strawberryys-stuff

[strawberryys-stuff]

and they say romance is dead

the two kiss strategy | OP81

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!gf!reader

✎ — summary: You have a little ritual to celebrate Oscar's races – not victories. Still everyone stresses when you are missing in the paddock mid-race, while Oscar is out on the wet track of Spa fighting for his life. Little do they know you are preparing his post-race gift.

✎ — chapter word count: +3.3k

✎ — warnings: fluff, use of [Y/N], not proof-read

The rain has been coming down in steady lines all morning, like threads unraveling from a low-hanging sky over the Ardennes. It mists against your cheeks the moment you step out of the car and you already know this is gonna mess with your hair in a way no amount of hairspray could ever measure up to. Spa smells like wet tarmac and earthy musk from the forest surrounding the circuit — a kind of charged electricity hovers just beneath the noise. You like it. It smells like a proper race day. You flash your pass at the security gates outside the McLaren motorhome and duck inside, the low hum of staff chatter wrapping around you immediately. Everyone’s in their own bubble of focus — crew members in papaya shirts rushing toward the garage, guests lingering near screens, media people huddled over shot lists and schedule printouts.

And then there’s you, weaving through it all in a weatherproof McLaren leatherjacket that cuts at the waist, navy straight-leg jeans skimming over papaya Sambas that squeak slightly on the damp floor. You’re layered for the drizzle and the cameras alike, practical but polished. The garage opens up ahead — all LED lighting and metallic shine, the sharp scent of petrol clinging to the walls. You step inside just as someone from the crew hands you a pair of padded papaya-coloured headphones. You thank them with a nod and sling them around your neck. Oscar hasn’t seen you yet, since he left the hotel room early this morning. He’s further down in the garage, half in shadow, talking to his engineer, arms crossed over each in front of his chest. He looks focused, serious. The kind of serious you’ve come to recognize — not nerves, not stress, just that sharp-edged clarity that hits him like instinct before he jumps in the car to accelerate to 300 km/h. And still, when he turns slightly and catches you in his periphery, something in his expression softens. He walks toward you in smooth, unhurried strides, racesuit zipped halfway up, the collar slightly turned from where he’s run a hand along the seam. There’s a low murmur of the team radio crackling, the clink of tire trolleys behind you, but none of it really registers. Not when Oscar’s eyes are on you like that. “Hey,” he says, voice quiet but warm. His smile isn’t for show — it pulls slow at one side, small and private. “Didn’t think you’d be here already.” “You kidding?” you say, matching his tone, smiling back. “How could I ever miss seeing you before race start. I don’t care if the weather is bad.” His fingers brush against yours briefly as he takes a step closer, the fabric of his suit cool and stiff where it brushes your arm. You tilt your chin up slightly, catching his gaze, then nod toward the pit lane where the rain has only just started to ease. “You ready?” you ask. Oscar’s lips curve into a familiar, knowing smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes — not yet. But his voice is low when he replies, steady and certain: “Always am when you’re here.” And maybe it’s the way he says it — not teasing, not performative, just fact. Quiet as a promise. He leans in without hesitation, ducking his head slightly to press a quick, grounding kiss to your lips. It’s nothing flashy. Just a heartbeat’s length of contact. The kind that tells you he needs it more than he lets on. You reach up and run your fingers lightly along the edge of his fireproofs, dusting off imaginary lint with theatrical precision. You just want to touch him anyway you publicly can. It makes him huff a soft laugh under his breath. The moment stretches, warm and suspended, and then you lean in close — so only he can hear you — and whisper: “Be bold and smart, and keep it clean out there, okay?” His eyes flick back to yours. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Always do,” he murmurs. “I’m a professional.” Behind him, someone calls his name. The garage shifts into motion again, like someone hit play on a paused scene. You squeeze his hand once, briefly, and he squeezes back before stepping away, slipping into that razor-edged version of himself the world knows best. You take your place in the guest area, headphones slipping into position on your ears, heart beating like a drum against your ribs — steady and sure. Let the race begin, you think.

But at the formation lap behind the safety car, the rain is still coming down heavy and water is literally standing on the cool tarmac. Steady sheets of water are slicing across the pit lane, blurring the outlines of everything beyond the garage threshold. Cameras try to make art of it — slow pans across puddles, drivers inside cockpits blinking up at the grey, tire warmers coiled like sleeping snakes. But inside the garage, time has slowed. The adrenaline of the initial rollout is gone, replaced by a strange, weightless pause. You’re leaned casually against the barrier that separates the team zone from the guest area, one headphone still resting on your ear, waiting for any message that might explain what will happen next, the other pushed back. Beside you are Oscar’s parents and his granddad — all of them equally confused about why they aren’t racing yet, but also each wearing the same kind of quiet composure that only comes from being here before. You’d only met them a handful of times since gotten together with Oscar in the off-season, but it doesn’t feel like that now. There’s an ease to it, standing with them in this bubble of diesel-scented warmth, waiting.

Ever since the cars were brought back into the garage, Oscar has been moving like a current in and out of the frame — consulting with his race engineer, checking telemetry, giving someone a nod. His race suit is unzipped to the waist now, fireproofs clinging to his shoulders, curls slightly damp from the helmet and the moist air. When he finally returns to the guest zone, it’s like gravity remembers where it's supposed to pull. He drapes an arm across the barrier, fingers curling just slightly at your waist, and settles in beside his granddad, who’s already mid-story. “…and your uncle Rob, back in the eighties, used to swear Spa was the most technical thing he’d ever seen. No simulators back then. So the drivers just had to learn in in real-time.” Oscar chuckles, chin dipping slightly as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “And now we’ve got twelve onboard cameras and a playbook thicker than War and Peace.” His granddad raises a brow. “Doesn’t necessarily make you faster in the wet.” Oscar smirks. “Touché.” You glance up at him, catching the faint curve of affection at the corner of his mouth. He’s relaxed in a way you rarely get to see when watching him at his races — shoulders loose, hand still a quiet weight on your hip, eyes flicking occasionally between the people he loves and the chaos just beyond the garage. His mom laughs at something he says next, a dry observation about Lando stalling in iRacing once because he tried to eat toast mid-lap. You feel yourself laughing too, in that low, caught-off-guard way that warms your chest. For a moment, the rain outside doesn’t matter. Neither does the race. It’s just a group of people waiting for the next thing together — like family. Then Oscar leans in a little closer. “I love that you’re here, by the way. Would be boring if I didn’t have anyone to chat with.” You nudge his elbow. “Well, you do have a teammate, you know?.” He turns toward you, eyebrow raised. “But Lando doesn’t kiss me for good luck before I get in the car.” Before you can roll your eyes at him, someone from his team comes up from behind and taps him on his back. “Ten-minute warning. Race will resume,” he declares, sharp and direct. And just like that, the stillness breaks. Oscar straightens instinctively, pulling the top half of his race suit back over his shoulders in one fluid motion. His crew is already in motion behind him — mechanics checking tire sets, engineers adjusting headsets, radios lighting up like warning signs. But he doesn’t move away just yet. Instead, before you can say anything, he leans over the barrier and kisses you again— this one a little longer, a little deeper than the first, like muscle memory took over before his consciousness could. It’s not performative, not posed for the cameras that definitely catch it. It’s simply his. Yours. A moment stolen like breath before a plunge. You blink up at him when he pulls back, smile tucked against the curve of your cheek. “You’ve already had your good luck kiss,” you tease, voice soft but teasing. “Yeah,” he says, grinning down at you with that low, crooked smile that never fails to disarm. “But it’s kinda a second start. Don’t want to risk it.” You shake your head, brushing your fingers just once against the edge of his sleeve. “Then go out and win this thing.” He squeezes your hand once — firm, grounding — before stepping back toward the car, slipping into focus with terrifying precision. And you watch him go, heart ticking upward in time with the clock.

Engines roar back to life like thunder cracking over the Ardennes, and just like that, the world shifts into motion again. Oscar’s car slices through the spray after Eau Rouge, the papaya blur ghosting past Lando in one clean, ruthless move on the Kemmel straight. It happens before the cameras even finish panning — a flash of orange, a downshift, a perfectly timed overtake. And he’s in P1 by the time they hit Les Combes. The tension of the race doesn't fade, though. It simmers instead. Wet track slowly drying up, intermediate tires slowly overheating, a mist of water constantly thrown into the air — overtaking is rare. Risky. Strategy becomes the battleground. Every decision down to tyre temps and delta gaps is its own kind of war. Back in the McLaren garage, the world is watching. You’re standing beside Oscar’s mum Nicole, headset back in place over your ears, your feet tapping the floor a little too visibly. She leans in, murmurs something dry about how Oscar’s probably in the car cool as a cucumber and not worried at all about Lando closing in on quicker tires. You snort, stifling a laugh behind your knuckles, and for a moment, the camera lingering on the guest zone captures it perfectly — the tight, familial circle, watching the race together hoping for a win. They cut back to the track. The cars thread through the corners like beads on wire, barely visible through the fogged camera lenses. The next time the broadcast checks in on the McLaren guests — you’re gone. No shot of you watching the screen, fidgeting with your fingers, no glimpse of you laughing with Oscar’s granddad. Just an empty spot next to Nicole Piastri and a faint buzz of speculation already beginning to ripple across timelines.

username1 why is no one talking about how [Y/N] disappeared mid-race like??? girl where are you going your boyfriend is leading username2 you’re telling me she LEFT the garage in a race THIS tight??? 😭 i need answers. did she have to pee? did she get a phone call? is she gonna walk out on track and keep Lando off her man’s back herself? username3 meanwhile I can’t even leave my bed during quali without a panic attack 🥲 username4 oscar really out there defending P1 like a knight in rain-soaked armor and his girl said “brb” and left username5 someone start tracking papaya sambas across the paddock, we have a situation username6 imagine Lando pulls off a late overtake and [Y/N] comes back with a smoothie like “what happened??” 😭😭 username7 honestly?? if she shows back up holding flowers again like in silverstone I will cry. she’s so real for having her own race rituals mclaren Don’t worry, she’s not missing in action. Just on a little mission 👀🧡

What they perhaps don’t know: you’re slipping through the paddock at a brisk but purposeful pace, head tucked slightly against the drizzle, one hand gripping the black and orange umbrella you were handed like you are on a mission looking for something. And indeed you are. You are out of the dry safety of the garage to meet the florist who is supposed to deliver a bouquet of Hydrangeas. They’d been pre-ordered, of course — you placed the request two days ago with a florist just outside the track perimeter. It’s not about superstition. It’s about showing up. The same way you did in Silverstone, in Monaco, in Melbourne even when Oscar only finished P9 and still deserved flowers for putting up with dnfing and getting back into the race. Winning was never the point. The gesture always was. You thank the courier at the paddock entrance and duck back into the paddock, the bouquet held carefully to your chest to shield it from the rain. You don’t rush — not exactly. But your steps are quick, practiced. A familiar rhythm by now. Somewhere between the Haas hospitality unit and the edge of the media pen, someone lifts a phone. Click. You don’t even notice being watche. But by the time you reach the entrance of the McLaren garage, that photo has already begun to travel online — you in profile, mid-step, the grey sky blown out behind you and the flowers cradled in your arm like something sacred. You're smiling faintly, almost unconsciously. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the image of Oscar in P1, still holding off a charging Lando.

username3 i’m sorry who gave this woman the right to be this poetic just by EXISTING username4 she out here making sure someone’s getting this man his flowers username5 no bc the fact that this isn’t a celebration thing because he’s p1, it’s a devotional thing. silverstone. monaco. melbourne. now. it’s about love, your honour username6 she’s not even looking at the camera. she doesn’t know she’s just broken the internet. mother is FOCUSED username7 imagine leading a Grand Prix and your girl is literally walking through rain to hand you flowers after. every romance novel wishes username8 btw google says the flower shop is closed on sundays, which means she must have ordered them ahead of start and probably even ahead of qualifying yesterday… like girlie never cared what position he would finish username9 idk why we were so stressed ten minutes ago, it’s not like she’s never done this before, we should know by now username10 i want @/mclaren to post his reaction when he sees them username1 i just what what Oscar and his flower girl have username2 piastri’s girl getting him flowers is just icon behavior

Back inside the garage, you find your place again beside Oscar’s family. His mum doesn’t even blink at your return, just takes one look at the flowers and grins like she knows exactly where you’ve been. The cameras don’t catch that moment. Not the soft way you hold the bouquet the entire team until someone from the team brings you a glass of water to store them in. Not the way your shoulders relax as Oscar rounds La Source again, still in the lead. Not the quiet pride blooming quietly, perfectly — like petals opening toward the noise. Not everything has to be seen to be real.

The final laps are a blur. Your hands haven’t stopped fidgeting since Lap 34 — fingers tapping against your thigh, then against the glass the bouquet is in. You forget that you still have a headset on and can hear Oscar calmly ignore that Lando is closing in on him. He is still leading, but Lando’s shrinking the gap each lap with the quiet threat of quicker tyres and clean air and years of knowing exactly how his teammate thinks. You don’t blink during the final sector. You hardly breathe. And then, just like that— Oscar crosses the line. P1. The garage erupts in front of you. Mechanics leap to their feet, someone throws both fists in the air, comms are buzzing with cheers and laughter and chaotic back-pats. You exhale like you’d been holding the weight of the entire Ardennes forest in your lungs. You stand, still gripping the stems of the hydrangeas before remembering yourself — they’re not for now. The spotlight belongs to Oscar. And you’ve always known when to wait. You leave the bouquet behind in the garage, gently handing it off to one of the younger interns who beams at you like they’re holding an heirloom. They nod seriously, and you catch a glimpse of them hustling to find a proper vase and a clean surface to put them on — the spot where Oscar’s helmet will rest in the garage when he returns. Then you step out into the wet light of parc fermé with his family by your side. Everything feels slightly blurred, like the rain smeared the edges of the world just enough to make it cinematic. Flashbulbs pop. Someone’s shouting over half the pit lane. The air smells like gasoline and burnt rubber. And then you see him on the other sides of the barricades — Oscar, climbing out of the car with practiced ease, peeling off his gloves, his helmet. Hair tousled, fireproofs rain-dampened at the collar, chest heaving with adrenaline and exertion. He does the signature fist-bump with Lando, who claps him on the shoulder with a grin that’s somewhere between rivalry and pride. But Oscar’s eyes are already scanning the crowd. And the moment he spots you — standing just behind his granddad, your smile too big to contain — he walks straight over**.** A brief hug for his granddad, a pat on the shoulder for his dad, a kiss to his mum’s cheek. But it’s you he reaches for last. He pulls you in like the noise doesn’t exist. Not the cameras. Not the yelling. Not the dozens of people watching. It’s not even a dramatic kiss, just a long, grounding hug — one arm wrapped tightly around your back, his forehead pressed lightly to the side of your head. Like he’s catching his breath in your arms. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, grinning so hard it makes your cheeks ache. “One pit-stop and two kiss strategy worked well,” you murmur, teasing under your breath. Oscar laughs — that soft, delighted sound only you ever get this close to. “I’ll tell Tom to include that in the debrief of what went exceptionally well.” You lean back just enough to look at him properly, your palms still braced against his racesuit. “I got you flowers, by the way.” His brows lift in mock surprise. “Oh?” “They’re waiting for you in the garage. With me. When you’re ready.” There’s a flicker in his eyes then — something quiet, something full. He shakes his head, fond and disbelieving all at once. “I don’t deserve you.” You just smile. You mean it when you say: “You drove like hell. You deserve everything.”

He looks at you like he’s already won more than a race. And maybe, just maybe, he has.

✎ — radio: had this thought in my head for a while, thought i might as well bring it to paper after this race :) i hope you enjoy it and have a pleasant day! (PS: I know the title has barely anything to do with the plot but i really liked it when brainstorming and thought it was way better than all the other stuff i came up with)

[strawberryys-stuff]

I'm speechless and so so thankful oh lord 😭 thank you so much for the love!

[strawberryys-stuff]

devoured every single line. perfection. gimme like 100 of 'em rn

Heyy! I love all your fics, they are soooo good! Could you maybe write one where y/n is max fewtrells little sister and landos race engineer but media is being mean to her and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. So lando has to step in and then they fall in love. If you don't like this you could just ignore it but I'd love to read it:)

not on my watch — ln4

smau + blurbs

lando norris x !race engineer reader

it started shortly after the mclaren announcement was posted— 'yn fewtrell has been named lando norris’ race engineer for the 2025 season.' the internet erupted—accusations of nepotism, blatant sexism, and outrage that they’d hand the job to a 24 year old woman. they don’t know you built half the strategy software they rely on. they don’t know you graduated at 19 and haven’t made a wrong call since. they don’t know lando trusts you more than anyone else on the team. this season, you’re done staying quiet. you’re going to prove them all wrong. even if it means falling for the one person you were never supposed to.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : hellooooo mi vida <3 thank you for the love on my work! i appreciate you sm. sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy 🧚🏻

also i love writing like the engineering side of things. my dad is a retired race engineer and he taught me everything i know and is the reason for my love of the sport. there is your fun fact of the day;) enjoy !

—

mclaren & yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, zbrownceo & 7,110,011 others.

mclaren : Please welcome YN Fewtrell as Lando Norris’ new race engineer for the 2025 season. Brilliant, fearless, and ready to lead from the pit wall. Let’s go win some races. 🧡

—

view 772,000 other comments.

username000 : ok but she’s actually a genius? she BUILT half their strategy models. stay mad.

username00 : this is history and y’all don’t even know it yet. she’s gonna run the whole grid one day.

username0 : nepotism is alive and well I see 😐

username1 : she’s 24 and in charge of race strategy?? lmao. hope Lando likes DNFing.

↳ lando : keep my wife’s name out of your FUCKIN mouth.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

↳ lando : i literally begged her to take the job. she had about a dozen offers for other teams. she is smarter than the whole paddock put together.

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

zbrownceo : Brilliant mind. Cool under pressure. Unshakable. Couldn’t be prouder. Let’s do this.

liked by mclaren and yn_fewtrell

↳ username5 : you’ll regret this 2 races into the season.

oscarpiastri : I thought I knew the science behind F1…and then I met YN…and she made me question everything. Congratulations, YN! We are happy to have you.

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

maxfewtrell : Such a proud big brother moment. Go show them just how genius you are, sis! 🤧🧡

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell and lando

pietra.pilao : literally the most intelligent person in the world! no one deserves this more🥺 I LOVE YOU YNNNNN

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

lando : no one can wrangle me like this one. let’s make history together bub!!

liked by yn_fewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

username17 : Hiring women just to look good, not to win races. Disgraceful.

↳ yn_fewtrell : funny how the people questioning my ability never mention the races i have helped win. maybe instead of whining about my gender, you should learn how to actually win. see you on the podium—if you can keep up. 🧡

liked by maxfewtrell, lando, mclaren, pietra.pilao and oscarpiastri

↳ maxfewtrell : ATE

liked by lando and yn_fewtrell

username37 : Just here to watch her fail and disappear. It’s not like she’s actually qualified.

↳ lando : talk shit get hit. you’re out here bullying a woman behind a keyboard while she stays winning and getting paid.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

username45 : Bet she got the job ‘cause Max begged, not because she earned it.

↳ maxfewtrell : lando doesn’t even like me that much, if I would’ve asked he would’ve said no.

