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avreygrid · 7 days ago

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Our Shared Quiet

She wasn’t supposed to fall for a Formula 1 driver--not when her life as a cardiothoracic surgery resident was already stretched thin between saving lives and curating her online world as a fashion/lifestyle influencer. But when a chance encounter with Lando Norris turns into something slow, magnetic, and impossible to define, Y/N finds herself caught between two lives she thought couldn’t coexist. As she faced spiraling headlines, pressure of performing at her best in both of her careers, and the distance that threatened to unravel what never had a label to begin with, she must ask herself: in a world that demands so much, can quiet love still survive the noise? (18k+ words)

Pairing: Lando Norris x doctor-influencer!reader Genre: Fluff, slow burn, fans to lover (kind of), bit of angst TW: Media pressure, public scrutiny, grief (death of a patient)

It seemed like the rain wouldn’t stop any time soon, when I hurriedly stepped outside my apartment lobby. I looked down to my feet, and saw that my canvas shoes were already splashed with brown puddles. Great, I thought to myself, what a great way to start an already late day. The streets were already busy with people, some running, probably catching the earliest MRT that could take them to their destination on time. Some were walking while casually sipping a cup of brown liquid with hot steam visible in the cold air. And there were people like me, who just arrived home late from a prolonged shift handoff and had their whole schedule of the day delayed.

It was my day off, and I had planned ahead of what I could do to make the most of one of the rarest days in a year. Juggling life as a cardiothoracic surgery resident and a fashion/lifestyle influencer sounded impossible even to my own ears. Yet here I was, just got back from a 48 hour shift at the hospital with heavy, dark eyebags, dull skin and chipped nails. I’d prefer to drown myself with pillows and blankets and sleep until tomorrow–especially after this long shift if it was not for the sake of making myself presentable for tonight’s dinner with a brand I’m collaborating with. I booked a 10 AM mani-pedicure appointment, a facial treatment at 12 (finally got to use my 500 USD worth of treatment subscription after abandoning it for more than 6 months), and also made an appointment with my sales associate at bottega. I have 15 minutes to get to the nail salon, which is a 25 minute walking distance. I’m so doomed.

By the time the clock hits 3 in the afternoon, I finished my facial treatment. My eyebags were still there yet barely noticeable. My face was glowing, and I was pretty satisfied with how instant the result was. I did have a good nap too so I wasn’t complaining. My feet then led me to bottega where I picked up a small purse that was finally in stock. It was an Andiamo clutch in this beautiful burgundy color that I’d been eyeing since forever. My favorite sales associate kindly texted me last night and I just had to grab it today.

The trip there was cut short when my phone rang. My high school best friend, Tiara, who's also my manager since my instagram and tiktok account took off and I personally couldn’t handle all the brands dealing alone said through the phone, “Hi! Where are you?”

I finalized the payment with my sales associate, and waited for him to pack my little baby when I answered, “I’m at Bottega, why?”

“No, just wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner event,” she said. “Look, there will be a lot of people with connections attending tonight–”

“Okay, I just need to play nice and mingle. I got it handled, Tiara.”

I hated attending these kinds of events. My job as a doctor was already demanding a lot of socializing, and I was not happy that doing social media–which used to be my escape, turned out to be as draining. Not that I hated my job, in fact I loved it. I really loved my job as a doctor, the satisfaction when I got to see my patients that came into the ER in the state of near death were finally discharged and thanked me personally for saving their lives. I also loved my job doing social media, where my videos could help thousands of people finally be able to live their lives confidently. It’s truly rewarding. But I just hate the socializing.

“Okay.. if you say so. I’ll come with you tonight, so don’t worry too much.” Tiara said. “And you might need to go home now, the glam team are on their way with our clothes.”

“Okay, okay see ya.”

Tiara ended the call just right in time when my bag was packed. “Here you go, Ms.Y/L/N.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Hey, hun!” Tiara hugged me as soon as I entered the living room. “I’ve been waiting for the glam team to get here!.”

I dropped my shopping bag on the sofa, made a beeline for the kitchen to grab some water. “T, remind me again which brand’s dinner tonight? I totally blanked.”

“It’s Tumi, I told you last night!”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t read your text. I was on call, remember?”

“My bad.” Tiara replied sheepishly.

I was sipping a cup of cold water when she suddenly jumped from the sofa and ran to me with her phone. “Dude!”

I nearly choked at the sudden movement, “What?”

She tapped the screen. It was a video posted on Instagram—someone walking through our local airport. I didn’t recognize the person, but the location was unmistakable. “It’s Lando Norris’ PR manager’s account, she’s in town!”

“So?”

“It’s the Tumi dinner, Y/N. And Lando’s their brand ambassador. Connect the dots.”

