion next to you. Barefoot. Hoodie swallowing him.

“This isn’t your chair?”

“I licked it.”

He makes a funny face. “You haven’t changed.”

And you smile. “You haven’t either.”

And its easy. The way he stretches out, folding his arms behind his head. Like nothing ever happened. 

You sip your wine.

His knee bumps into yours. Gaze on you.

“Thought it’d feel weird.”

“It did…for like,” You pause. Whisper. “For like a day.”

He holds your gaze. Doesnt look away. Smiles.

You break the tension first. “Maman said you still haven’t unpacked.”

He shrugs. “I’ll get there.”

“It’s been almost a whole week. That’s psychotic.”

“You’re just mad I haven’t asked to borrow your good smelling shampoo yet.”

“You are so not borrowing that.”

“I already did.”

You elbow him in the side. Laughing. Body shaking. He laughs with you. Head falling back.

He clears his throat. “I missed this.”

And you bump your knee back into his. “Rematch tomorrow?”

“Candy Land?”

“Don’t cheat.”

“I didn’t cheat.”

You narrow your eyes, smiling so hard. “You’re the worst.”

-

Monaco, Age 26

Your back hits the wall of his apartment. 

Urgent. Focused. 

Like he’s waited for forever to get you alone again. And doesn’t want to waste a single second of it.

His mouth is hot on yours. Hands at your hips. Your thighs. Slipped under your dress. And you’re clinging onto him like he’s a lifeline.

You can still taste the champagne on his skin. Skin warm from the race. But his mouth is desperate against you. 

He groans against your lips. “Thought about this almost every night.”

You gasp when his fingers curl around your thigh. “Stop thinking.”

And he’s about to take you right there. Dress bunched at your waist. Pants halfway down. But then you press your hand to his chest.

He stills. Panting. Flushed.

“I need to say something first,” You breathe.

He waits. Hands still gripping you.

And you look up at him. The man who just won Monaco. The boy you’ve known who’s been chasing that dream since you can remember. The one you loved. Hated. Missed.

“Your dad would be so proud of you.” You whisper.

And you feel his chest rise. Jaw clench. Fingers curl harder into your skin.

“I’m serious.” Your voice is soft. “Not just because you won. But because of how you’ve carried him with you.”

And his eyes are glassy.

He swallows hard. “I heard him.” His voice soft. “Right after I saw that checkered flag.”

You bring your hand to his check, pressing your palm. And he leans into you.

And then he’s kissing you again. But its different.

Still hungry. But more grateful. More claiming.

He whispers I love you into your mouth. Again and again. 

He whispers it when you tug his shirt over his head. When you lift your hips to pull your panties off.

Whispers it into your skin when he touches your bare skin. Like he’s seeing it all for the first time again.

And when he sinks in, he groans. Leaning over you, gripping you like you might just slip through his fingers.

“Y’feel like fuckin heaven.” He mutters against your lips. “You are heaven.”

And then he starts moving. Not fast.

Slow. Deep.

“Squeezing me like you missed it,” He huffs. “Did you, hm? Did you miss me?”

“Yes…” You pant. “Fuck…yes.”

He kisses your throat. Hot open mouthed kisses at the corner of your jaw. Hips rolling into you. Each thrust making you cry out.

“I love you.” 

He thrusts.

“I love you.”

Another.

“Not just tonight. Not just now. Always.” He cries out.

And you clench around him. Yelling out as your orgasm builds too fast.

“C’mon that’s it..” He breathes. “Come for me. Let me feel it, yeah? Let me have it…please baby.”

“I love you,” You gasp. “I love you…I love you..”

And then you’re coming. Body shaking, mouth falling slack as he fucks you through it.

Following seconds later, spilling into you.

He collapses over you. “Fuck. You’re it for me.”

You hold him close.

-

“You still take it with milk?” He asks, voice soft. 

You nod.

He hands you a mug. His fingers brushing against yours.

You sit on the couch together. Close.

“I keep thinking about the lemon tree,” You say. Cradling the mug in your hands.

He looks at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “How many summers we sat there pretending everything was normal.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “We were idiots.”

You smile. “Still are.”

“I’ve loved you since we were kids.” He says quietly. “Since you made me sleep outside by the lemon tree because you said it wasn’t fair that only the birds got to live outside.”

You laugh, heart clenching.

“I’ve loved every version of you.” He continues. “The snot version. The barefoot version. The one who laughs too loud after a few drinks. The one who tried to date other people. The one who…the one who kissed other people in front of me because I waited too fucking long.”

You pause. Placing the mug down on the side table.

“I was scared that loving you would ruin everything.”

He pushes you hair behind your ear. 

“I love you too.” You whisper. “You idiot.”

He laughs.

Leans in.

Kisses you.

-

Age 28

“This is where I almost lost you.”

“And now it’s where you’re asking to keep me?”

“No. Not asking.”

“Oh.”

Its late. 

You’ve changed into one of Charles’s old shirts. Barefoot. As usual. 

He finds you standing at the edge of the yard. 

Where the broken stone path curves. Where the grass bends. Where the lemon tree leans.

You hear him before you see him. His footsteps always so loud.

Neither of you speak. He wraps his arms over your shoulders from behind. Your back to his chest as he nudges his head into the space between your shoulder and neck.

You hold his arms. Swaying to the light breeze. Staring at the lemon tree together.

“This is where I almost lost you.” He says.

And you glance at your side to him. 

“And now it’s where you’re gonna ask to keep me?” You say, laughing. Teasing. Soft.

He smiles. Small. Shaky.

“No.” He says. Unwrapping his arms from you. “Not asking.”

And then you’re turning towards him. 

And he drops to one knee.

Just like that.

Just him in the grass. Kneeling by the lemon tree. Choosing it to be the place where he does the most important thing he’ll ever do.

Your breath catches. And his hands tremble as he pulls a ring from his pocket.

“I wanted to do this right.” He says. “I want to choose you the way I should’ve all those years ago. Not just when it’s easy..or when we’re alone. But in front of every version of us we used to be.”

Your throat burns.

“I want every summer.” He whispers. Eyes glued to you. “Every winter. Every fight. Every make up. I want to kiss you goodnight when we’re tired. Want to raise mini versions of us.”

You laugh. You cry. And you’re nodding before he even finishes.

“I want you forever.”

And then finally, “Will you marry me?”

You fall to your knees right there in the grass. In front of the lemon tree. And kiss him hard enough that you both fall into it. Laughing. Like little kids again.

“Yes.” You whisper against his lips. “Always. In every lifetime…yes.”

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[jamminvroomvroom]

so happy for osc always but my god i hate it here