↳ lando : TRUTH

username55 : This is why F1 is a joke now. Giving a 24-year-old woman a crucial race engineer role? Please. Next, they’ll have kids driving cars.

↳ maxfewtrell : This comment is exactly why she’s needed. You clowns scream about F1 being a joke, but the real punchline is you thinking your fragile ego matters more than her qualifications. She’s 24, a genius, and running circles around engineers twice her age. Stay pressed.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

You’re not sure why your palms are sweaty. You’ve given technical presentations in front of FIA directors. You’ve rebuilt a predictive model with zero sleep and one cracked laptop. You’ve told grown men twice your age their simulations were wrong—and then proved it. But this? Sitting across from Zak Brown and the McLaren technical director with your name printed at the top of an official offer letter? This feels different.

“Relax,” Zak says, grinning like he’s already picturing you on the pit wall. “You’re not in trouble. Unless being a genius is suddenly against the rules.”

You crack a smile. Just a small one. The technical director slides the contract toward you. You already know what it says. But seeing it in writing makes your heart skip anyway.

“We want you in the role officially,” Zak says. “You’ve been running the backend strategy models, fixing everyone’s messes from behind the curtain, and honestly? It’s long overdue.”

“I thought I was too young,” you say carefully. “Too… controversial.”

Zak leans forward, elbows on the table. “You graduated at 19. You built the race strategy AI we still use today. You predicted the Qatar safety car last season three laps before it happened. You’ve saved Lando’s race more times than we can count. If you were anyone else—any guy, with ten more grey hairs—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d already be in that seat.”

Your throat tightens a little. You swallow it down.

“We know what people are going to say,” the tech director adds. “The media will be brutal. The ‘nepotism’ headlines, the ‘diversity hire’ comments. It’s coming.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But they’re wrong.”

Zak nods. “Exactly. And I want them to say it. Loudly. So we can prove them wrong. Publicly.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where everything shifts—where it all becomes real.

“Lando asked for you, by the way,” Zak says, almost offhand. “Said he’s never trusted anyone more with his race or his car.”

That stops you. You blink. Look back down at the paper. You knew you’d earned this. But hearing that? It hits different. You pick up the pen. And for the first time since walking into the room, you let yourself smile—full, bright, certain.

“Let’s go win some races.”

—

Dinner at Max’s flat was always a bit of a circus. Pietra’s voice filled the kitchen as she narrated her sauce recipe like a cooking show. Max was burning the garlic bread while insisting he knew what he was doing. And Lando? Lando was sitting at the end of the counter, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, stealing olives out of the bowl you were supposed to be using for the salad. You’d missed this.

The normalcy. The teasing. The fact that no one was looking at you like you were about to become the most talked about person in the paddock.

“You’re being suspicious,” Max says, pointing a fork at you as he slides into his seat at the table.

“I’m literally just existing,” you reply.

Pietra hums. “No, he’s right. You’ve had a look all evening. Like you’re hiding something.”

You glance at Lando. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. He’s been patient with you the last few weeks. Supportive, even while everyone else kept asking what team you were going to sign with. Mercedes had called. Ferrari had emailed. Even Red Bull made an offer. You’d kept it to yourself, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was the right moment.

You take a slow sip of your wine. “So… I signed.”

The room goes silent. Max straightens in his chair like you just told him you were pregnant. “What?”

Pietra claps her hands. “With who?!”

Lando freezes. The olive he was about to eat drops back into the bowl. “Wait. Seriously? You signed?”

You nod slowly, drawing it out. “Yep.”

Max leans forward, eyes wide. “Okay, well—Ferrari?”

You shake your head.

“Mercedes,” Pietra tries, gasping dramatically. “You’d look hot in silver.”

You smile, still silent. Lando’s eyes haven’t left your face. He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“I signed with McLaren,” you say finally. “Race engineer for Mr. Norris.”

And then—Chaos. Pure Chaos.

“YESSSSS!” Pietra screeches, nearly knocking over her wine.

Max throws a napkin in the air like it’s confetti. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D STAY!”

Lando lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for three years. He covers his mouth with one hand and laughs.

“You’re joking,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re actually serious?”

“I signed the contract this morning,” you reply, grinning. “Zak just let them put out the announcement.”

Max is on his feet in seconds, pulling you up into a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, voice suddenly a little thick. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Pietra joins the hug, wrapping her arms around both of you. “We’re going to make shirts that say ‘fewtrell dominance could bore fans.’”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

When you finally break away, Lando’s still sitting, eyes soft, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is.

“You okay over there?” you tease.

He stands, coming to stand just in front of you. “I’m great. I’m—actually, I’m really happy.”

You nod, trying to keep your voice even. “You sure you can handle me screaming strategy in your ear every Sunday?”

Lando grins. “Only if you promise to keep calling me out when I whine on the radio.”

You roll your eyes. “Deal.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything. Just you, standing a little too close to Lando in the middle of Max’s kitchen, your heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. Max breaks the silence.

“So… do I need to have the talk now, or can I just trust that Lando will behave?”

Pietra gasps. “Max!”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “What?! Nothing’s even happening!”

You try to act innocent, but you’re smiling now—bright and open and a little bit full of something terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yet,” Max mutters, grabbing the garlic bread off the counter. “I’m watching you, Norris.”

You roll your eyes and steal a piece of bread. Because the truth is, you’re watching him too. And you’re not sure who’s more in trouble—you, for finally taking this job. Or Lando, for falling a little harder every time you say his name.

—

Later that night, the laughter fades into tired giggles, and the plates are mostly empty, wine glasses scattered across the table like a celebration that never wanted to end. Max and Pietra are curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket and pretending they’re not eavesdropping. Which leaves you and Lando in the kitchen—cleaning up, sort of. Mostly moving things around and trying not to look like you’re just avoiding saying something.

He’s rinsing dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messy from running his hand through his hair too many times. You dry the plates beside him, stealing glances when you think he’s not paying attention. Of course, he is.

“You really had us going,” Lando says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Thought you were off to Ferrari or something.”

You shrug. “I could’ve. But… it never felt right. They wanted the title on my resume. McLaren actually wanted me.”

He smiles at that—wide and full of pride. “We’re lucky to have you. I mean that.”

There’s something heavy under his voice now. Not just pride. Something else.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, rinsing the last glass. “I asked for you.”

You glance over at him. “I figured. Zak doesn’t subtlety drop things like that.”

Lando laughs under his breath, then grows quiet again. “It wasn’t just because you’re smart, or talented, or scary good at reading data. It’s because I trust you. And that’s rare for me.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you too.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where the air shifts. Where you both feel the question neither of you has dared to ask.

He looks over at you, searching. “Are you scared?”

You nod slowly. “A little. Not of the job. Just… everything else.”

His gaze softens, and he takes a step closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, “we figure it out together.”

You blink at him. Your breath catches, just a little.

“Even if Max threatens to murder you?” you joke.

Lando smirks. “Especially then.”

The moment hangs there—close, careful, charged. You want to kiss him. You have for years. It is definitely not the time now. But the thought is there, sitting between you, unspoken and inevitable.

Instead, he nudges your shoulder gently. “Come on. You’re off duty tonight. I’ll finish up.”

You hand him the towel and roll your eyes. “Don’t screw up the glassware, Norris.”

He grins, watching you walk out of the kitchen. And when he turns back to the sink, he’s still smiling—because for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

—

Australia. Testing Day.

The paddock is humming like a heartbeat—fast, sharp, electric. You walk toward the garage with your headset in hand, credentials swinging around your neck, papaya polo fitted perfectly like it’s been yours all along. People glance as you pass, some with confusion, others with curiosity. You hear your name once or twice in passing—low whispers, half-question, half-gossip. You ignore all of it.

Because you’re not here to be liked. You’re here to run a car. McLaren’s garage is already alive when you step in. The smell of oil and tire rubber hits you first, followed by the warm buzz of quiet chaos. Engineers, mechanics, data analysts—moving like they’re part of a living machine.

Lando’s sitting in the car, helmet off, half-zipped race suit and that usual lazy grin stretched across his face.

“Morning, boss,” he says into the radio, teasing.

You settle into your seat on the pit wall like you’ve done it a thousand times. Calm. Focused. Headset on.

“Morning, Norris,” you reply coolly. “Try not to crash. I just got here.”

A soft laugh crackles through the comms. “No promises.”

Zak appears behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “This is it,” he says, smiling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

You nod once and focus on the screen in front of you. Live telemetry scrolls across the monitor. Tire temps. Fuel load. Weather variance. You track it all with sharp, trained eyes.

Your voice is calm when it hits the radio. “Okay Lando, we’re doing a 12 lap run, softs, with gradual pace increase. I want full feedback on braking stability by lap 4. Let’s go.”

“Copy that,” he replies, voice lighter than it probably should be. “Lead the way, genius.”

And then the garage clears as the engine roars to life. He pulls out of the pit lane. The screens flicker to life, and the data begins to pour in. Sector times. Tire degradation. Wind resistance. The other engineers glance over at you—quietly impressed. By lap 5, you’re already adjusting the run.

“Box at the end of 8. Temps are creeping up faster than expected. Want to save the compound.”

“Copy,” Lando says immediately, without question.

By lap 9, he’s back in the garage. You’re waiting with a bottle of water and a raised brow.

“You’re .03 seconds off your previous best in Turn 11,” you say, casually handing it over. “What are you doing in there, admiring the desert?”

Lando takes the bottle, grinning. “Maybe I just like hearing you call me out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smile. The truth is—you’re in your element. The voices in the paddock might still whisper. The media might still doubt.

But on that pit wall, with your headset on and Lando behind the wheel, you’re exactly where you belong. Every call you make is sharp, every number you read makes sense, and the car? The car is singing. And by the end of the day? McLaren tops the timing sheets. Because this time, it’s not just about the car or the driver. It’s about you—and him—and the strategy that only the two of you can build together.

—

The garage is humming with the kind of energy only a race day can bring — tightly wound nerves, soft radio checks, the heavy scent of tire compound, and pure adrenaline wrapped in papaya orange. This time, it’s louder. Bigger. More intense. Because this is your first race. Your race. On the wall. Running the strategy. With the whole world watching. And they’re not just watching Lando. They’re watching you.

You barely hear the murmurs from the media pens—Let them talk. You’re too busy building a strategy that’ll make them eat every last word.

In the garage, Max and Pietra are chaos in human form.

Max is pacing in his McLaren cap like he’s the one driving, and Pietra is waving around a mini flag like it’s actually helping anything.

“Can she even breathe up there?” Pietra asks, looking up at the pit wall nervously.

“I don’t think she is breathing,” Max replies. “She’s calculating.”

Five minutes to lights out. You clip your headset on. Your screen shows Lando’s live data feed. Heart rate slightly elevated, but steady. Tire temps in ideal range. Track temp rising faster than expected.

“Alright, Norris,” you say into the mic, voice cool and even. “We’re sticking to Plan A. Clean start, protect the tires. You hold position in Turn 1 and don’t get spicy until after Lap 10. Copy?”

Lando’s voice crackles through the radio, playful even under pressure.

“Copy, boss. I’ll behave. Ish.”

The lights go out. And so does the paddock. Lando has a flying start.

Shoots past Leclerc like it’s personal, glues himself to P2 before Lap 2, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. You monitor everything. Grip levels. Crosswinds in Sector 2. Fuel consumption. Brake temps. Max is screaming into Pietra’s shoulder behind you. Pietra’s crying by Lap 5. “HE’S DRIVING SO WELL.”

You smile despite yourself. By Lap 17, you see it.

The Ferraris are chewing through their tires. The Red Bulls are too conservative on power. You run the numbers twice. Then a third time. You flick on the radio.

“Box this lap. Undercut window is open.”

Lando doesn’t question you. “Copy. Let’s do it.”

He dives in. The stop is flawless. 2.3 seconds. And when the others finally pit? He comes out in the lead. P1. The garage explodes.

Max is on his feet, yelling something incoherent about “NEVER DOUBTED HER FOR A SECOND.”

Pietra is crying again, but this time she had acquired a hat to cover her face. You stay calm. Mostly.

“Alright,” you say over the radio. “Lead car. Twenty four laps to go. Clear track ahead. I want clean air and zero drama. Think you can manage that, Norris?”

Lando’s voice is steady, but there’s a grin buried in it.

“For you? Anything.”

The last 10 laps are torture. DRS threats. Virtual safety car. A rogue yellow flag that nearly throws everything. Your hands are shaking, but your voice is steady. Every call is precise.

“Brake bias forward by 2 clicks.”

“Harvest more in Sector 3.”

“Hold them off. This is your race.”

And Lando? He drives like he’s on rails. Like every word you say is gospel. Lap 58. Final sector. You stand, fingers white around your headset, eyes locked on the monitor.

Lando crosses the line—

P1.

The radio crackles—

“WE DID IT!” he screams. “YN! WE FUCKING DID IT!*”

Your heart explodes in your chest. You cover your mouth with one hand, tears burning in your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You press the button, voice breaking just slightly.

“You were perfect, Lando. That was all you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No. That was us.”

The garage is mayhem. Mechanics hugging. Pit crew chanting your name. Zak running in from somewhere with champagne already in hand.

Max is sobbing into Pietra’s shoulder. “I KNEW SHE WAS A GENIUS. I KNEW IT.”

Pietra’s recording you with tears in her eyes and yelling, “YOU JUST BEAT HALF THE GRID WITH YOUR BRAIN.”

You take your headset off slowly, still stunned. And then you feel arms around you. Lando’s. He’s still in his fireproofs, sweat-soaked and grinning like he’s never smiled before. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He lifts you slightly off the ground as he hugs you.

“You were magic,” he whispers. “You made that happen.”

You pull back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “And you made it look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dare to make a move. But his hands linger at your waist. His smile is soft. His eyes are only on you. And in that moment—surrounded by champagne, chaos, and the disbelief of everyone who ever doubted you—you know—This is only the beginning.

—

yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietra.pilao and 4,708,003 others.

yn_fewtrell : aus was fun, onto the next (p)one🫶🏻

tagged : pietra.pilao, maxfewtrell and lando

—

view 192,005 other comments.

lando : stole my french fries and my car, huh?

liked by yn_fewtrell

↳ yn_fewtrell : that is the price you pay when I lead you to a race win😁

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

↳ username00 : bitch one won race and made it her whole personality all ready. can’t wait to watch her fail.

mclaren : engineering excellence powered by french fries and gyros🧡

liked by yn_fewtrell

oscarpiastri : leave lando and be my engineer. i will give you all the french fries you want

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

↳ lando : not happening oscarino. she is staying with me 🤭

username10 : how are you THIS smart, THIS cool, and still relatable

liked by yn_fewtrell

username000 : There are people with decades of experience who deserved that role. But sure, let the influencer do strategy.

username11 : If she really cared about the job, she wouldn’t be flirting with her driver. Unprofessional af.

username50 : She’s more concerned about photo dumps and outfits than race data. No wonder people think women don’t belong here.

username33 : Funny how she was handed this position and still makes it all about herself. Typical influencer behavior.

zbrownceo : Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

It’s been eight weeks since Australia. Five races. Two wins. Three podiums. Zero strategy errors. One woman behind the radio. And somehow — none of it is enough.

You’re walking through the paddock before FP2, headset looped around your neck, data tablet pressed to your chest like armor. The McLaren polo clings to your skin in the heat, but you don’t notice. You’ve been sweating for hours, and not because of the sun. Every few steps, your name follows you like a curse. Not in congratulations. Not in respect. Just low, biting whispers.

“She only sounds smart on paper.”

“She’s riding Lando’s success like it’s hers.”

You walk faster. You don’t let it show — but God, it’s wearing you down. Quietly. Brutally. You haven’t opened Twitter in weeks. You scroll past Instagram comments like they’re burning. You stopped reading your tagged posts the day someone told you to “go back to fashion school” and said your first win was “handed to her.”

It’s not the media. Not even the sexist podcasters with cropped beards and buzzwords. It’s everyone else. The silence from your colleagues when your name is mentioned. The sideways looks from rival teams when McLaren beats them on strategy. The fans who scream for Lando and ignore you completely — or worse, call you a distraction. And still, you show up. Every day. Every race. Every session. You make the calls. You hit the targets. You win. But today? Today feels thin. Like the ground beneath your feet is giving way just a little.

You take a long breath as you pass the Sky Sports camera crew, nod politely, hoping to keep walking — until one of them turns just slightly and says it loud enough for you to hear— 

“There goes Norris’ lucky charm.”

You stop. It’s not just the words — it’s the tone. Patronizing. Dismissive. Cruel in its casualness.

“Smart of McLaren to hire someone for optics. Keeps the headlines clean while he does the real work.”

Something cracks. Quietly. Deep in your chest. You turn your head — slowly, expression unreadable — and meet the reporter’s eyes.

“I suggest you rethink who’s doing the real work,” you say coolly, though your throat is tight. “I’m the one keeping his car in the points.”

Before he can respond, before he can smirk or backtrack or say something worse— A voice cuts in. Sharp. Dangerous. Familiar.

“Is there a problem here?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You feel him before you see him. Lando. Still in his fireproofs, still flushed from the car, eyes hard and jaw tight.

The reporter chuckles, uncomfortable now. “Nothing at all. Just—complimenting your engineer.”

“Really? ‘Lucky charm’ doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. You are patronizing her.”

Lando steps between you and the reporter without hesitation, his voice low and lethal.

“You don’t get to belittle her work because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to reduce her to some narrative you can sell. She’s the reason I’m winning. She makes the calls. She reads the race like it’s written in a language only she speaks. And if you can’t handle that—maybe you should just get the fuck out.” 

The silence is deafening. The reporter stammers something, but Lando doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns to you gently, expression shifting — still sharp, but soft in a way he reserves only for you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You want to say yes. Want to tell him you’re fine. That it doesn’t matter. But your hands are trembling. And you’re so, so tired. He notices. Of course he does. Lando doesn’t say anything more — just steps closer, hand resting briefly on your back, shielding you as he leads you away. Out of the cameras. Out of the noise.

And even as your eyes sting, even as your chest aches with the weight of it all — there’s something steady about the way he walks beside you. Like a lifeline. Like a promise. You don’t say it yet. But you know. He’s in your corner. And when you can’t fight for yourself — Lando will.

—

It starts with the silences. Not the good kind—the ones you used to share in the garage after a long session, exhausted but grinning. Not the quiet that existed between looks and smirks and inside jokes that didn’t need explaining.

This silence is different. Colder. Heavier. Lando notices it first in the little things. The way you leave the debrief as soon as it ends. How you sit at the other end of the table during meals. How your messages have gone from memes and chaos to nothing but numbers and fuel loads. Professionally, you’re sharper than ever. Flawless. But the rest of you?

You’re fading.

He sees it. He’s been seeing it. And it’s not until the night before the Spanish GP, when you skip the post dinner team drinks without a word, that he makes a decision. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock and wait. He uses the keycard Zak made everyone take for security reasons, pushes into your suite quietly, and hears it immediately—

Not music. Not the TV. Just the soft rustle of curtains and the distant sound of you trying to breathe quietly. He finds you on the balcony.

Sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, forehead pressed against your arms. Shoulders shaking. The city lights stretching below you while the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks finally pour down your face. You don’t hear him at first.