I tried to play it cool. “Okay… but there’s no guarantee he’s actually here. Maybe his PR manager is just visiting a family or—”

I stared at her, trying to keep my expression neutral. On the inside? Chaos. An emotional arrhythmia.

“Actually.. whatever,” she said. "You don’t even like McLaren."

She pretended to dismiss it, but I knew from that teasing glimmer in her eyes, she was testing me for a reaction.

“I don’t,” I said too quickly. “I’m a Mercedes girl through and through.”

Tiara raised a brow. “Mmhmm. So all that scrolling through Lando’s tagged photos last week was what? Research?”

I glared at her over the rim of my water bottle. “I was just scrolling.”

My heart skipped a beat. Lando Norris. In my city. Possibly at the same event I was going to tonight? No. Way.

I got into Formula 1 totally by accident. Second year of med school, drowning in anatomy flashcards, and just needed some background noise to help me went through a 12 hours study session. Turns out, 20 cars flying around a circuit at 300 km/h is terrible for concentration, but amazing for falling headfirst into a new obsession. I was a Mercedes girl from day one, how could I not be? The dominance, the strategy, Lewis Hamilton basically operating like a brain surgeon at 200 mph (still upset Lewis is not in mercedes anymore). It all felt like the F1 version of a perfectly run OR.

But then there was Lando. Ugh, Lando Norris. With that stupid charming smile, the chaotic overtakes, and somehow always looking like he was having the time of his life even when everything was falling apart. I told everyone he wasn’t my favorite—because technically, he wasn’t. But the way my phone just magically ended up on his Instagram? The way my chest did this tiny, traitorous flutter every time he popped up on screen? Yeah. I might be a Mercedes girl… but Lando Norris was my favorite guilty pleasure. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

The doorbell rang just as I took my last sip of water.

“They’re here!” Tiara called, already sprinting toward the door like she’d been waiting all day for this. To be fair, she probably had.

The glam team—two makeup artists, a hairstylist, and a stylist with a rack of options —walked in like a well-oiled machine. I stepped aside, already familiar with their routine as I’d worked with some of them for campaigns before. Still, there was something surreal about shifting gears from hospital scrubs to high fashion in a single afternoon.

“Y/N, you’re up first,” Layla, my go-to MUA, called. “We’ve got exactly ninety minutes before you need to be out the door.”

I took one last look at my phone—no new messages, no calls from the hospital—then headed to the vanity they had set up in our spare room. Ring lights were already glowing, mirrors prepped, and my tailored ivory suit was hanging on the back of the door like a promise.

Layla started with skin prep. “So… are we going full ‘Vogue spread’ or soft glam tonight?”

I grinned. “Let’s do a little of both. I need to look like I didn’t just survive two back-to-back 12-hour shifts.”

“You mean you did survive two back-to-back shifts,” she corrected. “And still look like this? Girl, you’re not human.”

As she worked, I opened my notes app, checking off content tasks for the night. BTS video with glam team, a flatlay with Tumi bag, perfume, invite, and some dinner clips.

“Close your eyes,” Layla said, holding my face like she was sculpting a masterpiece. “And stop fidgeting, you’re gonna ruin my liner.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” I muttered, then immediately bounced my knee again.

Tiara, lounging nearby in a silk robe, snorted. “You’ve been twitchy ever since I showed you that video. Just admit it—you’re hoping Lando shows up tonight.”

“I am not,” I said, very convincingly for someone clutching their phone like it might spontaneously generate a guest list.

“Uh-huh.” Tiara replied, very, very unconvinced.

Layla stepped back to admire her work. “So who’s this Lando guy? Boyfriend?”

I choked on absolutely nothing. “God, no. He’s just… a F1 driver. For McLaren.”

“The guy with the curls?” she asked, already picking up a highlighter. “You’re blushing.”

“No I’m not!”

“You are,” Tiara grinned. “And he’s not even here yet.”

I flopped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, look. I’m a Mercedes fan.”

“But,” Tiara added, holding back a smirk, “every time Lando Norris so much as breathes near a camera, you suddenly forget all that.”

“Because he’s annoyingly charming, okay?” I grumbled. “Like, smile-too-big-for-his-face, funny, chaos. He’s not even my type, and yet…”

“And yet you practically rewinded that one post-race interview five times last weekend.”

“It was four times,” I corrected, deadpan. “And for research.”

Layla was laughing now. “I love this.”

I groaned and reached for my water. “If he is at this dinner, I’m acting normal. Cool. Unbothered.”

Tiara raised a brow. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t mention that you once did a soft-glam look inspired by his helmet colors?”

“That’s not what that was and you know it,” I muttered, cheeks warming again.