Until the sliding door opens behind you and a soft voice says, “Hey.”

You flinch. “Lando—shit. I—I didn’t know you—”

You wipe your face furiously, still refusing to look at him.

“You should go,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. Just needed air—”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, stepping onto the balcony. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to joke. Deflect. “You’re not exactly dressed for an emotional breakdown—”

He sits beside you anyway. Cross legged, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Warm and present and so painfully there.

There’s a long silence. And then, softly—

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Lando.”

Your voice cracks. Finally.

“I do everything right. Every call. Every number. Every strategy. We’re winning, and I’m still losing.”

He doesn’t say anything—just waits.

“They’re never going to see me as more than your little sidekick,” you whisper. “Or Max’s sister. Or the girl who ruined the sport. And I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Your hands are trembling in your lap. He watches you struggle for air, for composure, for the strength you’ve worn like armor for months.

“I feel like I’m screaming into a void and smiling while I do it,” you admit. “Because if I stop being the girl who can handle it, then they win, right?”

Lando doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—

“I don’t want you to be the girl who can handle it,” he says quietly. “I want you to be the girl who’s allowed to feel it. Who’s allowed to break down on balconies. Who doesn’t have to carry it all alone.”

You look at him. Finally. And what you see isn’t pity. It’s rage. And hurt. And love—undeniably, plainly, terrifyingly there.

“Do you have any idea how much I admire you?” he asks. “Not just for what you do. But for how you survive in a world that tries so hard to push you out.”

Your eyes fill again.

“But I hate watching you shrink. I hate watching you pretend like the comments don’t get to you when I know they do.”

“I can’t let it show,” you murmur.

“You can,” he says. “With me, you can.”

He takes your hand. It’s not romantic. Not yet. It’s grounding.

“I need you to know something,” he continues, voice low and sure. “None of this—none of what we’ve built this season—works without you. Not the wins. Not the podiums. Not me.”

You press your lips together, fighting another wave of tears.

“But I need you to work too,” he says. “Not just the engineer. You. The person. And she deserves rest. And softness. And someone to sit with her on a balcony when she forgets how incredible she is.”

Your heart aches at how gently he says it. Like you’re made of glass. Like you’re allowed to fall apart.

“I don’t know how to let go,” you whisper. “I’ve been holding it all for so long.”

He squeezes your hand, his voice breaking just slightly. “Then let me help. Please.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder. You let the tears fall without apology. You let someone see you—not just as the brilliant, capable, unshakeable engineer they all expect—but as a person who’s tired and hurting and desperately in need of grace.

And Lando?  He doesn’t move. He stays beside you until the sun starts to rise. And when you finally speak again, voice hoarse but steadier than before, you say—

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

And he replies, without missing a beat. 

“You won’t have to.”

—

Race Day. Mid season. High pressure. Everything on the line. The garage is tight with tension. Dry air. Sharp voices. You can feel it pulsing through your headset like a storm trying to form. Lando’s in P3. The strategy is clean. You’ve run every scenario.

“Stick to Plan B,” you remind him calmly.

“We wait. The softs will come back to us. Hold position, and we pounce after lap 38.”

“Copy,” he says. But you can hear it — the edge in his voice. The hunger. The itch. Lando wants more. Too soon. You hear the switch in his tone by Lap 30. He’s pushing harder. Ignoring lift points. Going aggressive on the straights. And then—he says it.

“Box now. I’m undercutting.”

You sit bolt upright. “No. Lando—no. Tires aren’t ready. The window’s not open yet—”

Too late. He dives in. Pit crew scrambles. The stop is clean. But the re-entry isn’t. Traffic. Cold tires. He rejoins behind a cluster of midfield chaos. Loses time. Loses grip. Loses everything. You stand frozen, eyes on the screen as he drops from P3 to P9 in four laps. The garage is silent.

Your hands are clenched. You barely hear the commentary echoing from the monitors.

“That’s a brutal call from McLaren. Early stop puts Norris behind heavy traffic… was that a misread from the pit wall?”

Your headset is still on when the post-race headlines start posting in real time.

“MCLAREN STRATEGY ERROR COSTS NORRIS BIG FINISH.”

“YN FEWTRELL UNDER FIRE AGAIN AFTER RISKY CALL.”

“Norris’ engineer strikes out — questions rise around her future.”

You don’t even feel your legs as you pull off your headset. Don’t feel Zak’s hand on your shoulder. Don’t hear the apology Lando doesn’t say. You just walk out of the garage.

—

His hotel room. Just the two of you.

“I told you not to pit,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to shake.

Lando looks at you like you’re the one who ruined it.

“I felt the grip dropping—”

“You disobeyed strategy. You disobeyed me.”

Your voice breaks, brittle and sharp. “And they’re blaming me for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” You snap. “I have spent every race protecting you. Protecting this team. Taking the hits so you don’t have to, and you go rogue the second it doesn’t feel perfect?”

“I’m the one in the car!” he fires back. “It’s my instinct—”

“It’s your ego, Lando.”

Silence. The kind that cuts. You look at him, really look at him — and it hits you. Hard. Too hard. You love him. You love him, and it’s eating you alive. And maybe the worst part? He doesn’t even see it. Not through the anger. Not through the noise. You turn toward the door, needing air. Needing anything.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could balance it all — the job, the team, you. But I’m drowning.”

Lando takes a step forward. “YN…”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I need space.”

And this time, you mean it.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,570,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Fewtrell in talks with Red Bull??! Lando’s race engineer was seen meeting with Christian Horner this afternoon. She has faced a lot of criticism and backlash working with Mclaren. Will she stay with them?

—

The room is silent, save for the faint ticking of a sleek analog clock and the soft shuffle of pages as Christian Horner flips through your printed track performance portfolio like he’s browsing specs on a new wind tunnel component. He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. Just let the numbers speak for themselves. You see your call sheets. Tire offset modeling. Degradation analysis. Win probabilities. All the things that made people outside the team mock you — and made people inside the paddock terrified of you.

“This,” Christian finally says, tapping a finger against your Australian GP strategy sheet, “was the best pit call I’ve seen in three years. And I’ve worked with Hannah for over a decade.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He smiles. “We see what you’re doing, YN. Some people only see Lando’s wins. I see who’s putting him in the position to take them.”

Your stomach turns slightly. You should feel proud. Grateful. Validated. But instead, it just makes your chest ache.

He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers. “If you come here, you’ll be given autonomy. No headlines. No internal politics. No fighting for respect. Just results. And trust.”

You nod, slowly, unsure what to say. His voice is steady. His words, deliberate. Everything you thought you wanted—finally offered. And yet, there’s a pit in your stomach that only gets heavier.

The folder with your name on it sits in front of you, untouched. Contract terms. Role title—Head of Race Strategy.

It would be a promotion. A salary jump. A career-defining move.

But all you can think about is a voice in your headset saying “we did it.”

A hand brushing your back on the podium. A boy with a crooked smile and a voice that only ever softened for you.

—

Lando is exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since the race. Since the fight. Since you walked out of his hotel room without a backward glance and took all the air with you.

He’s meant to be reviewing simulator data with the McLaren techs, but his head isn’t there. It hasn’t been for weeks. It’s back in that garage. That balcony. That hotel room. He runs a hand through his curls and turns a corner—And nearly bumps into Max Verstappen.

“Jesus—sorry, mate,” Lando mutters, distracted, already half past him.

Max doesn’t miss a beat.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down, “You might wanna keep your eyes up today.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a dry, amused look. The kind that says I know something you don’t.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Max says, casually taking a sip of his drink. “Horner’s in a meeting right now with your engineer. Could be the last time you call her yours.”

Lando’s whole body stills.

“What?”

Max shrugs. “I mean… she’s good. We all know it. Wouldn’t blame her for jumping ship. You guys made it easy, yeah?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Max is already walking past him, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

“She looked serious, by the way. Folder and everything.”

Lando’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t call Zak. Doesn’t wait for security or clearance or logic. He just runs.

Through the Red Bull corridors. Past the press room. Past engineers and assistants who do double takes as he flies by in his team hoodie, looking like he’s chasing something he should’ve protected weeks ago. And he is. Because this time, he might be too late.

—

The contract still sits unopened in front of you. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Christian is mid-sentence again — something about finalizing negotiations after the summer break — when the door slams open so hard the glass rattles. You jolt in your seat. So does Horner. And then you hear it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You look up and your heart stops. Lando. Flushed. Breathless. Hair a mess. McLaren hoodie halfway unzipped, curls damp with sweat. His eyes are locked on you, not even acknowledging Christian.

You push your chair back, stunned. “Lando—”

He doesn’t wait. He walks straight across the room, past the Red Bull logo, past the executive folders, straight to you.

“Come with me,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second, glancing at Christian. Christian sighs, clearly already over the dramatics. “Take your time.”

You follow Lando into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. The second it closes, he rounds on you.

“Why?” he says, voice sharp with confusion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why would you do this? Why would you just leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Was I that awful to you?” he continues. “After everything—after what we’ve built—do I really make it that easy to walk away?”

“Lando, it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s begging now. And you can’t hold it in anymore. Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. Your hands are trembling.

You swallow hard. “Because I’m in love with you.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “Because I’ve been in love with you and pretending not to be for months. Because the second anyone even suspects we’re close, the hate triples. Because every race I sit beside you and make calls that win championships and people still say it’s all because I want your attention.”

Your voice is shaking now.

“And if I stay—and if this gets out—I know what they’ll say. That I seduced my way into the headset. That I only win because you let me. And I can’t—I can’t survive that, Lando.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Until he speaks. Softly. Carefully. Completely undone.

“You think I care about any of that?”

You shake your head, eyes blurring. “You should.”

“I don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids and I’ve been waiting for you to see it.”

You stop breathing.

“I have let people talk. I’ve watched them rip you apart online, in meetings, in commentary boxes. And you just kept showing up. Not for the glory. Not even for the team. For me. Because you believed in me.”

He’s in front of you now, so close your hands could just—reach.

“So if you’re scared, I’ll take the heat. If they want to come after us, let them. But don’t run away from what we’ve built just because they can’t handle a woman being better than all of them.”

You blink hard, the tears finally falling.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” you whisper.

He reaches for your hand.

“Then stay. Not for McLaren. Not for the team. For me. Stay and let me love you out loud.”

You don’t say anything. You just fall into him. And this time, when he catches you — he doesn’t let go.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,100,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, McLaren is making it very clear that their engineering goddess will not be making the move to Red Bull. 😌

Last night’s Women in Motorsport event, hosted by YN Fewtrell herself, was equal parts groundbreaking, glamorous, and papaya coded power move. McLaren not only doubled down on their support of their youngest ever lead race engineer—they literally built an entire collection around her. Yes, you read that right.

The new McLaren x YN capsule drop—which happens to be co designed by YN, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri—blends garage grit with streetwear genius. 

Oh, and Zak Brown? Sources say he stood off stage during the launch with the expression of a proud dad. One thing’s for sure—McLaren isn’t just protecting YN—they’re elevating her. With the performance she’s delivered this season and the cultural pull she’s building off track, any team who thought they could poach her might want to rethink. 

—

time skip- end of season

Race 24. Sunset. Victory. The pit wall erupts. Headsets fly. Crew leap from their chairs. Someone screams. Someone sobs. Champagne is already spraying even though it hasn’t even been five minutes since the checkered flag waved and everything changed. McLaren are Constructors’ Champions. Lando Norris is a World Champion. And you? You’re frozen. Still seated, staring at the final sector times like they might dissolve if you look away.

It’s done. You did it. You were the voice in his ear all season. Through every win, every late brake, every risky undercut. You built the strategies. You held your nerve. You called the shot that sealed the title. And suddenly—arms are around you.

Oscar’s the first to tackle you, practically dragging you out of your seat. “YOU DID IT! WITH THAT BIG BRAIN,” he yells, voice cracking as he yanks off your headset.

Then Zak’s pulling you into a bear hug, shouting, “You genius, you absolute weapon—you just made history!”

And then there’s chaos. Cameras. Journalists. Engineers hugging. Lando doing donuts on track with the British flag trailing out of his halo. Mechanics crying. Oscar waving his P3 trophy like it’s a lightsaber.

And somewhere in the madness, someone shouts—

“WHERE’S Y/N?! GET HER TO THE PODIUM!”

You’re still breathless when they drag you through the garage. Your McLaren polo is soaked in champagne before you even reach parc fermé. You trip over a cable. Someone shoves a bottle in your hand. You’re laughing and crying and blinking back tears as fans chant your name from the grandstands.

“FEEEEW-TRELL! FEEEEW-TRELL!”

And then you see him. Helmet off. Eyes wild. Hair flattened with sweat. Lando stands on the car, arms in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the team swarms around him. But the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like the world narrows. He jumps off the car and runs. Straight into you.

The impact nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you wrap your arms around him as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, screaming nonsense into your neck. He’s shaking. You’re crying. And neither of you care who’s watching.

“You did it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “We did it. You got me here. You held me together. This championship has your name all over it.”

You want to say something witty. Something cool. But the only thing that escapes is a broken, soft.

“I love you.”

His whole face crumples. Like he’s been holding that in too.

“God, I love you too.”

And he kisses you. Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the grid. In front of the entire fucking world. And instead of boos, instead of backlash, there’s only cheering. Because finally — finally — no one can deny you. You’re not a PR stunt. You’re not just Max Fewtrell’s sister. You’re not Lando Norris’ distraction.

You’re the architect of this championship. And tonight, the world knows it.

You stay on the podium stage for the celebration, champagne in your eyes, Lando’s hand in yours. Oscar flings his trophy in the air. Zak is pretending he isn’t crying. The team is lifting mechanics onto their shoulders. Pit crew are dancing. Someone starts singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key.

And you? You look around at the chaos, the joy, the sheer disbelief that you finally made it here. And for the first time all season— You feel loved. Not just for what you do. But for who you are.

—

lando

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and 11,010,290 others.

lando : FUCK ALL YOU BITCHES THAT DOUBTED MY PRETTY BIG BRAINED GIRLFRIEND. SHE SHOWED YOU AND WON ME A CHAMPIONSHIP

tagged : yn_fewtrell

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[strawberryys-stuff]

WHERE IS MY SPANISH ROMANCE? | LN4

a short smau

tatemcrae and yourusername

❤️ 450k 💬 5,068 🔃 30.6k

tatemcrae "strawberry skies" out everywhere july 13th!! 🍓 pre-save at the link in bio 🍓

view comments

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yourusername

🎵 Andrea Bejar • Marigolds - Live Acoustic

❤️ 2k 💬 372 🔃 1,693

yourusername greenery, my favorite scenery 🍀

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view 1,279 more replies

lando 💍? @yourusername

liked by yourusername

yourusername

❤️ 3k 💬 500 🔃 826

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liked by yourusername

INSTAGRAM MESSAGES

quadrant wants to send you a message!

Hi yourusername! 👋

We came across your recent post repping the merch — thank you for the support! ❤️

We think there’s a great opportunity here to team up and create something awesome together. If you're up for it, we’d love to chat more about a possible collab 👀

Let us know what you think! 💫

— Team Quadrant

yourusername posted a story!

[caption: ✈️✈️]

yourusername

📍Budapest, Hungary

❤️ 5k 💬 930 🔃 3,170

tagged lando and danielricciardo

yourusername the most chaotic flight i've ever had

view comments

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yourusername

📍Budapest, Hungary

❤️ 6.2k 💬 729 🔃 3k

tagged alexandrasaintmleux, lando, oscarpiastri

yourusername my phone got stolen 🙃

view comments

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lando now why would u post the 4th pic??

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lando you're spreading lies

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username factss

yourusername posted a story!

[caption 1: @mclaren, caption 2: peekaboo]

yourusername

📍Monte-Carlo, Monaco

❤️ 7k 💬 1,263 🔃 5,027

yourusername 🌺

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yourusername posted a story!

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[caption: what a beauty ☀️]

lando posted a story!

[caption 1: we named her Shelly, caption 2: Shelly's mum]

yourbff

📍Ibiza, Spain

❤️2.2k 💬 394 🔃 2,017

yourbff summer w/ the girls + the bfs 🐚☀️

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yourusername

❤️7.3k 💬 820 🔃 2k

yourusername sandy toes & sun-kissed nose ☀️

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yourfriend

📍Love Paradise

❤️493 💬 926 🔃 1,027

tagged lando, maxfewtrell, herbf

yourfriend good time & tan lines

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lando

❤️25k 💬 3,027 🔃 4,926

tagged yourusername

lando relaxed, had fun, and stole a kiss from a beauty

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yourusername don't be mean

username they aren't married but have a child together

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[strawberryys-stuff]

Oscar's fic also coming very soon!

it's gonna be so sweet it might cause tooth-aches ngl 🤭

best friend's brother and childhood crush

Love Interest

[strawberryys-stuff]

RUINED AND SCARRED | LN4

summary: It was forbidden and excruciatingly tempting at once. You didn't belong into his world of sin - not until your skin bore the imprints of his lips

contains: a conflict between Heaven and Hell, mentions of the devil and all, forbidden love, exile

It was forbidden for angels to explore unlit corners of Heaven, to build a relationship with the shadows that reeked of negativity and danger. But the thrill of stumbling upon something unknown kept tempting you to sneak past the night guards and cause trouble.

You tried to resist the urge, you truly did, but then your grandmother told you a myth, a story about an angel who fell in love with a sinner.

They were enchanted with each other, consumed by desire. And every sunset, they met secretly at the border where Hell touched Earth.

They became greedy as their love grew stronger.

They wished to be together and share each other’s worlds. So, they disregarded the danger and crossed the border. The angel’s wings were scorched by the unbearable heat of Hell, for which there was no cure.

From that day forward, Heaven decreed that angels must never cross paths with sinners under any circumstances. And Hell agreed that their two worlds should forever remain apart.

You should have listened to your grandmother when she warned you about the punishment wandering beyond the walls of the kingdom demanded.

You should have run away the moment you spotted a mass of untamed curls peeking out from a bush. But you didn't. A boy emerged out of the shadows with a smug grin on his pale face.

"Hiya, your Majesty." He winked at you, then bowed slightly. "What a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

Your wings fluttered in the breeze, uncertainty creeping up on you. "Who are you?"

Lando smirked. He ruffled his curls and dusted himself off. "Doesn't my appearance give it away?"

You squinted your eyes at him, frowning. He chuckled softly and tilted his head for you to spot one of his distinctive features - a pair of horns hiding in the curly mess.

"You.." you breathed out, taking a step back subconsciously. "You are a sinner."

His gaze sparkled with mischief as he nodded, smiling. He could sense your fear, but it was soon overpowered by a feeling he couldn't name. He had heard of the effect it had on corrupted creatures like himself. It clouded your perception, attacked the walls built around your heart, weakened your beliefs and tasted awfully forbidden.

You were an angel, a sacred creature, who shouldn't have stepped into his world of sin. Meanwhile he embodied mischief, selfishness and cruelty, you represented loyalty, sacrifice and gullibility.

Your silky white wings portrayed your purity while the lopsided halo that hovered low above your head reminded him of your origin. You glowed with light that was meant to nurture life and repel death. And that, to him, was mouthwatering.

He was the son of Hell. A horrid creature in the eyes of others, but seen as a corrupt saint by you. You believed in misunderstandings, clung to the possibilities of being blinded by the past with your bare hands. Your grandmother taught you to be open-minded, unafraid to oppose the government.

Maybe that fueled the compulsion to continue meeting beyond the sanctuary your ancestors sought in time of trouble.

When the clock reached midnight, you snuck out of your home with caution, barefoot and heavily sleep-deprived. Your feet guided you through the night with care, determined to reach your destination swiftly and undiscovered.

Lando was leaning against the trunk of a blooming cherry tree, patiently waiting. To scare his boredom away, he found a thick, strong stick to engrave shapes into the resting ground with, which injected distraction into his senses.

You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him being completely unaware of your arrival, too invested in his doodling. You peeked over his shoulder at the masterpiece - asymmetrical circles adorning the mossy ground.

"What is it supposed to be exactly?" A shriek echoed through the starry night, startling the sleeping wildlife around you. You chuckled softly, tone oozing apology. "Sorry."

Lando straightened up and cleared his throat as embarrassment tinted his cheeks red. "Sneaking up on people in the middle of the night is diabolical." Your wings shuddered at the ungodly word. Regret flickered in his gaze. "Sorry."

A faint smile grazed your lips as you sat down next to him, tickling his side with your feathers. Lando swatted your wing away, careful not to cause damage, but his fingertips still skimmed across its softness and you inhaled sharply.

Your gazes intertwined. The palpable desire and odd familiarity you shared sparkled on both ends of the unwavering eye contact. His hand reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek.

There was something uncanny about it all, trying its hardest to camouflage itself with tenderness and long-sought affection.

It seemed as if your bond was forged in blood and ash by the devil himself to ensure your spiritual connection. As if he was woven into your soul, and yours was into his.

His irresistible charm had you worshiping the ground he walked on. It taught you how to sin, how to violate the rules of Heaven, how to deceive.

And you strove for the forbidden.

His faults and flaws meant nothing compared to the depth of who he was. A fallen angel. A misunderstood creature.

That infatuation you shared was supposed to be a secret, a whisper abandoned in the shadows, but the truth always had a way of coming to the surface. You were caught and imprisoned within the walls of shame and justice. You were then summoned to court and convicted of treachery.

A gut wrenching scream bolted out of your mouth as your wings were getting detached from your shoulder blades, feathers crumbling. Lando was forced to kneel before your trembling frame by a celestial guard, who had the audacity to grab a handful of his curls to lift his drooping head and make him watch your exile with a smug smirk on their face.

Lando grimaced at the sight. Your skin was drained of all color and stained with the imprints of his lips, which were meant to serve as an irremovable reminder of your downfall. It was horrid, but his eyes never left yours. They traced your contorted face – the trail of your tears that were dripping off your chin.

Your sins slashed your halo in half and turned it into striking horns – identical to his.

They made sure you endured the shame of falling in love with a sinner, with a traitor that brought shame to the council and his kind.

But even then, ruined and scarred, you were breathtaking.

A veil of darkness and ash enveloped your wounded body, which took on the form of the devil himself in front of the entire celestial jury. He glanced at his son, disappointment burning inside his sharp gaze. Lando lowered his eyes in shame and surrendered himself to the shadows of his father, disappearing from under the guard's lethal grasp.

Silence engulfed the courtroom – angels trembled with fear as you bled beneath His feet. He came to collect yet another fallen angel with an offer: Either you succumb to your sins or choose eternal exile.

“You were born for greater things, my dear.” You forced yourself to peer into his fiery gaze with tears pooling in yours. “Your allegiance to Heaven betrayed you. They do not deserve your loyalty.”

“Her actions reflect badly on the entire body.” Your mother, the judge, rose from her seat with fury coating her words. “We had to enforce justice.”

“My actions?” You scoffed. “You know what else reflects on the council? Its citizens living in fear and doubt, having to choose between a kingpin who wants to exploit them and a government that refuses to hear their pleas.”

“You may be a grown woman now-" your mother taunted- "but you are still my daughter.”

“Not anymore,” the devil chuckled and let his son embrace your trembling frame. You buried your sobs in the crook of his neck as he cradled your throbbing head in his arms. “She is mine now, your Majesty-” he bowed mockingly- “and I certainly don’t punish my children for falling in love.”

“Heaven decreed that angels must never cross paths with sinners under any circumstances," your mother slammed her palms on the stand with an immensely ferocious echo. "And you agreed that our two worlds should forever remain apart!"

"Oh? Did I?" He pretended to ponder, "I cannot remember doing such a thing." A hideous sneer appeared on his lips which only angered your mother more. "I did agree to withdraw my troops when one of your kind suffered fatal injuries, but never did I forbid youngsters to experience love, your Majesty."

Your mother scoffed, finding it difficult to conceal her growing wrath. "Sinners aren't capable of love," she spat out the word like it was a piece of garbage, a scrap of something ugly and grim. "They deceive."

That earned a low, disagreeing snarl from Lando. "And you don't?" he barked back, fury seething in his eyes. "You deceive your people greatly, plant false hope in their heads, and you dare to portray sinners as villains?" he scoffed. "What a joke."

"Look what your love did to my daughter." She gestured to you, disgust evident in her squinted gaze. "You corrupted her innocence, tarnished her soul. If you are not the villain, what are you?"

"A fallen angel," you answered confidently, interlocking your fingers with Lando's. "He may not share our beliefs, but that does not make him entirely evil." The courtroom gasped. "He is far more than that."

"You are a disgrace," your mother jeered at you with deafening disappointment. "If you are willing to throw your life away for a boy, you shall never bear celestial beauty again."

"Good," you laughed with tears in your eyes, drowning in relief and newfound freedom. Lando planted a light kiss to your temple in an attempt to fight off his proud smile, unashamedly adding yet another imprint on your skin. "I would rather suffer than pursue a lie."

tags: @lieutenantchaos

[strawberryys-stuff]

this kind of writing is ethereal omg

under a thousand moons | jinu saja

each night, he plays his worn bipa beneath the temple eaves—music born not of glory, but of need, of survival, of something quietly breaking. she hears it from across the city, a melody like a secret meant only for her. when they finally meet, it isn't grand or loud—it’s soft, inevitable, like a thread tugging two hearts closer. in a city that forgets the poor and passes by the quiet, one boy’s song and one girl’s pause become the start of something neither of them expected—and neither can forget.

pairing: kpdh jinu x f. reader (she/her pronouns used) genre: rom-fantasy, timeless love, angst, slow burn (i hope i deliver aaaaaa) rating: teen and up audiences warnings: poverty, emotional vulnerability, animal neglect (implied mention), soft angst word count: 2.7k+ credits & honoraries: inspired by @scribblewytch’s incredible fic—thank you for letting me build off your magic ♡ nabi's notes: this movie has me in a chokehold im tellin' y'all soooo here's my entry to the fandom. to many more!✧˖° ⊹ ࣪ ˖

the bipa had five strings. two were frayed. one never stayed in tune, no matter how often he coaxed it. but when he sat down to play, it didn’t matter. the sound it made was still beautiful—raw and unpolished, yes, but achingly human. like something old and weathered that still remembered how to sing.

each day began the same way. at dawn, he rolled up his sleeves and helped his mother run the small tteok stall they kept on the edge of the lower market row. it was nothing special—just a squat wooden cart, its lacquer faded from too many summers, with a rusted grill and a few baskets of skewered rice cakes waiting to be cooked. they brushed each one with a glaze of sweet soy, let the sugar bubble and crisp over the coals until it shimmered, then handed them over with folded hands. some customers came with kind words. most came and went in silence. a few haggled over every coin. but his mother never turned anyone away.

by midday, the heat clung to their skin like syrup, and the scent of grilled tteok soaked into his sleeves. his fingers were often sticky from the glaze, and the soles of his sandals were worn thin from standing. still, they didn’t complain. that stall kept them fed. most nights, they brought home whatever hadn’t sold and reheated it for dinner.

only after they closed up—after the coals died down and the cart was wheeled into the narrow alley behind their home—did he sling the bipa over his back and make the climb to the temple wall.

there, just beyond the final incense stalls, beneath the tiled eaves that curved like crescent moons, he sat and played. the space was small, no wider than a doorway, but it shielded him from wind and rain. smoke from incense coils lingered in the corners, curling like ghost-thin ribbons around the worn stone. monks passed by in silent rows, their eyes never drifting toward him. not out of cruelty—just habit. to them, he was part of the landscape. a boy and his old instrument, folded into the city’s edge like moss on a wall.

he wore the same clothes each evening: a thin tunic that might’ve once been sky blue, now faded to the color of old parchment, patched at the seams. a ribbon of cloth—once red, now rust-brown—tied his hair back from his face. but the wind always had its way. strands slipped free and clung to his cheeks, kissed by the night air. he never pushed them aside.

around him, the kingdom moved. the scrape of sandals on cobble. the creak of carts laden with root vegetables and late-summer melons. laughter drifted up from the market below, mingled with haggling and half-sung lullabies. somewhere down the slope, a city official barked at delivery boys, his voice sharp as cut metal. and still, the boy played.

not for attention. not for pity. not even for coin—though sometimes a silver or two clinked to the ground from a passing stranger. there was no jar in front of him. no woven hat. only dust, and the long, curling shadow cast by the setting sun.

the music was quiet at first. a murmur. the low breath of something buried deep beneath the city’s noise. it didn’t rise like a grand overture. it seeped. moved. unfurled. a melody not born from memory but from need—notes remembered by the body.

it wasn’t a courtly tune, nor one meant for festivals or drinking nights. it was older. nameless. felt, not recognized. like something that lived between stories and prayers.

his fingers moved not with elegance, but with persistence. each note was earned. grit carved into calluses, calluses pressed into chords. his wrists ached from lifting tteok all day, from the strain of playing the same refrain until it stitched itself into his bones. the pain didn’t stop him. it was part of the rhythm.

"that again," muttered a woman, shifting the baskets on her shoulders.

"always that same sound," her companion said, wiping his brow with a rag.

"like a funeral."

"no," she said after a moment. "like something trying not to die."

a stray cat had taken up residence nearby—a scrappy thing with matted fur and ribs like bent reeds. it limped with every step, its tail dragging like a tattered ribbon. he sometimes fed it. never touched it. but he never made it leave. it came back each night and curled beside him, closing its eyes like it, too, needed the music to stay whole.

when the final note came, it didn’t rise. it fell—quietly, like the last ember giving in to ash. there was no applause. no dramatic hush. only the wind and the continued murmur of the city.

but the air had shifted. ever so slightly. like something had been scraped away, leaving a raw edge where silence used to be.

he leaned back against the temple wall. the stone was cool. firm. familiar in the way old things are—unyielding but steady. the wind slipped past him, threading through alleyways, brushing across rooftops like a whisper. his music went with it, tangled in the scent of grilled tteok, smoke, and rain.

down the crooked street, past the baker’s alley and silk stalls, a girl paused.

she was running errands, a woven basket clutched to her chest. her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, hands dusted with flour. her hair was pinned in a loose coil, held by a carved wooden comb that had begun to slip. people brushed past her, muttering complaints, but she didn’t notice.

her head tilted. not toward him—she couldn’t see him from where she stood—but toward the sound. that soft, distant melody floating between rooftops and lamplight. she had heard it before. every night, as she closed her father’s shop. always that same tune, never quite the same twice.

there was something in it—something that curled beneath her ribs and settled warm in her chest. as if the music was calling to something inside her she hadn’t yet named.

she didn’t smile. didn’t cry. she just stood there, for one breath longer than necessary.

and then she moved.

but her steps were slower now. not heavy. not sad. just... changed. as though the music had rearranged something inside her. smoothed something out. stirred something else.

she always heard it.

and tomorrow—maybe—she would follow it.

she was the shaman’s daughter, her mother, the royal spiritual and physical practitioner to the queen and the women of the palace. her mother’s hands—soft, but stained with oils and ash—moved between this world and the next with a grace that was half-learned, half-inherited. she was the one the queen called upon for warding dreams, easing births, or quieting the tremors that followed sorrow. her words were few, her silences deep. the girl had grown up beside her, tucked into quiet corners of court halls and forest shrines alike.

that morning, she walked the palace path with a woven basket in hand, heavy with herbs and thread. she was to wait by the eastern courtyard, where the garden met the temple wall, until her mother finished tending to the queen’s favored attendant—a young woman who had woken with a grief she couldn’t name. the girl did not ask questions. she had learned to let silence carry its own answers.

she sat on a stone ledge beneath a fig tree whose limbs arched low like old shoulders. sunlight filtered through the broad leaves, dappling her arms and the ground with uneven gold. the breeze carried the mingled scents of jasmine, roasted barley, and sandalwood. around her, the palace stirred with its usual rhythm—slippers whispering against stone, the faint clatter of bowls after morning offerings, the low calls of guards changing posts.

and then—she heard it.

that sound.

the bipa.

the boy had moved closer. she hadn’t seen him at first, but the music reached her before her eyes did. it always did. the thread of melody wove through the morning noise, rising from somewhere near the incense stalls beyond the temple gate. it was unmistakably his—rough around the edges, aching in places, but with a core of beauty that couldn’t be dulled.

she rose slowly and stepped out of the fig tree’s shade.

there he was.

seated cross-legged near the worn stone steps, tucked into the angle where two walls met, his back straight and his hands steady on the bipa’s body. the instrument looked more frayed than ever—its lacquer dulled with use, one string stretched so thin she was surprised it held. yet he played it like it was whole. like it had never known a flaw.

he didn’t play like the court musicians. there was no flourish, no poised performance. his hands moved with the rhythm of someone who knew work: who had scrubbed pots, flipped skewers, stacked bowls, then picked up his instrument. his sleeves still bore faint traces of dark sauce—evidence of the morning’s labor at his family’s stall along the lower market road. she had passed it once. she remembered a woman—likely his mother—turning skewers of grilled rice cakes over hot coals, brushing them with sweetened soy as steam rose into her face.

now, in the hush at the temple’s edge, he played. not to perform. not for coin. but for something quieter. truer. as though the sound was part of his breath, and he simply needed to let it out before it collapsed inside him.

she watched his fingers curve around the strings—not with elegance, but with effort. there was strength in the way he played, the kind born of repetition and necessity. the music wasn’t delicate, but it was deliberate. it resonated.

around them, the palace continued—vendors calling prices, monks sweeping walkways, officials stepping from palanquins—but it all seemed dulled, like the world had slipped underwater, and only the music remained sharp.

her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.

her mother would appear soon—tall, solemn, cloaked in robes faintly scented with mugwort and pine. she would say nothing, only tilt her head in that knowing way, and the girl would follow. that was how it always went. routine wrapped in reverence. tradition passed like a cup of tea between hands.

but for now, she remained still.

her gaze lingered on the boy. his dark hair, tied back with a faded ribbon, caught the sunlight like thread in a loom. his face was calm, focused—neither hardened nor soft. his clothes were modest, worn but clean, carefully cared for even if the dye had faded to parchment hues. he looked like someone with nothing extra to give, but who gave anyway.

and the music—gods, the music.

it pulled at her, low in the ribs. not like a tune sparking memory, but like a sound tapping something older. like the cry of a crane over still water. like wind through hollow bamboo.

without thinking, her lips parted.

a hum slipped out—quiet, instinctive. a single note, then another. she didn’t sing in words, only tones. barely more than breath. a harmony beneath his melody. not strong enough to interrupt. just enough to thread through the spaces he left open.

her song met his like a second flame catching the edge of the first.

she didn’t know why she sang. only that her heart felt suddenly full—of smoke and sunlight and something she hadn’t named in years. something like longing. something like recognition.

and still, the boy never looked up.

he didn’t need to. the music didn’t ask to be noticed.

it only asked to be heard.

and across the courtyard, standing in that quiet pause between waiting and duty, she answered.

evening stretched thin across the city, staining the sky in folds of indigo and rose. the lanterns along the temple road were already lit, their warm glow pooling on the stone path like spilled gold. a breeze carried the scent of grilled chestnuts, burnt sugar, and the tail end of incense.

he sat in his usual spot, beneath the curved eaves of the temple wall, just beyond where vendors were packing up for the night. the bipa rested in his lap, its wood familiar beneath his fingers. he had just returned from helping his mother. his sleeves still faintly smelled of sweet soy and smoke.

he wasn’t playing yet. just sitting with the weight of the day in his limbs, brushing his thumb lightly across a string. adjusting. listening. breathing. the cat had already curled beside him, tail tucked in, eyes half-closed.

then—soft footsteps.

she appeared like a skipped beat in the rhythm of the street. a figure not meant to be there, and yet exactly right. she walked quickly at first, basket in hand, sleeves rolled from a long day, her hair pinned with the same comb now slightly askew. she looked like someone with tasks to finish, brisk in her steps, measured in her pace.

but then she heard it.

just a few notes, plucked like drifting questions. not a song yet—just a whisper of one.

she slowed. then stopped.

he noticed her before she noticed him. a slight hesitation in her step. a tilt of her head. she stood at the base of the stairs, caught between leaving and lingering.

he hadn’t meant to meet her eyes. but he did.

and something flickered—quick and quiet—between them. not quite recognition. just a shared pause. a subtle understanding neither of them could name.

she took a cautious step closer.

“is that a bipa?” she asked, voice low, careful not to disturb the silence.

“it is,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg. his voice was soft, a little rough from the smoke and the long day, but steady.

“it sounds like…” she hesitated. “like wind inside a memory.”

he smiled—not widely, but enough. “that’s a good way to put it.”

she looked at the worn edges of the instrument, the curve of its belly, the way it seemed to fit him like a second spine. “i always hear it from down the hill. at the weaving stalls. every night.”

“i didn’t think anyone noticed,” he said.

“i notice.”

another silence stretched—longer now, not heavy, but held. she set her basket down at the stone wall’s edge and sat, folding her legs beneath her. not too close. not too far. the cat, ever territorial, glanced at her, then looked away.

“do you take requests?” she asked.

he chuckled softly. “only if you don’t mind it sounding a little... frayed.”

“i don’t mind.”

she looked at him then—not just his face, but the whole of him. how the threadbare tunic sat across his shoulders. how the ribbon in his hair was more string than silk. how his hands looked strong and worn and capable.

“what you play,” she said, “feels like it’s holding something together.”

he paused. then nodded, gaze lowering to the strings.

“i play because if i don’t,” he said quietly, “i’m afraid something in me might fall apart.”

he plucked the first note.

it rang out, low and full, then trembled softly into the night. the next followed. and the next—until the music unfolded like breath held too long. there were no words to the song, but she understood it anyway.

he played for her—not with grandeur, but with honesty. like unspooling thread from the chest. the sound rose and fell, shifting between shadows and lantern light. around them, the city exhaled. voices passed. the day let go.

when the music faded, she didn’t speak right away.

“do you always play like that?” she asked finally.

he shrugged lightly, wiping his fingertips on his tunic. “only when someone’s really listening.”

she looked down at her hands. then up at him again. “i’ll listen tomorrow, too.”

he didn’t answer. but something in his expression warmed.

then she stood, lifted her basket, and introduced herself.

he nodded. “i know.”

her brow lifted, amused. “you do?”

“you ask for the broken tteok at the end of the day,” he said. “you give it to the street dogs when you think no one’s looking.”

she flushed. “so you do notice.”

he shrugged. “only some things.”

she smiled—not wide, not bright, but real. the kind of smile that made the evening feel whole.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

then she turned and walked down the path. her steps were quieter now, as if she didn’t want to disturb the fading echo of his music.

and he sat a while longer, fingers resting on the strings, eyes on the place where she had been.

they had met by chance.

but in the way the world stilled for just a breath—just long enough for two people to notice each other—they had met at exactly the right moment.

should i continue? heart, reblog, or interact whatever. i highly appreciate feedback!

[strawberryys-stuff]

this brought tears into my eyes. holy shit. my eyes have been blessed

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132

[strawberryys-stuff]

A teaser

I'm just gonna leave this snippet here 🤭

But his irresistible charm had you worshiping the ground he walked on. It taught you how to sin, how to violate the rules of Heaven, how to deceive.

You strove for the forbidden.

His faults and flaws meant nothing compared to the depth of who he was. A fallen angel. A misunderstood creature.

you aren't ready for this and tbh neither am I

[strawberryys-stuff]

Love Interest

[strawberryys-stuff]

A SECRET | OP81

Red bull!Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

previous part

INSTAGRAM

lando I📍Barcelona

❤️95k 💬 246 🔃 705

tagged yourusername

lando her forever #1

view comments

yourusername debatable

yourusername you stole candies from me

lando that was ages ago!

username do I smell jealousy? 👀

username be so for real

username more like betrayal

username imagine your best friend is dating your enemy

arthur_leclerc 🤨

username what is Arthur doing here 😭

yourusername you're stalking me

arthur_leclerc am not

yourusername you SO are

oscarpiastri commented

iMessages

Fav human 🥐

what the hell was that?

What?

idk maybe THE COMMENT??

What about it?

OSCAR JACK PIASTRI

YOU'RE GONNA LOSE YOUR SEAT

Because.. of a comment?

...

you commented "confident much?"

Yeah, I know what I wrote.

oh Oscar..

you're gonna bring Christian to the grave

10 YEARS EARLIER

I'm sure he'll survive, love.

don't 'love' me 😠 this is a serious matter

Look, sweetheart, I know you're upset, but you can't ask me to act like I'm not utterly smitten with you.

you have to. For your seat, Oscar

Christian scolded us once for

not being careful enough

Fuck Christian and his stupid rules. You are mine and the world will hear.

Lose that McLaren badge. You're getting a new one.

yourusername posted a new story!

f1

❤️286k 💬 370 🔃 1,238

f1 OSCAR WINS IN BARCELONA

view comments

username WOOOO

username FINALLY

username HE DID IT

redbullsimracing congrats osc! 👏

username the way he straight up walked up to yourusername 😭 that man knew where to go

username THE HUG KILLED MEE 😭

username samee 😭

mclaren definitely deserved!

redbullracing

❤️96k 💬 423 🔃 540

redbullracing FIRST EVER F1 WIN @.oscarpiastri 🎉

view comments

TWITTER

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

I CANNOT 😭

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

HE DIDN'T EVEN GLANCE AT THE TEAM AND WENT STRAIGHT FOR HER 😭😭

username @.username

Replying to @.username

she started sobbing so much when he crossed the finish line

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

and let's not forget this moment as well

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

OMG YES I SCREAMED AT MY TV WHEN I SAW IT

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

yourusername |📍Barcelona

❤️573k 💬3,538 🔃 2,081

yourusername my fav human just won a Grand Prix. no big deal. MY LOVE JUST WON A GRAND PRIX!

AND LANDITO IN P3!!

Couldn't be prouder.

view comments

username THEY'VE BEEN FRIENDS THIS WHOLE TIME?!?

username what else did you expect? 😂 them to hate each other?

arthur_leclerc ahh I can finally BREATHE IN YOUR COMMENT SECTION 😁

yourusername ARTHUR 😭

arthur_leclerc I've been waiting for this since f3

username COME AGAIN??

username HOW LONG??

lando congrats mate! 😁

danielricciardo and the Australian genes live on

❤️ by yourusername

oscarpiastri it's the accent

danielricciardo sure is

username just a question @.yourusername how long have you been together?

yourusername for 7 years

[strawberryys-stuff]

A SECRET | OP81

Red bull!Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

I had a dream about Oscar in Red bull and just had to shape it into something, anything

no warnings, enjoy some fluff

INSTAGRAM

yourusername |📍Japan

°°°

°°°

❤️ 135k 💬 484 🔃 2,879

tagged lando and danielricciardo

yourusername papaya on top!

view comments

mclaren papaya on top!

lando u did me dirty with the 5th pic

yourusername showed the world the true you

username he seriously can fall asleep anywhere

yourusername he sure can

lando well at least I CAN sleep

yourusername DON'T BRING MY INSOMNIA INTO THIS

username DANNY RIC

danielricciardo should've added the pic of him eating a whole pack of biscuits

yourusername damn I should've

lando you better not

username he ate the whole thing? 😭

username he took 'ate & left no crumbs' too seriously

redbullracing |📍Japan

❤️ 205k 💬 108 🔃 573

tagged maxverstappen1 and oscarpiastri

redbullracing what a weekend #JapaneseGP

view comments

redbullsimracing truly magical 👏

username what a ride from oscar!

username frr I was sitting on the edge of my seat

username awesome win from max

username oscar should've won

username now there is a team..!! ❤️

oscarpiastri started following yourusername!

TWITTER

gossipf1 @.gossipf1 • 7 Apr 24

The red bull f1 rising star, Oscar Piastri, started following Lando Norris' friend, yourusername, on Instagram last week after the Japanese Grand Prix.

Could this duo have potential in the future? 👀

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

imagine they start dating 🤭

💬 43 🔃 603 ❤️ 2k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

No bro. She's loyal to Lando and McLaren

username @.username

Replying to @.username

that doesn't mean she can't be friends with a red bull driver

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

Lando better keep her away from the enemy

💬 4 🔃 50 ❤️ 1k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

More like Red bull should keep Oscar from following random McLaren girls lol

💬 2 🔃 96 ❤️ 3k 🖇️

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

I think they would be kind of cute together

💬 481 🔃 173 ❤️ 2k 🖇️

yourusername posted a new story!

oscarpiastri posted a new story!

yourusername |📍Barcelona

°°°

°°°

❤️ 28k 💬 854 🔃 3,091

yourusername my fav place & my fav human ☀️

view comments

lando 🤨🤨🤨

username THEY'RE DATING

username there's absolutely no way that's not Oscar

username girl you're not slick 😭 we know who this is

username I SWEAR IF OSCAR POSTS HER TOO

username they hinted it in their stories yesterday too 😭

mclaren 😲

username THE PASTRY COME ON

username WHAT IS THIS??

arthur_leclerc why wasn't I invited?

yourusername who is you? 🤨

username ARTHUR??

danielricciardo you know where to look for men

yourusername it's the accent

danielricciardo 😂

username EXCUSE ME?? NUH UH

redbullracing |📍Barcelona

❤️ 60k 💬 174 🔃 99

tagged oscarpiastri and maxverstappen1

redbullracing Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya here we come 🇪🇦

view comments

next part

[strawberryys-stuff]

UNDRESSED.

“I don't want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl I won't forget.” — Lando said he didn’t care about you seeing Oscar—but it hurt. More than he admitted. More than he expected. Because deep down, he did care. Maybe he always had.

pairing. Lando Norris x ex! fem! reader // (bonus: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader)

warnings. a lot of angst, 8,4k words, dual pov, exes to lovers, soulmates, lando and oscar being jealous of each other, complicated dynamics, mean oscar, oscar is the other woman here (sorry but I promise we love oscar in this house).

music. Undressed by Sombr // Somebody Else by The 1975.

LANDO HAD NEVER BEEN GOOD AT ADMITTING FAULT. Not to the world, not to himself. He had spent years being seen as untouchable, as brilliant, as someone who could do no wrong—not just in racing, but in everything. And maybe that was part of the problem. When things fell apart, when his own choices pushed you away, he couldn’t bring himself to say I messed up. Because he was flawless. At least, that’s what his fans saw. That’s what the world believed. And if enough people believed it, maybe he didn’t have to face the truth.

But did he know? Of course he did. He knew exactly what he had done, how his distance, his sharp words, his inability to give you what you needed had built the wall between you. He had watched the moments slip by, had felt the shift, had sensed the inevitable—and still, he had done nothing to stop it. Maybe he thought you would stay anyway. Maybe he assumed that no matter how careless he was with your heart, you wouldn’t walk away. But you did. And that was something he hadn’t prepared for.

Then he saw you with Oscar.

It wasn’t just surprise—it was something deeper, something raw. Something bitter and sharp and impossible to ignore. The moment his eyes landed on you, standing beside him, something inside him twisted. He could barely breathe past the weight of it. And the worst part? He wasn’t surprised. Maybe he had even expected it. Because Oscar was everything Lando wasn’t—steady, thoughtful in ways Lando had never mastered, quiet in his confidence rather than reckless. He was what Lando could never quite be.

And Lando hated it. Not just seeing you with him, but knowing that you had made the right choice. That after everything, you had walked away—not because of some dramatic final fight, not because of some unforgivable betrayal, but because you were done waiting.

─── 29 days after the break up.

Lando hadn’t expected to see you—not this soon, not like this. It had been just a few weeks since the break up, and he had convinced himself that he was fine, that the frustration had dulled enough for him to move on. He had been waiting for Max, leaning against a wall, phone in his hand, scrolling absentmindedly in an effort to distract himself from the lingering exhaustion of the race weekend. The world around him was routine—background noise, meaningless movement.

And then, that feeling.

It struck fast, sharp, sudden. A tight pull in his chest, instinctual, like something was about to happen. He glanced up, brows furrowing slightly, scanning the street without knowing exactly what he was looking for. He saw a blur—a bus passing by, pedestrians moving along the sidewalk, the usual hum of Monaco. But then, as the bus rolled forward, his stomach twisted.

Because the moment the road cleared, there you were.

Standing across the street, roses clutched in your hands, your smile wide, effortless, the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in a long time. It was the way you looked at him—not him, but Oscar—the softness in your expression, the light in your eyes, the way your laugh carried just faintly over the distance between you.

And Oscar.

Lando felt his grip tighten around his phone. His teammate. His supposed closest friend. Standing beside you like he belonged there, like it was normal for the two of you to be together. His stomach tightened, a bitter taste settling at the back of his throat.

“They’re so beautiful, Osc,” you murmured, your voice barely carrying over the street, soft and grateful.

Lando rolled his eyes without thinking, a sharp exhale escaping his lips. Idiot. Oscar didn’t even know you liked meadow flowers.

That night, Lando did what every young, rich man does when faced with the unbearable sting of losing the girl he thought he would marry—to his teammate, no less. He drowned it out.

He let the alcohol consume him, glass after glass, convincing himself with every sip that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. He laughed too loudly, drank too quickly, let his frustration bleed into recklessness, fueled by the voices around him—cheering, encouraging, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. It was easier this way, pretending like none of it had gotten under his skin. Like seeing you happy—seeing you with Oscar—hadn’t cracked something inside him that he didn’t know how to fix.

He didn’t care, he said. He had repeated it so many times that the words lost their meaning, but that didn’t stop him from saying them again. To himself. To others. To anyone who might have dared to question why his grip on his glass was just a little too tight.

And yet, when his lips met another girl’s, her hands running through his hair, her laughter warm against his skin—it wasn’t her he imagined.

It was you.

Your smile. Your voice. The way you had looked at Oscar, full of something bright, something real. Something that Lando hadn’t seen from you in far too long.

The kiss felt empty. It tasted like whiskey and denial.

But still, he chased it.

Pulled her closer. Let himself sink into the distraction of it, the mindlessness, the temporary relief. The room spun, the music blurred into nothing, and yet, somewhere in the back of his mind—where the alcohol hadn’t quite reached—he wondered if this was how it felt.

To be the one left behind.

─── 36 days after.

A week had passed, but the restlessness hadn’t.

Lando told himself he didn’t care—that it didn’t bother him, that he had moved on just as easily. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, like if he said it enough, maybe it would become true. But then, in a moment of weakness, his fingers hovered over your name, the muscle memory of scrolling through your Instagram too familiar to resist. The temptation won, his thumb hovering for only a second before pressing down, opening your profile. He clicked on your story without thinking, expecting meaningless snapshots of your day—things that didn’t involve him, things that wouldn’t sting.

But then, the picture.

You and Oscar.

By the sea, golden sunset washing over you, arms wrapped around each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was nothing forced about it, nothing performative. Just a simple, effortless kind of happiness, caught in a frame and broadcasted for the world to see.

Lando twitched, a sharp jolt of irritation sparking in his chest, his grip tightening around his phone. It wasn’t the picture itself that got to him—it was you. The look on your face, the ease in your posture, the way you stood beside Oscar like this was where you were meant to be. He hadn’t seen that version of you in a while. Not with him.

Without a word, he turned his phone toward Max, handing it over like he needed a second opinion, like he wanted someone to confirm that this was as ridiculous as it felt. “Look,” he muttered. “She moved on so fast, that’s crazy.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, laced with something bitter he couldn’t quite control.

Max barely glanced at the screen before shrugging, his response immediate, casual. “Well, you treated her like shit. I would too.”

Lando froze.

Treating you like shit?

The words hit him harder than the picture itself, sharper than the image of you wrapped in Oscar’s arms. Like something solid, something undeniable, something that didn’t leave room for argument.

Lando’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he stared at Max, searching for some kind of reassurance, some kind of validation. But it wasn’t there. Instead, Max just sat there, completely unbothered, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just shattered Lando’s entire defense.

“What are you on?” Lando demanded, voice edged with irritation. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, not—” He gestured vaguely at the screen, where your picture with Oscar still sat open, taunting him. “Not her damn therapist.”

Max exhaled through his nose, still unmoved. “I am your best friend,” he said simply, tossing his phone onto the table before leaning back against the couch, arms crossed. His gaze met Lando’s, steady, unrelenting. “That’s why I’m telling you the truth.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “I always gave her everything she wanted.”

Max rolled his eyes, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. “Maybe in a materialistic way,” he said, tone dry, unimpressed. “But that’s not what she needed from you, was it?”

The words hit harder than Lando wanted them to. He opened his mouth to argue, to throw out some kind of excuse, but nothing came.

Because deep down, he knew.

─── 37 days after.

The notification sat there, glaring at you like it was demanding your attention. Among the usual names in your story viewers, one stood out—one shouldn’t have been there.

Lando.

The verified checkmark beside his name confirmed it, but it wasn’t like you needed proof. Your pulse had already kicked up the second you saw it, and suddenly, everything else on the screen blurred. It wasn’t the thousands of other viewers, the casual acquaintances, the strangers who followed you just to watch—it was him. The one person who had no reason to be here, the one person who should have been too proud, too indifferent, too over it to be lingering on your page.

You blinked, staring at it, unsure whether to feel irritation, amusement, or something in between. A scoff left your lips as you turned your phone towards Oscar, shaking your head like the absurdity of it all was something worth laughing at.

“Look who’s stalking me,” you muttered, voice laced with forced amusement, though even you weren’t sure if you fully meant it.

Oscar barely glanced at the screen before snorting, shaking his head with an easy grin. “Idiot,” he chuckled. “Seems like he finally realized what he lost.” His tone was light, effortless, like this was just another passing observation, like Lando’s presence in your viewers was nothing more than predictable.

You tried to laugh too. Tried to match Oscar’s ease, to brush it off, to shove away the thought of him sitting there, clicking on your name, watching your moments through a screen. But the sound never quite made it past your lips.

Instead, your gaze lingered on the notification.

Maybe he did miss you. Maybe, after all the pretending, all the indifference, there was still something there—something unresolved, something neither of you had fully let go of.

And even though he wouldn’t admit it—hell, even though you wouldn’t admit it—you missed him too.

─── 51 days after.

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy—mechanics rushing to prepare for the session, engineers hunched over screens, team personnel exchanging quick words, all moving with purpose. Conversations overlapped, engines roared in the background, and the air smelled of fuel, sweat, and determination. It was familiar, chaotic, loud. But in the McLaren garage, the atmosphere felt different. A little tighter. A little heavier.

Because Lando was standing there.

Watching you.

You felt it immediately—the weight of his stare, the unspoken tension pressing against your skin like something tangible. You tried not to care, tried to focus on Oscar beside you, his hand resting securely on your waist as he spoke with the team, his voice smooth, easy, unbothered by the lingering stares. He was calm, steady, unaffected by the fact that, for the first time since everything had fallen apart, you were back here.

But somehow—your gaze always drifted back to Lando.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t something you wanted to do. But there he was—leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his race suit tied around his waist, the fitted undershirt clinging to him in ways that made avoiding his presence impossible. He looked good. Too good. Annoyingly good.

And that alone was infuriating.

Because the last thing you needed was to let him have any power over you again.

Yet the moment his eyes met yours, something flickered in his expression—something unreadable, something tense, something that made your stomach tighten. A subtle shift, a fleeting moment where neither of you looked like people who had moved on.

The weight of it pressed against your chest, heavier than you expected.

You weren’t supposed to feel bad. This was exactly what needed to happen—distance, space, separation. Being here with Oscar, standing next to the man who had chosen you, the man who treated you right, was supposed to feel right. It was supposed to feel like the closure you had needed, the final step in proving to yourself that you had moved on, that the past no longer had its hold on you. And yet, as Lando stood just feet away, as the silence between you grew louder, something inside you twisted in a way you couldn’t quite ignore.

You could feel his presence like gravity, an unspoken pull that made the air feel heavier, thicker, impossible to ignore. The way he lingered nearby, the way the tension between you settled into the space like something tangible—it was suffocating. It was surreal. You couldn’t help but think about how strange it was, how unnatural it felt to be near someone who had once been everything to you and now be reduced to mere avoidance. No words. No acknowledgment. Just pretending like the past didn’t exist. Pretending like he didn’t exist.

And maybe, in theory, that was how it was supposed to go.

Maybe this was the reality of moving on, of letting go. The idea that time would pass, that you would find someone new, that the wounds he had left would heal, and that, eventually, he would become nothing more than a familiar face in a familiar place. That was what you had told yourself over and over. That was what you had convinced yourself would happen.

But in practice?

It felt wrong.

The moment Oscar stepped away, the space between you shifted.

It felt heavier, charged with something unspoken, something unresolved. You had been doing fine—avoiding, ignoring, convincing yourself that whatever existed between you and Lando was long gone. That there was nothing left to untangle, nothing left to dissect. But then, his gaze found yours, and suddenly, fine didn’t feel so certain anymore.

Lando took a slow step forward, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this. His posture was relaxed, but there was something restrained in the way he moved, like he was testing the waters, unsure if you would let him in even a little. His expression gave nothing away, though his eyes—those damn eyes—held something softer. Something careful.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, barely above the hum of the garage. Like he was waiting for some kind of sign, some kind of confirmation that this wasn’t completely wrong.

Your breath caught for just a second, and then—it slipped.

“Uhm hey, Lan.”

The nickname tumbled from your lips before you could catch it, before you could stop it, and immediately, you regretted it. A name too familiar, too casual, too comfortable. It felt like muscle memory, like instinct. Like no time had passed at all. You weren’t supposed to fall into old habits. You weren’t supposed to make this easy. But here you were, slipping back into something you swore you had walked away from.

If Lando noticed your slip-up, he didn’t react. He only tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was trying to figure something out, like he wasn’t sure what to make of this moment.

“So, you two are like… a thing?”

Wow. Straight to the point. No hesitation, no careful wording, just pure honesty—Lando’s specialty.

Your pulse spiked slightly, heat creeping up your neck. You weren’t really together. Not officially. Not yet.

“Uh, not really,” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could think them through.

Idiot. What did you just say?

And judging by the way Lando’s brows raised slightly, his expression shifting just enough to show he wasn’t going to let that answer slide—you were about to find out exactly why that was a mistake.

Lando’s expression shifted—subtle, but noticeable. A flicker of curiosity, something unreadable in his eyes as he watched you carefully. He wasn’t letting that answer slide so easily.

“Not really?” he echoed, eyebrow raising slightly, his tone laced with something that felt dangerously close to amusement. Like he knew exactly what kind of trap you had just set for yourself.

You swallowed, suddenly wishing you could rewind time and say literally anything else.

“I mean, it’s not official yet,” you clarified, but even as the words left your lips, you knew they weren’t strong enough. They didn’t shut the conversation down. They didn’t make anything clearer. If anything, they left more room for questions—for interpretation.

Lando tilted his head slightly, like he was mulling that over, like he wasn’t sure if he believed you.

And suddenly, standing this close to him, with his gaze locked onto yours, with the weight of everything hanging in the air between you—it felt like you weren’t sure either.

Lando’s voice was casual—too casual.

“And Y/n, you still have things at my place,” he reminded, his tone effortless, like this was just an innocent observation. Just a simple fact.

Lando’s words hung in the air, dripping with something just a little too smug, a little too knowing. His tone was casual, almost careless, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something intentional.

Your stomach twisted.

You hadn’t thought about that. About the clothes left in his drawers, the little pieces of yourself scattered around his apartment—your favorite hoodie tucked in the corner of his couch, the forgotten pair of earrings on his nightstand, the book he never returned. The traces of you still lingering in his space, despite everything.

“You should pick ’em up if you’re starting a new relationship,” he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cocky. Unbothered.

─── 52 days after.

The garage hummed with activity—mechanics moving efficiently, screens flashing with data, the smell of fuel lingering in the air. It was routine, familiar, just another race day. But for Lando, there was something unsettled in the atmosphere, something that had nothing to do with strategy or tire degradation. Something personal. Something heavier than anything a race engineer could fix.

He hadn’t meant to ask. Not really. The words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days, lingering in the back of his mind every time he saw you with Oscar, every time he overheard something about you, every time he tried—failed—to ignore the fact that you were now a presence in his world again. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But it did. And before he could stop himself, the question slipped out, carried by something instinctual, something unresolved.

He glanced toward Oscar, keeping his tone casual, effortless, like the words meant nothing. Like they weren’t loaded with everything unsaid. “How’s things with Y/n?”

Oscar barely looked up. “Yeah, good,” he replied quickly, too quickly.

Lando caught the hesitation immediately, the slight break in Oscar’s usually steady voice. Interesting.

But then, just as Lando was about to push further, Oscar added, “I like her so much.”

The words were simple. Straightforward. But Lando knew—he knew Oscar had chosen them carefully. Had let them hang in the air just long enough to twist the knife a little deeper. To remind Lando that he wasn’t the one who got to say those words anymore. And it worked.

The thought of you with Oscar still hurt.

More than Lando wanted to admit. More than he should still let it.

And maybe that was the worst part—not that Oscar was with you, not that you had moved on, but that somewhere in the back of his mind, in the places he never spoke about, Lando couldn’t stop picturing a future that had never happened.

Lando could handle losing races, missing podiums, falling short of expectations.

But the thought of another man’s children carrying your eyes—the eyes of the girl he loved more than he ever loved himself.

That was unbearable.

Because no matter how much he tried to push it away, ignore it, pretend it didn’t matter—deep down, he knew.

He knew he couldn’t stand to watch you build a life that didn’t include him.

─── 60 days after.

The music from the afterparty still pulsed faintly in the distance, the bass reverberating through the warm Monaco air. Laughter spilled from the rooftop venue, voices mingling, champagne flowing freely. But out here, on the quiet pavement beneath dim streetlights, the atmosphere was entirely different—charged, tense, teetering on the edge of something fragile.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up here. One moment, you had been inside, smiling at familiar faces, pretending everything was fine. The next, Oscar had pulled you aside, his grip firm, his face tight with something that looked dangerously close to frustration.

“What’s wrong with you, Oscar?” you asked, arms crossed as you tried to keep your voice steady, tried to act like this wasn’t unraveling into something bigger than it should’ve been.

Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his hair before looking at you—really looking at you—like he had been holding this in for too long and now, it was spilling out whether you wanted it or not.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?!” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw. “I see the way you look at him, Y/n.”

“I am so done with this, Oscar.” You said it too quickly, too forcefully, like the words alone could make this moment disappear, could undo the frustration in his voice, the hurt in his eyes. But the second they left your lips, you realized how empty they were—how much they lacked the conviction you wished they had. Because deep down, under all the denial, all the forced pretenses, all the carefully constructed distance—you knew.

You knew he was right. But admitting it? That was something you weren’t ready for.

Oscar shook his head, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips, short, bitter, full of disbelief.

“You don’t understand how hard it is to move on from someone you loved for so long, so much!” Your voice cracked, frustration pouring out, raw, unfiltered. You shouted. Literally. It wasn’t measured, wasn’t restrained—just desperate. Because how could he not understand? How could he stand there, looking at you like this, like you were someone who had done something unforgivable, when all you were trying to do was heal?

But Oscar didn’t soften. Instead, his expression hardened, his jaw tightening as something inside him finally snapped.

“Y/n, I’m done with you.” The words hit like a slap—sudden, sharp, cruel. “I’m done being a replacement for your little Lando, who treated you like shit!”

His voice was loud, edged with something final, something irreversible. And just like that—the pretense, the patience, the quiet understanding he had always carried when it came to you—was gone.

You never saw him like this.

You never heard him say something so unforgiving.

But it was true.

You had treated Oscar the way Lando had treated you.

The weight of everything sat heavy in your chest, pressing down, curling itself into something suffocating, something immovable. The ache in your throat, the sting in your eyes—it wasn’t just from the argument. It was from the realization, from the truth settling into place in a way you could no longer ignore.

Oscar was gone. You had reached for him, barely, pathetically, but he had pulled away without hesitation—without looking back. The finality in his steps, the way his shoulders squared, his pace steady as he walked away—it told you everything. He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t going to turn around. He was done.

You hadn’t thought you were that horrible. You hadn’t realized until now, in the quiet aftermath, how much damage you had done. It was never supposed to go like this. You had convinced yourself that you were trying, that you were healing, that things would eventually settle.

But now, all you could do was sit. Your body folded onto the curb, knees pulled close, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed away the tears that refused to stop falling. The world around you was still moving—cars rolling past in the distance, laughter spilling from the party, voices rising and fading like background noise. But for you? Everything felt paused.

And then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, closer. Your breath hitched, panic flickering in your chest before you even looked up, because you already knew. When you finally lifted your gaze, your stomach twisted. Lando. Oh my god.

He stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching you for only a second before lowering himself onto the curb beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t try to comfort you. He just sat, looking ahead at the empty street, at nothing in particular.

The quiet stretched, thick and heavy, settling between you like something fragile. You wiped at your face again, the dampness lingering, your breath still uneven. You swallowed hard before you finally dared to ask, voice fragile between your sobs. “What did you hear?”

A pause. And then—“Everything.”

You exhaled shakily. Neither of you looked at each other. You just sat there, side by side, staring forward, like there was too much between you to even begin to unpack.

The realization settled deep in your chest, heavier than anything you had felt before. It wasn’t about making the right choice, or even about fixing the mess you had created. It was about knowing—truly knowing—that nobody was ever going to save you the way he would.

Lando wasn’t perfect. He had hurt you, more times than you wanted to admit. There were moments you swore you would never let him back in, moments where the distance between you had felt permanent. But despite everything, despite the history, despite the way he had failed you—he was still here. Sitting beside you, quiet, steady, the only person who hadn’t walked away.

Slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him, your movements tentative at first, like you weren’t sure if it was the right thing to do. But as your head rested against his shoulder, as you felt the warmth of him beneath you, as the quiet stretched between you—it felt right. It felt like something you needed.

Your breath was uneven, shaky, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs as the words slipped out, soft, fragile, barely above a whisper.

“You really hurt me, Lando.” The admission stung, but there was no anger in it, no accusation. Just honesty. Just exhaustion. Just the truth of everything that had been left unspoken for far too long.

Lando exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed ahead, his posture tense, his words weighted with something that didn’t quite make sense.

“I know,” he said, and somehow, that simple admission felt heavier than anything else. Because he did know. He knew the ways he had hurt you, the ways he had failed you, the reasons you should have walked away and never looked back. But knowing it didn’t mean fixing it. And maybe that was the problem—he had spent too much time knowing instead of doing.

Then, almost too soft, too contradictory—“I’m sorry. You deserve someone better, love.”

The word hung in the air, almost unintentional, almost instinctual. Love.

You swallowed hard, your head still resting on his shoulder, your breath uneven. How could he say that—tell you to find someone better and then call you something so familiar, so his? He was confusing, infuriating, stuck somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you back in. And yet, here you were. Still sitting beside him. Still choosing him.

“But I don’t want someone else,” you murmured, voice delicate but sure, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “I want you, Lan.”

The words slipped out, unguarded, vulnerable, carrying the truth you had spent too long denying. You weren’t looking for better. You weren’t looking for new. You were looking for him.

─── 71 days after.

The silence between you and Oscar had stretched over the last few days, filled with apologies that felt more like band-aids than real solutions. He had been the first to say sorry, his voice calm, controlled, like he was carefully threading the words into something that could hold you both together just a little longer. You had followed, not because you believed everything would heal, but because pretending was easier. Even though the cracks in your relationship were impossible to ignore, Oscar still held on. He wasn’t ready to lose you.

And Lando? That was a different story.

You had both slipped seamlessly into the act, pretending like that night never happened, like your whispered confession hadn’t been real. Like you hadn’t told him you wanted only him. He played along effortlessly, not questioning, not pushing, just falling into the same rhythm as you—one where the truth was buried beneath unspoken things.

So when Oscar told you he was heading to McLaren headquarters, when he casually invited you to come along, you hesitated. Not because it was unfamiliar—it wasn’t. You had been there before. You had walked through those halls with Lando, laughed in the corridors, listened to him talk about cars with an enthusiasm that made you smile without thinking.

But this time was different. This time, you were walking through the doors with Oscar.

Oscar pressed a light kiss to the side of your hair, his touch fleeting, absentminded, like his thoughts were already elsewhere. “I’ll find you in a minute,” he murmured, voice calm, steady, effortless. “You can look around.”

You nodded, offering him a small smile before turning away, letting your feet carry you through the space, past the sleek cars, past the championship-winning machinery, past the carefully displayed rows of gleaming trophies that reflected the overhead lights in shimmering waves. You paused in front of them, fingertips hovering over the edges of the plaques, tracing the engraved names without thinking.

Lando’s name. Over and over. It was impossible not to notice.

Your lips parted slightly as you stared, remembering the moments behind them—the victories, the podium celebrations, the sheer joy that had once lit up his entire face when he won. You had seen it up close, had felt it, had been part of it in ways you weren’t supposed to think about anymore.

But then, a voice. Familiar. Unmistakable. “You like my trophies, huh?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Your breath hitched, pulse spiking before you even turned around.

And when you did, your stomach twisted.

Lando stood there, leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. His smirk was subtle, his gaze unwavering, like he had already predicted this moment, like he had expected to find you here—standing in front of pieces of his success, surrounded by the reminders of who he was, who he had always been.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to act normal, to pretend like this wasn’t him, like this wasn’t the first time you had seen him like this since that night.

“They’re impressive,” you said simply, your voice steady, even, though you knew he wouldn’t believe it.

Lando’s voice carried through the quiet space, steady but laced with something heavier, something unspoken, something that lingered between the words like an echo of a past neither of you could fully escape.

“Do you remember how we used to celebrate here together?” The question was simple, deceptively light, but it held a weight that settled deep in your chest. You could hear the memories inside it, the laughter that had once filled these halls, the champagne that had spilled over the edges of glasses, the victories that had felt like more than just his—they had felt like ours. You could see it all as if it had been yesterday, the electricity, the excitement, the way his arms had always found you in the middle of the celebrations, pulling you close like he never wanted to let go.

But that was a different lifetime.

One you weren’t supposed to think about anymore.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening at your sides, willing yourself to stay composed, to pretend like none of this mattered. Like seeing him here, standing in the place that had once meant so much, wasn’t unraveling something inside you.

“Now you’re here with him,” Lando said it without accusation, without anger, just fact. Just something to acknowledge, something to force into the space between you. But his voice—steady, controlled—didn’t match the sharpness in his eyes.

He was looking at you, really looking, as if trying to figure out how this had happened. How you had gone from him to Oscar, from champagne-soaked podium nights together to standing in front of his trophies like just another visitor passing through.

You turned to him fully, inhaling sharply, trying to steady yourself. “Lando, stop.” Your voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t catch. “Me and Oscar are good now.”

Lando’s expression didn’t change—not immediately. He stood there, quiet, still, watching you like you had just said something completely incomprehensible. Like he was trying to understand how, not long ago, you had wanted him, had only looked at him, and now—now you were here, standing next to his trophies, with someone else.

Lando’s words hung in the air, stretching the silence between you, thick with frustration, edged with something deeper—something neither of you wanted to admit outright.

“I don’t understand you, Y/n.” His shrug was casual, effortless even, but the weight behind his voice betrayed him. “You want me, but you’re with him.”

It was clear he didn’t understand. But the truth was—you didn’t either. You had no answer for him, no explanation that made sense, not even to yourself. You had convinced yourself that you had made a choice, that Oscar was right for you, that everything had fallen into place the way it was supposed to. But standing here, caught in the gravity of Lando’s presence, his voice, his gaze locked on you like he was searching for something—it didn’t feel so simple anymore.

You wanted to push back, to tell him he was wrong, that things weren’t as complicated as he was making them seem, but you couldn’t. Because that same conflict—the one reflected so clearly in his eyes—was alive inside of you, clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

“I know you, Y/n,” Lando said, quieter this time, but no less certain. There was something deeper in his voice now, something careful, something that felt almost fragile, like he was trying to steady something between you before it slipped away completely.

If he knew you, then he should know your decision. He should know why things had played out the way they did, why you were here with Oscar, why he had been left behind. He should know that you had chosen differently, that you had moved forward, that things between you weren’t supposed to exist in this space anymore.

But did he really know you?

Your throat tightened as you shook your head, forcing the words out, forcing yourself to hold onto the anger that had kept you steady all this time. “No, you don’t, Lando.” The statement felt sharp as it left your lips, cutting through the air between you like something final. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t have hurt me so many times.”

Lando inhaled sharply, his posture stiffening slightly, his jaw clenching in a way that told you he didn’t like that response. He wanted to argue. He wanted to fight it. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared, in the way his fingers curled into his palms. But something stopped him—maybe the truth in your words, maybe the exhaustion that had settled between you after all this time.

“I know you better than anyone, Y/n.” The conviction in his voice was impossible to ignore.

The words hit harder than they should have, sinking deep, settling in a place inside you that had never really healed, no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise.

Because deep down, where you didn’t want to admit it, where you had buried the truth beneath layers of careful distance and quiet denial—he wasn’t wrong.

Even though you had chosen Oscar, even though you had told yourself this was the right thing, even though you had walked away— You still wanted Lando.

You always did.

─── 77 days after.

You hadn't thought much about it at first, dismissing the missing pieces of your life as minor inconveniences—an old sweater, a pair of AirPods, little things that weren’t supposed to matter. But the longer they stayed gone, the more noticeable their absence became, little reminders of a place you hadn’t been in far too long, of someone you had tried to leave behind. And yet, despite everything, they were still there, waiting, untouched, proof that some things weren’t as easily forgotten as you wanted them to be.

So finally, after too much hesitation and too many second guesses, you made up your mind. You had to pick them up. You had to close this lingering door, tie up the last loose thread, end whatever remained unspoken between you and him. That was the plan—the logic you clung to as you stood outside his apartment, fingers curling against your palm, steadying your breath before pressing the doorbell.

It took only a few seconds for the door to swing open, but somehow, those seconds stretched longer than they should have, enough time for doubt to creep in, for your pulse to pick up, for memories to stir in places they had no business being.

And then— Lando.

Messy hair, white t-shirt, grey sweatpants— Dear God— so effortlessly casual, so unbelievably familiar, so frustratingly him. He blinked at you once, then twice, as if confirming that you were really standing there, that this wasn’t just something he had imagined would happen. And yet, despite the obvious knowledge that you would come, the moment still carried an awkwardness neither of you could escape.

“Hey,” he said first, his voice lower than you remembered, smoother somehow, unreadable in the quiet space between you.

“Hey,” you forced out, an awkward, hesitant smile pulling at your lips, like it was supposed to soften whatever this was, like it was supposed to make it easier.

Lando’s smile lingered for a moment before he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in. The apartment still carried the same chaos, the same familiarity—clothes scattered across furniture, team merch stacked in corners, the faint scent of cologne and something inherently him filling the space. It hadn’t changed since the day you shut the door behind you, since the moment you decided to walk away, and yet, standing here now, it felt like the past had never fully left.

Your gaze drifted across the room, scanning over the clutter, the details, until it landed on something that made your breath catch—the framed photos.

They were still there.

Still displayed, still untouched, still holding pieces of something you both pretended wasn’t real anymore. But the one that stood out, the one that pulled at you the most, was the picture from Miami—the moment after his first win. Lando, smiling wildly, pure joy radiating from his face, the trophy held firmly in one hand while the other wrapped around your waist. You were pressed close, your lips against his cheek, frozen in a moment that had felt perfect, untouchable.

Your fingers reached out instinctively, barely grazing the edge of the frame.

“That’s my favorite one,” you murmured, the words slipping out naturally, quietly, like an admission you hadn’t meant to make.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly, his expression shifting, something quiet passing through his features that he didn’t try to hide. “Yeah, it was the best day of my life,” he admitted, but there was something softer about the way he said it, something that carried more weight than just nostalgia.

Your gaze lingered on the framed photo, fingers tracing the edges without thinking, as if touching it might somehow bring back the moment, might somehow remind you of how simple things had been. “We were so happy,” you murmured, exhaling deeply, the kind of sigh that carried more than just exhaustion—it carried regret, longing, unanswered questions. “Wondering when it all went wrong.”

The words stilled Lando, stopping him mid-thought, mid-movement, making him look at you in a way that felt different, heavier. He had thought about it too, hadn’t he? Wondered the same thing. Because you had been happy together. You had been the couple, the ones everyone talked about, the ones who looked untouchable, unbreakable. And yet, here you were—standing apart, speaking like strangers, trying to pick up pieces that had been left behind without knowing if they still fit.

Stepping into the bedroom felt like walking straight into the past. Nothing had changed, not really. Your favorite plush still sat on the bed, right where you had left it, like it had been waiting for you all this time. The makeup on the table remained untouched, scattered in the same way it always had been, like no one had dared to move it, like the space had frozen in time. It was as if your presence had never truly left, only lingered in the air, waiting for the moment you might return.

You swallowed, avoiding Lando’s gaze as you traced your fingers over the edge of the dresser, hesitant, careful, unsure if you should ask the question that had suddenly formed in your mind. “Lan?” Your voice was quiet, uncertain, fragile in a way you didn’t mean for it to be. “Can I ask you something?”

He hummed in response, a lazy sound, one that meant go ahead, even if he wasn’t sure what was coming.

You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly against the wood, mind racing as doubt crept in. You weren’t sure why you wanted to know—why this felt important, why the answer might matter more than it should. Maybe you needed reassurance. Maybe you just wanted proof that you hadn’t been the only one struggling with the weight of what had been lost.

“Do you ever miss us?” The words left you before you could stop them, shaky, uncertain. “Me and you together?”

Silence.

Lando didn’t answer right away. His posture shifted slightly, his fingers curling loosely at his sides, his gaze locked onto you like he was searching for something—like he was waiting to see if you were ready to hear the truth.

Then, his voice, steady but quiet.

“All the time.”

Your breath hitched, the world around you momentarily freezing as the warmth of his lips pressed against yours, firm, desperate, real. Your pulse hammered beneath your skin, your fingers gripping onto nothing, as if trying to steady yourself against the sudden rush of everything that had been left unsaid. The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t something either of you had time to think through. It was raw, unfiltered, filled with every emotion that had been buried beneath forced distance, packed bags, and quiet goodbyes.

Lando’s grip on your wrist tightened, grounding you, pulling you closer, his touch firm yet hesitant, as if he was afraid that if he let go for even a second, you would disappear. His body was warm, solid, familiar, and suddenly everything—every single moment that had led to this—felt like it had been pulling you back to this exact place, this exact feeling, this exact person. His other hand found the small of your back, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto, like he wasn’t ready to let go yet, like letting go meant losing something he wasn’t willing to lose.

And maybe—for just a moment—you let yourself forget. Forget why you came here. Forget why things had ended. Forget why you were supposed to leave. Because in this moment, with his lips pressing harder against yours, with his touch begging you to stay, with his heart pounding just as wildly as yours, there was only this. Only him. Only the truth neither of you could ignore anymore.

Lando’s hands travelled down to your waist, pressing his fingers firmly against your skin like he needed proof that you were still there, that this moment wasn’t slipping through his fingers. His breath was uneven, shaky, filled with something raw, something desperate. The words fell from his lips between kisses, quiet but pleading, the weight of them settling deep into the space between you.

“Please don’t go, stay here tonight.” His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with something he wasn’t trying to hide—need.

You knew he meant it. You could feel it in the way his lips moved against yours, in the way his hands refused to let go, in the way his heart pounded against your own like it was trying to sync up, like it was trying to hold onto something neither of you wanted to name.

“I need you here with me.”

The words shouldn’t have made your chest tighten the way they did, shouldn’t have made your breath catch, shouldn’t have made your resolve flicker for even a second. But they did.

You stopped, just for a moment, just long enough to meet his gaze again, eyes locking, searching, understanding. And in that second, you knew—he wasn’t asking. He was begging.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, pulling him back in, refusing to let space exist between you. Your lips crashed into his again, and this time, there was no hesitation.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

───78 days after.

The morning light spilled softly across the room, golden and warm, painting everything in delicate hues of peace. You blinked against it, stretching slightly, sinking deeper into the sheets as the feeling settled in—happiness. It was quiet, simple, effortless, the kind of happiness that didn’t need justification, that didn’t come with doubts or hesitation, that just existed.

Your gaze drifted to the man beside you, his breathing steady, his body curled slightly into the pillow, his messy brown curls sprawled across the white fabric like they belonged there. Lando. He looked different in the morning—so unguarded, so soft. And as you stared, as you traced the familiar lines of his face with your eyes, something inside you shifted.

You were falling for him again.

Just like before. Just like years ago. But this time—this time—it didn’t scare you. There was no impending fear, no walls built to keep feelings at bay, no need to tell yourself it was temporary or fleeting or something you needed to run from.

It was just love. Pure, honest, uncomplicated.

“Good morning, darlin’,” Lando murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, rough and deep, the kind of tone that made warmth spread through your chest without warning. His green eyes met yours, blinking slowly, soft and steady, filled with something you weren’t sure he even realized was there.

You let your gaze linger, taking him in, letting the silence stretch before breaking it softly. “How did you sleep?” Your voice was quiet, gentle, carrying something unspoken beneath the simplicity of the question.

“With you by my side?” His eyes met yours, green and steady, filled with something unguarded. “Better than ever.”

A small smile found its way onto your lips, and as he reached out, fingers brushing softly against your arm, you let yourself sink deeper into the warmth of the morning, of him, of the quiet realization that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t need to fight this anymore.

Lando’s fingers brushed softly against your cheek as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle, lingering, like he wanted to savor the moment, like he wanted to make sure you knew—really knew—what he was about to say. His lips parted slightly, no hesitation, no filter, just raw honesty spilling out before he could second-guess it.

“I love you so much.”

The words settled between you, heavy with meaning, thick with something deeper than just affection—something that had always existed, something neither of you had ever fully let go of.

Your heart swelled, the warmth spreading through your chest, the kind of comfort that came from finally knowing you were where you were supposed to be. A slow smile pulled at your lips, effortless, unshaken. “I love you too.” The truth felt good, freeing, like you had finally stopped running, like you had finally let yourself feel everything you had been afraid to for so long.

Lando exhaled softly, studying you, searching for something in your expression before speaking again. “So, it means you’ll give me a second chance?” His voice was steady, but there was something fragile in it, something cautious, something that told you he needed to hear your answer.

And it wasn’t like you hesitated. You trusted him. You trusted that he could change, that things could be different this time, that whatever had broken before could be rebuilt.

“Yeah.”

─── 2 months later.

Two months in, everything felt different—lighter, easier, right. You and Lando had always found your way back to each other, like gravity pulling you together no matter how much distance or time had tried to intervene. There was no denying it anymore—you were soulmates, bound by something deeper than just history, something unshakable, something that had been there all along.

Lando had changed—not completely, not in ways that made him unrecognizable, but in the ways that mattered. In the ways where he used to be reckless, where he used to be careless with things that deserved more attention. You couldn’t help but wonder if Max had had a serious talk with him at some point, maybe knocked some sense into him, maybe taught him things he should’ve learned a long time ago. Whatever had happened, it had worked. And somehow, you loved him even more for it.

Things with Oscar had turned out better than you had expected. You talked, openly, honestly, and despite everything, he understood. He had seen it in you, maybe even before you were ready to admit it yourself—that you loved Lando, that you always would. There was no anger, no bitterness, just a quiet acceptance that sometimes, love didn’t follow logic, didn’t follow rules, didn’t always make perfect sense. And in the end, everything had worked out.

In the end, the pain had been worth it.

This is my longest fic yet<3 Hope u love it just as much as I do! @haniette <3

[strawberryys-stuff]

AHHH I LOVE LOVE LOVE

funny you come back to me, my dear. ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻  lando norris x reader .

“when  i  was  ten,  i  used  to  write  your  name  in  the  margins  of  my  notes.  with  your  last  name  after  my  name.  hyphenated,  of  course  but  ohmygodi’mjustrememberingnow—”  you  pause,  wide-eyed,  voice  dropping  to  a  conspiratorial  whisper.  “and  then  my  sister  found  them,  and  i  freaked  out  so  bad  i  tore  out  the  pages  and  ate  them." or,  you've  known  lando  norris  for  forever.  you  have  also  loved  him  just  as  long.

word  count.  1.8k feat.  established  relationship,  childhood  friends  to  lovers,  both  of  them  are  so,  so  in  love  it  hurts,  reader  is  insane  levels  of  unhinged  but  we  support  losergirls  🧡,  she  falls  first  +  he  falls  harder author's  note.  felt  like  da  perfect  time  to  post  a  lando  oneshot  …  happy  lando  pole  in  monaco  szn  !!!  anyways,  as  per  usual,  i  fear  all  of  my  ln4  fics  are  offshoots  of  my  does  this  feeling  go  both  ways?  series,  though  i  always  make  sure  all  my  fics  don't  need  you  to  read  it.  dedicated  once  again  to  @tsunodaradio  ,  who  loves  drunken  confessions  and  also  gave  me  an  entire  list  of  songs  when  i  asked  for  title  ideas.  title  is  from  bad  habit  by  steve  lacy.   read  more  of  my  work  here  !!

you’re a little too drunk, and you know it.

you’re at some hole-in-the-wall bar in some city that neither of you will remember as anything more than the place we drank too much on a random thursday night, but right now it’s perfect. the music is too loud, the lights are too warm, but your laughter is bubbling up in your throat like it’s carbonated. like sprite. or something.

it’s not your fault, technically. it’s just in the way lando kept pressing his thigh against yours, the way he mouthed you’re so pretty tonight against your jaw in that low, amused voice that made your head spin. you’ve spent the last few hours nursing half-drunk long island iced teas and feeling stupidly warm every time his hand lands on your waist or he leans in to say something in your ear.

“babe,” he says, voice low and warm and so lando it kind of makes you dizzy— though whether it’s the alcohol or the nerves is anybody’s guess. “you’re not even listening to me.”

you blink up at him, lips parted, brain about three drinks behind. “i’m listening.” you murmur, except you’re definitely not. you’re too busy thinking about how close his mouth is to yours, about how you can see the way his pupils have blown wide, about how your whole body feels like it’s made of jelly when he laughs.

“liar,” he teases, nose brushing your temple. “what was i saying, then?”

you grin, because you have no idea. “something about… tires?”

“tires?” he laughs, head tilting back. “babe, i was talking about the bartender’s mullet.”

you snort, tipping your head against his shoulder. “yeah, you’re right, it’s a good mullet.”

“i said it’s a terrible mullet,” he corrects, but he’s laughing again too, and it’s the kind of easy, tipsy laughter that feels like an inside joke. like you’ve known each other forever. and you have, sort of.

the world tilts when you stand up, a little too quickly, your hand gripping the edge of the sticky bar counter for balance. lando’s already steadying you with one hand at your waist, the other grabbing your bag from the floor.

“whoa, easy there,” he says, and he’s still smiling but his voice has that note of softness, that way he only ever speaks to you. like you’re precious. like you’re his.

“i’m fine,” you insist, though your knees feel like they’re made of rubber bands. “just… need air.”

“air, huh?” he grins, but he’s already guiding you out, and suddenly you’re outside, now, and you’re leaning into him because it’s easier than standing on your own. easier than pretending you don’t want to be this close, all the time, always.

you clutch his jacket tighter as the cool night air hits your flushed cheeks. “lando,” you sigh, all breathy bravado, “lando, did you know——”

“what, baby?” he asks, soft, amused, one hand on your waist to steady you as you trip over the threshold. “what do i need to know?”

“i’m dating you,” you announce, like it’s news to him. like it’s the most important thing in the world. “i’m dating you, lando norris.”

he snorts, but he’s grinning wildly— not in the way that’s condescending, but in the same way that feels like he can’t believe it either. “i know! you’ve been dating me for months now!”

“no, but—” you tighten your hold on him, fingers curling into his collar. “you don’t get it. you don’t get it.” you’re too close, forehead pressed to his jaw, words spilling out in a rush. “when i was ten, i used to write your name in the margins of my notes. with your last name after my name. hyphenated, of course but ohmygodi’mjustrememberingnow—” you pause, wide-eyed, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “and then my sister found them, and i freaked out so bad i tore out the pages and ate them.”

lando’s laughter rumbles through his chest, warm and real, and he tries to pull back to see your face, but you don’t let him.

your hands are on his cheeks now, squishing them together like you’re trying to keep him right here, in this moment, in your orbit. “you ate them?” he manages, the words garbled by how hard he’s smiling.

“i had to!” you insist, indignant. “she would’ve told you. and i couldn’t let you know because i was ten and you were like… the sun. and i was just me. and i had this stupid, embarrassing crush on you and now—” you hiccup, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes because you’re so drunk and so overwhelmed and so in love in ways you’re still learning how to say out loud. “now you’re my boyfriend and you’re real and i don’t know what to do about it.”

you’re trying so hard to be serious. you can feel the weight of it in your chest, the way your heart is thumping so hard it’s almost painful.

you want him to understand that this isn’t just a silly drunk confession; that it’s the most important thing you’ve ever felt. that if you could go back and tell that ten-year-old girl that one day she’d be here, pressed to his chest, drunk and giddy and safe, she would’ve lost her mind.

“landooooo——” you say again, voice wobbling. “lando, i’m trying to tell you something serious.”

he cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and his eyes are so soft it almost makes you dizzy. “okay,” he says, quiet now, all teasing gone. “tell me.”

you swallow. drag in a shaky breath. “i used to think you were… i don’t know. something i could never have. like— i’d be lucky to even see you. and now you’re here and we’re together and also i’ve got this bangin’ dream job, and i’m just—” your voice trails off, mouth pulling into a helpless, wonderstruck smile. “i’m just really… really happy.”

he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “i’m happy, too.” he murmurs, voice low and warm and a little rough around the edges. “you don’t have to act like you’re not obsessed with me, you know. i like it.”

you groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “you’re the worst.”

“nope.” he presses a kiss to your hairline, arms wrapping tighter around you. “you’re dating the lando norris, remember? best boyfriend in the world.”

“shut up,” you mumble, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts, your heart beating too fast and your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re afraid he might slip away if you don’t hold on tight enough.

lando grins, presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, warmth against the cold air. he pulls back only enough to say, “come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.”

you cling to him, head resting on his shoulder as you start the walk back to the hotel. you’re giddy, flushed, and a little bit embarrassed by how easily you confessed all of that.

but there’s a part of you that’s also so… relieved. because it’s out there now. because he knows. because he’s got his arm around your waist guiding you down to your hotel, his lips pressed to your hair, and you think— no, you know— that ten-year-old you would be absolutely losing her mind.

you’re still tipsy, still giggling into his shoulder, but you’re so… safe. so sure. and as he guides you through the quiet night, you let yourself believe it: that this is real, that you’re allowed to have this, that you’re allowed to be the girl who used to dream and the girl who has him, both at once.

and when he finally sets you down, back at the hotel, he cups your face and says, voice low and tender, “still think you’re obsessed with me?”

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “shut up and kiss me again.”

and he does. like he’s been waiting all night to, like he’s been waiting years.

the next morning, you wake up to the sun too bright through the half-drawn curtains and the unmistakable pounding in your skull that tells you you should have stopped drinking three cocktails ago. your mouth tastes like regret and whatever demonic combination the bartender put in the five-or-so long island iced teas you drank last night. you groan as you bury your face deeper into the pillow.

lando, of course, is fine. infuriatingly chipper, even. he’s propped up against the headboard, hair tousled in a way that’s almost too perfectly messy, scrolling through his phone like he’s not even aware you’re dying beside him.

“good morning, mrs. norris.” he says, waayy too brightly.

you freeze. the memory slams into you with the force of a freight train. your face goes hot, stomach dropping straight through the mattress.

oh. my. god.

you push yourself up, wincing at the pounding in your temples. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” he asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

“lando…” you say, voice low, as if in warning.

he just grins wider, completely ignoring the threat. “you know, kit-kat, i didn’t realize i’d already been betrothed for over a decade. you could’ve told me.”

“lando.” you say again, more desperate this time.

“i just think it’s so sweet, baby,” he teases, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “all those little notes with mrs. norris scrawled in the margins…”

and that is when you shove him. hard. he topples sideways off the bed with a yelp, the sheets tangling around his legs as he lands on the floor in a heap.

“you’re an asshole.” you groan, collapsing back into the pillows and covering your face with both hands. you’re mortified. mortified.

you’d been so careful not to let on just how badly you’ve always wanted him, how long you’d loved him, how those childhood daydreams still lived somewhere deep in your chest even now. but apparently, five long island iced teas and one too many hours in his arms had been enough to crack it all open.

he pops his head back up over the edge of the mattress, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with laughter. “you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” he says, smug as hell.

“i hate you.” you grumble, but there’s no real venom in it. you’re too busy trying to bury your face in the pillow. “i’m so fucking embarrassing.”

“no, you don’t, and no, you’re not.” he says, pushing himself back onto the bed, sheets still half-wrapped around him. he nudges your side until you peek out from behind your hands, and then he’s there, right in your space again, stormy eyes soft. “i love drunk you. she’s honest.”

you groan again, but this time there’s a laugh under it, bubbling up despite yourself. “i can’t believe i told you that.”

“believe it, baby,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “best thing i’ve heard all week.”

[strawberryys-stuff]

VENGEANCE | OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: You swore to avenge your father, no matter the cost. Along the way, someone began leaving clues—each marked with the same initials: OP. You don’t know who they are, only that they’re leading you closer to the one who pulled the trigger

contains: violence, detailed descriptions of death, blood, heavily inspired by The Last of Us

The floorboards creaked under your boots as you stepped into the remains of what used to be a shipping warehouse — now nothing more than rusted beams, cracked cement, and shadows that refused to move even when the wind howled through the broken rafters. Rain pattered down from the holes in the roof, cold and constant, soaking through your threadbare jacket and plastering your hair to your forehead.

You were standing over a corpse with your blade slick with blood and hands trembling—not from fear, but from the adrenaline that hasn’t left you in weeks. Their pleas for mercy hung heavy in the air, long after they took their last breath under your sharp, unforgiving, gaze. You had pleaded too. You had sobbed in front of them when their leader, Abby, had your father at gunpoint. You were an innocent child, a fifteen-year-old, who was forced to watch a bullet pierce his skull.

Your father was a master of survival, hardened by a world that left no room for mercy. He did whatever it took to keep you safe—even if it meant crossing lines others wouldn’t dare approach. His choices weren’t always clean, and more than once, they left ripples in the lives of those around him. And Abby was one of them.

She had been just a face in the crowd once—a soldier, a follower, someone with orders. But your father’s actions had touched her life in a way that festered, a wound she couldn’t let scab over. He had made a decision that saved you and cost her everything. And when she stood over him, gun shaking in her grip, it wasn’t war or infection that brought him down. It was vengeance.

You still saw the way she looked at him—not with rage, but with something colder. Purpose. The same purpose you now carried in your bones like marrow.

You remembered your father’s last breath, the way his blood soaked the floor as you screamed and fought and begged. You remembered the stillness that followed, like the world itself had stopped spinning. And then Abby turned and left, her boots echoing in the silence, leaving you broken but alive. Maybe that was her final cruelty—letting you live with it.

But she made a mistake.

Because your father taught you everything he knew. How to track, how to survive, how to stay alive when the world wanted you dead. And now, with that same fire in your veins, you moved through what was left of the world like a shadow sharpened into a blade. You were going to find her.

You were going to find all of them.

You knelt beside the corpse and pried a folded map from its vest pocket. Circled in red ink was a town five miles east. Just beneath it, scrawled faintly:

"She’s heading here next. For supplies. —OP."

You folded the map slowly. It didn’t occur to you to question why OP was helping you. Not yet. All you felt was heat. Raw, seething heat under your skin, in your ribs, pulsing behind your eyes. Abby’s face lived in your memory like rot—sharp, furious, victorious. You saw her every time you blinked.

The journey took two days on foot. You slept in a barn the first night, curled under a moth-eaten coat that still smelled faintly of horses. Rain pounded the roof until dawn, leaking through the boards and into your hair. You didn’t dream. You hadn’t in a long time.

By the time you reached the outskirts of the town, your boots were soaked and your fingers numb. It was quiet—too quiet—and that only sharpened your senses. The main street had been hastily barricaded, trash bins turned over and a burned-out car pushed into the middle of the road like a warning. You stepped around it, careful not to disturb the stillness.

And then you found the second sign.

On the cracked window of an old pharmacy, someone had drawn a circle with ash. Inside, two crossed lines. The symbol OP used when a building was safe—or, more often, watched. You ducked inside, blade already drawn.

There were more of them here—Abby’s people. Some older, one barely out of her teens. They didn’t recognize you until it was too late. The first went down with a single swipe of your knife. The second screamed before you silenced her. The third... begged.

You remembered her. She had laughed when Abby pulled the trigger.

"Please," she sobbed, crawling backward into the corner, blood dripping from a gash in her leg. "I didn’t want to—she made us—"

You didn’t answer. Your hand was steady as the blade found her throat. The sound she made wasn’t much of anything.

Outside, the wind picked up. You stood still, letting it whip through your hair and wash the blood from your face like baptism.

You headed north.

The road narrowed into wilderness. Asphalt broke apart under your boots, giving way to weeds and roots and silence. The trees had a way of swallowing sound here. Even your breath felt muffled. Birds didn’t sing anymore. Nature had learned to stay quiet, too.

You moved fast during the day and barely slept at night. Each hour stretched long and taut, held together only by rage and the thought of her face. You’d replayed that day a thousand times: the sound of the gunshot, the warmth of your father’s blood on your face, the way Abby didn’t even look at you after pulling the trigger.

Like you were nothing.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your cheeks felt cold.

Two nights later, you found one of them.

He was alone, limping, holding his side like something inside had torn loose. He had a hunting knife but didn’t use it. Maybe he saw your eyes and knew there was no point.

He recognized you.

"Shit... it’s you," he whispered.

You didn’t speak. He tried anyway, eyes wide with panic.

"Please. Please. I didn’t shoot. I—I just watched—"

"Exactly," you muttered.

And then he stopped talking.

His blood soaked into the earth, mixing with the moss. You stayed there a while, staring at his body, your fingers still curled around the handle of your blade. His backpack had a map. You took it, tracing the faded ink with shaking fingers.

Next stop: an old ski lodge in the mountains. Remote. Hard to access. Perfect for regrouping.

You folded it and tucked it into your jacket. The cold wind hit your face as you stepped out of the trees again, but you barely noticed it. You couldn’t stop now. You wouldn’t.

She was close.

And you had promised yourself—sworn it, in blood and fire and memory—that you would erase every single one of them.

Even if it killed you.

The mountains looked like the spine of some old god, jagged and dusted with snow. You weren’t dressed for the cold, not really, but you barely noticed it anymore. The wind bit through the seams of your jacket, and your fingers were numb inside your gloves. Still, your grip on the rifle never loosened.

The trail had grown quieter the higher you climbed. No infected. No birds. Just wind and the sound of your boots crunching over ice. And then—finally—tracks.

Boot prints. Not fresh, maybe two days old, but deep and staggered like someone was dragging a limp leg. You recognized that step. You had seen it in the blood-slick hallway of a burnt-out hospital a week ago. He was still alive then. Maybe still was. You didn’t care. He was one of them.

You followed the trail to a ridge that overlooked a cluster of buildings. There, nestled between snow-covered trees and crumbling ski lifts, was the lodge.

It looked abandoned at first—windows boarded, snow piled against the doors. But the smoke curling up from the metal chimney told a different story. You dropped to your stomach in the snow and pulled out a pair of binoculars taken off a corpse four towns back. Through the cracked lens, you saw movement—a shadow passing by the second-floor window. Two people talking in low, tense gestures.

Your stomach turned. One of them had broad shoulders, hair outgrown and curling at the ends. You didn’t recognize the face, but the way he moved—defensive, alert—told you everything. Soldiers. Survivors. Killers.

Her people.

You crouched low, moving through the underbrush toward the back of the lodge. Your boots barely left a print on the fresh snow, the world around you muffling the sounds of your approach. You didn’t even glance at the blood stains marking your path from the last town.

You waited until the sun dipped low and the snow turned the color of ash.

That’s when you saw it: scratched into the bark of a pine tree near the back entrance.

OP.

A small arrow below it, pointing right.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t seen his signature in a week—not since the broken bus on the highway. You almost thought he had died.

But you didn’t have time to wonder. The arrow pointed to a break in the lodge’s fencing, half-hidden behind a collapsed snowmobile. You slid through the gap, hugging the wall, counting heartbeats and checking windows.

Inside, the hallways were dark. Someone had killed the power—intentionally. Your boots didn’t make a sound on the old carpeting. Your gun was loaded, safety off, but you didn’t want to fire unless you had to.

You passed a cracked mirror and saw your reflection. You didn’t recognize yourself.

Hair wild. Skin too pale. Lips split. A smear of dried blood on your cheek you hadn’t bothered to clean. Your father would’ve hated this version of you—then again, maybe he would’ve understood.

The silence pressed down on you like a weight. The lodge felt alive with tension, as though it were holding its breath, waiting for the storm to come.

The stairs creaked beneath your boots, narrow and steep, each step vibrating with a tension that had been coiled in your spine for weeks. Your fingers curled tighter around the cold metal of the pistol in your hand—heavy, scratched, and reliable.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of a fire leaking through the cracks beneath a door at the end. The air smelled like smoke, damp wool, and something older—sweat and blood long since dried into the wood.

The sound of murmurs reached your ears—a low, muffled conversation from the room at the end of the hallway. There were two voices. One low and gruff, the other careful—measured like someone was choosing their words too deliberately.

You crept forward, your movements a blur of practiced stealth. The hallway stretched out before you, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your weight as you neared the door. You pressed yourself against the wall, listening again. Their voices had quieted, but the silence that followed only amplified the thundering pulse in your ears.

You nudged the door open with your shoulder.

Inside, a fireplace flickered weakly, throwing trembling shadows across the room. Two figures stood near the window. One turned sharply at the creak of the floor under your boot.

Recognition stabbed into your gut.

He had been there the day your father died. Not center-stage, not the one holding the gun, but he had watched. You remembered the shape of his face in the firelight, remembered how he didn’t blink when Abby pulled the trigger.

You gripped your gun tighter, your heart hammering in your chest. The pain of what had been taken, what had been stolen from you, surged forward like a beast breaking free of its cage. The rage boiled in your veins, hot and unrelenting.

The other man moved—fast. His hand flew toward a rifle propped against a table.

A gunshot cracked through the lodge like thunder.

You flinched.

The other man jerked violently as the bullet struck him square in the temple. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. The rifle clattered from his limp hands.

Your eyes snapped to the shooter. He held the pistol steady for a moment longer before slowly lowering it, the muzzle still faintly smoking.

You raised your own in return, finger tense on the trigger, heart thundering in your ears. "Who are you?"

He licked his lips, jaw tight. "Oscar. Oscar Piastri."

Your heart stilled.

Oscar Piastri.

OP.

The clues. The marks. The scratched initials left beside burned-out campfires and carved into collapsed doorframes. The scavenged maps with circles in red ink. Every single one signed with the same two letters: OP.

A long silence passed. The air felt heavy. Dust floated lazily in the thin strip of light cutting through the window. The lodge was too warm, stifling almost, like the building itself was holding its breath.

"You left the clues," you said slowly. "Why?"

His voice dropped, quieter than the fire. "Because I want her dead too."

You stared at him, gun still trained on his chest, arms aching. Oscar stood in front of you, silent, hands loose at his sides.

"Why should I believe you?" you asked, your voice rough—shaken, but not weak. "You stood there while she murdered him. You did nothing."

His jaw clenched. "I was new. I didn’t know what she was going to do—"

"That’s bullshit," you snapped, taking a step forward, lifting your gun higher. "You saw it. You watched. And now you expect me to believe you're on my side?"

The fire crackled behind him, shadows dancing along the walls. His features flickered between hardness and something else—guilt, maybe. Regret. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t want to tell. You wanted to hate him.

“I didn’t stop her,” he said quietly. "I wanted to. I thought I might. But I was too fucking scared."

You laughed bitterly. "And now you want forgiveness?"

He shook his head. "No. I just want her dead."

The words hung heavy between you.

Your finger hovered near the trigger.

Your breath came in short bursts now—not from fear, but from the tidal wave of memories pressing against your ribs. Your father’s voice. His blood on your hands. The weight of his death carving itself into your spine. And this man—this stranger with a familiar face—standing right in front of you...

You hesitated. The shaking in your hand had crept into your shoulders now, into your chest. You hated how calm he was. You hated that a part of you—deep, buried—wanted to believe him.

The silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the muffled groan of the wind outside and the creaking bones of the old lodge. The corpse between you had stopped bleeding, but the red smear on the floor looked fresh enough to crawl.

You finally lowered your gun.

Oscar turned and knelt by a worn backpack resting beside the broken bed frame.

"I didn’t pack much," he spoke, voice low, like he was afraid the sound might break whatever thin understanding had just formed between you. "Didn’t think I’d still be breathing."

You didn’t answer. Your hands were shaking—still from the adrenaline—and you busied them by checking your own gear. Bullets. Knife. Water flask, half-frozen. The faded photograph of your father, creased and frayed at the corners. You tucked it back into your pocket.

"We can cut through the backwoods. Less patrols that way."

"We?" you repeated, sharpening the edge of the word as you walked over to the corpse, nudged the shoulder with your boot, then crouched to pull off a side holster and extra ammo belt.

"I don’t trust you," you revealed unashamedly, voice sharp and cold.

"I wouldn’t, either."

"But I need her dead."

He nodded once. "So do I."

You stared at him for a long time. And for once, it felt like someone understood your motive—understood the way grief could ferment into obsession.

[strawberryys-stuff]

BACKYARD BARBECUE | LN4

Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lano is your brother's favorite person for certain reasons: he joins in on his adventures and comes over with strawberry-flavored gummy bears. And not only is Lano fond of him, he also adores his big sister

pure fluff. that's it. Lano gets a little baby fever

Your youngest brother was a menace—a whirlwind of energy with eyes that sparked with mischief and wonder. The kind that ran around in mismatched socks, demanded chicken nuggets for breakfast, and somehow always had stickers stuck in his hair.

He had an uncanny ability to turn every room into his personal adventure zone—launching himself from the top of the stairs in a daring leap, only to land in a pile of cushions with a proud, victorious grin on his face no one could resist. Or scribbling masterpieces that looked like a hurricane had hit, yet he would proudly display them as though they had been painted by the hands of a professional.

He had a talent for turning peace into absolute chaos. But for some reason, Lando adored him.

It started small—a quick hello during a FaceTime call, a laugh at the way your brother mispronounced his name.

His vocabulary wasn't perfect yet, but he wore his mispronunciations like badges of honor, proudly calling his favorite dinosaur "Grr-nado" instead of T-Rex, and every superhero was "Spidey-Men".

But most importantly, there was Lano, his closest friend in the world. He would say it with such seriousness, as if his version of the name was the only one that truly mattered, and Lando would never correct him, just ruffle his fuzzy hair with a laugh.

The nickname stuck, much to Lando’s delight—and your suspicion that they were secretly plotting to overthrow your entire household grew. He didn't just tolerate the chaos—he became part of it. Piggyback rides through the hallway, endless rounds of hide and seek, and improvised dance battles in the living room.

The first time Lando came over after years of traveling was memorable. That morning, your brother had launched himself at Lando the second he walked through the door—no hesitation, no shyness, just pure toddler enthusiasm.

Lando caught him mid-leap with a startled laugh, nearly dropping the bag of gifts he had bought. "Mate," he smiled, lifting your brother high into the air, "you've grown! What've they been feeding you—jet fuel?"

Both of them laughed like pirates who had just discovered a hidden treasure chest full of juice boxes and chocolate milk.

You watched them from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, one foot propped over the other. It was hard not to smile at the way Lando let your brother climb over him like furniture. He was wearing the hoodie you had stolen from him once, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls a little messy from the wind outside. He caught your eye, then grinned—bright and easy—and that was it.

Yeah, you were ruined.

The morning of the barbecue started in the kitchen, quiet except for the chopping of vegetables and the soft hum of the radio playing some old indie song from the early 2000s. The window above the sink was cracked open, letting in the scent of fresh grass and distant grill smoke from a neighbor two houses down. A fly buzzed lazily near the fruit bowl and your mom swatted at it halfheartedly with a rolled-up magazine.

You were standing at the counter, slicing cucumbers into neat little coins for the salad, and trying not to roll your eyes as your little brother zipped through the kitchen on a plastic ride-on car that sounded like it was powered by bees and chaos. He crashed gently into your mom’s leg, giggled, then took off again.

Your mom, unfazed, stirred the marinade and cleared her throat. “We’re doing a barbecue tonight. Last-minute thing. Family, a few friends.”

You didn’t look up. “Oh?”

“Thought you could invite Lando,” she added casually, like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

You blinked and looked at her. “Why?”

She shrugged, but she had that look in her eyes—the one that said she noticed more than she let on. “Well, he has been around here more than the mailman lately. Figured it would be rude not to invite him.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could speak, your dad strolled into the kitchen in socks and cargo shorts, carrying a half-finished cup of coffee and looking entirely too smug for 10 am.

“Did I just hear someone say Lando?” He looked between you and your mom like he was waiting for someone to confess a crime.

Your mom didn’t even glance at him. “We’re inviting him to the barbecue.”

Your dad squinted. “The same Lando who taught our three-year-old how to call the blender ‘the tornado machine’?"

You snorted. “That’s the one.”

Your dad sipped his coffee. “He’s under strict surveillance."

“I’m pretty sure he’s more scared of you than the race stewards,” you muttered.

“I better be scarier than the stewards.”

Your mom just hummed in amusement and went back to the marinade, while your brother zoomed past again, trailing a ribbon he must’ve found god knows where. The radio changed songs—something slow and nostalgic, the kind of tune that made everything feel like a memory even as it was happening.

You texted Lando before you could overthink it.

you busy later? we’re doing a barbecue bring yourself. maybe snacks. or a fire extinguisher idk

He answered five minutes later:

on my way are you the fire or the thing that needs extinguishing?

You didn’t reply. But your cheeks warmed all the same.

The backyard buzzed with the soft hum of conversation and the crackle of the grill, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat and buttered corn. Fairy lights were strung along the fence, swaying gently with the breeze. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting everything in a golden haze that made the moment feel a little too perfect to be real.

Your dad stood by the grill, one hand flipping burgers while the other held a juice pouch your brother had insisted he guarded. He wore a ridiculous apron your mom had dug out from the back of a drawer—Kiss the Cook, in faded letters—and while he pretended to hate it, he hadn’t taken it off once.

And your mom was holding court at the food table, defending her potato salad recipe like it was a state secret. Folding chairs, some slightly rusted from years of use, dotted the lawn like a disorganized army, and an old Bluetooth speaker blasted a playlist that veered wildly between a mix of 2000s throwbacks and cartoon theme songs.

Lando arrived just before sunset, dressed in a worn hoodie and jeans, a bag of chips and strawberry-flavored gummy bears tucked under one arm and a juice box in the other.

Your little brother—who had already downed two cupcakes and a fistful of grapes—screamed, “LANO!” and ran full-speed into Lando’s knees, giggling.

You stood on the porch, watching with your arms crossed and a helpless sort of smile stretching across your face. Lando glanced up and caught your eye, giving you a lopsided grin. “Guess I made the invite list?”

“Barely,” you called back. “You bribed the boss with strawberry-flavored gummy bears.”

The backyard had fallen quiet.

The last of the guests had trickled out with sleepy goodbyes and half-eaten desserts wrapped in foil. The speaker had long since died, leaving only the gentle buzz of crickets and the soft clink of empty glasses being collected in the kitchen. Somewhere inside, your dad had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV still on, casting flickering blue light across the hallway.

You stepped out onto the porch barefoot and spotted Lando sitting cross-legged on the grass with your brother fast asleep in his lap, marshmallow still clutched in his tiny fist, a faint smudge of chocolate on his chin. Lando’s arms were wrapped securely around him. He was humming something under his breath—soft, tuneless—and his eyes followed the flicker of fireflies blinking lazily in the warm air.

You knelt beside them, quietly, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Lando but not quite touching.

“He’s out,” Lando whispered, glancing at you. “Full system shutdown.”

You smiled, brushing a stray curl off your brother’s forehead. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

You caught the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of Lando's lips—quiet, tender, and completely undone by the small boy knocked out cold in his arms. “Here—” you said softly, reaching forward. “Let me take him.”

There was something in the way he looked at you then—something quiet and meek, like watching someone light a candle in the dark, like you were the last piece of his puzzle—the one he hadn't even realized he was missing until it clicked into place.

Gently, he passed your brother into your arms, and the little one sighed sleepily, curling into you without even waking. Your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls.

Lando didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there, watching the two of you with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, smile soft.

“You’re really good with him,” he muttered eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

You looked over at him. The way the fairy lights caught in his lashes, the pink warmth still lingering in his cheeks. There was something so open in his face now—something that hadn’t always been there when you were younger.

“I like watching you with him,” he added quietly. “It makes me… I don’t know. Want things.”

You blinked. “Like chicken nuggets at 2 am and sticky handprints on the walls?”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and his shoulders shake a little, unfiltered and genuine.

Suddenly, he felt a flush creep up his neck. Saying it out loud—that he had imagined a child of his own, cradled in your arms—felt too intimate, too raw. As if he had accidentally cracked open a door to something he wasn't sure he was supposed to want just yet.

"Yeah," he breathed out, soft and fragile. "Especially that."

[strawberryys-stuff]

𝔽𝟙 𝕄𝔸𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋

LANDO NORRIS | LN4

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando hates when you are upset but loves how you look when you cry

-> CRY FOR ME | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando secures yet another win but craves something more—something a trophy cannot provide. Maybe you can, but will you?

BACKYARD BARBECUE | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lano is your brother's favorite person for certain reasons: he joins in on his adventures and comes over with strawberry-flavored gummy bears. And not only is Lano fond of him, he also adores his big sister

RUINED AND SCARRED | Lando Norris x reader

summary: It was forbidden and excruciatingly tempting at once. You didn't belong into his world of sin - not until your skin bore the imprints of his lips

WHERE IS MY SPANISH ROMANCE? | Lando Norris x fem!reader | smau

OSCAR PIASTRI | OP81

VENGEANCE | Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: You swore to avenge your father, no matter the cost. Along the way, someone began leaving clues—each marked with the same initials: OP. You don’t know who they are, only that they’re leading you closer to the one who pulled the trigger

A SECRET | Red bull!Oscar x fem!reader | smau

-> A SECRET (2)

TANGLED CONSTELLATIONS | Oscar x fem!reader

UPSIDE DOWN | Spiderman!Oscar x reader