An hour later, my face was done, hair in soft brushed waves, lashes fluttering like they had their own agenda. I slipped into my suit, a tailored ivory double-breasted blazer, cinched subtly at the waist paired with high-waisted straight-leg trousers, and clasped my minimalist gold jewelry in front of the mirror. A camera was already rolling on my phone stand, where I filmed a quick GRWM.

Tiara peeked in, already in a burgundy satin number that matched her lipstick. “Girl. You look like a sponsor’s dream.”

“You mean like I didn’t fall asleep updating patient charts at 3 a.m.?” I teased.

“Exactly. No one needs to know you scrubbed in for an aortic dissection case just 20 hours ago. Tonight, you’re a fashion girl. An it-girl.”

I grabbed my bag—Tumi, of course—and exhaled slowly.

Tonight wasn’t about fan moments or nerves. It was a brand dinner. A networking opportunity. A chance to show I could walk the line between saving lives and owning the room. But still… I mentally added one last note to my checklist. Do not fangirl over Lando Norris. (Not even if he smiles first).

The venue was pure understated luxury—low lighting, tall glass walls, a carefully curated crowd of editors, influencers, stylists, and just enough corporate energy to remind you this was a brand event. Soft ambient music played beneath the buzz of champagne flutes and soft laughter, and the Tumi logo gleamed on every backdrop and branded cocktail napkin.

Tiara and I stepped out of the car like we belonged there—because we did. Dressed to impress, camera-ready, brand-aligned. We'd done this a hundred times before, but tonight had a different edge to it. A buzz beneath my skin that had nothing to do with the event.

Inside, I slid into autopilot. I greeted a senior fashion editor I’d worked with on a shoot last fall, exchanged hugs with a couple of other creators I only ever saw at events like this, and smiled graciously as I answered the same questions I always got: “How do you manage being a doctor and an influencer?” and “Do you even sleep?”

“Not really,” I said with a laugh that was half-true. “But I schedule naps like I schedule rounds.”

The brand rep gave a toast, thanking us all for coming, and Tiara raised her glass in my direction with a wink. “You’re killing it tonight,” she whispered. “You’ve barely looked around for him.”

“Because I’m focused,” I said, sipping my drink. “And I’m sure he’s not even here.”

Which, of course, was when the energy in the room shifted.

You know that moment at events when someone important walks in? The air changes. Heads turn subtly but unmistakably. I followed a few glances out of pure curiosity, and there he was—Lando Norris, walking in like he didn’t just cause a ripple through the entire guest list.

He wasn’t doing anything remarkable. Just smiling politely, standing next to someone from the brand team, wearing a crisp black suit and his usual easy charm like it wasn’t completely illegal. I looked away immediately. I had to. If I kept looking, I’d get caught. And if I got caught, I’d blush. And if I blushed, Tiara would never let me live it down.

Instead, I buried myself in networking. More smiles, more polite conversations. I posed for a few photos in front of the Tumi wall, dropped my IG handle in a PR manager’s phone, and made a mental note to post a story later. But even as the night carried on and the music got louder, I couldn’t shake that feeling. That he was here. In the same room. Breathing the same air. Probably not even knowing I existed.

After a while, the room started to feel a little too warm, the mingling a little too rehearsed. My heels were still fine—thankfully—but my social battery? Not so much.

“I’m stepping out for air,” I murmured to Tiara, who gave me a thumbs-up without missing a beat in her conversation.

I found a side door that led to a quieter courtyard terrace, where the sounds of the party dulled into the background. The night air was cool against my skin, and I inhaled deeply, letting my shoulders drop. Out here, I could finally breathe.

I leaned against the railing, phone in hand, debating whether to scroll or just enjoy the moment. Then I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t turn around at first—plenty of people needed a break from the party. It wasn’t unusual.

But then a voice spoke, low and British, too familiar and real, I nearly dropped my phone.

“Didn’t expect anyone else out here,” he said. Casual. Kind of amused. “Bit loud in there, huh?”

I turned slowly, carefully schooling my expression.

There he was. In the dim courtyard light. Just him and me.

Lando Norris.

“Oh—yeah,” I said, praying my voice didn’t crack. “Needed to escape the networking gauntlet.”

He smiled. “You too, huh? I’ve shaken so many hands I’m pretty sure I’ve lost circulation.”

I laughed—because what else was I supposed to do? “Occupational hazard.”

He stepped closer, just enough to close the awkward distance but not enough to make it weird. “I’m Lando, by the way,” he said, extending a hand.

“I know,” I replied before I could stop myself.

His smile widened just a little, amused. “Right. Guess I walked into that one.”

I shook his hand, keeping my face neutral. “Y/N.”

His brow lifted a little, like he was trying to place me. “Nice to meet you. Are you with the brand?”

“Sort of. I’m a part time fashion and lifestyle content creator,” I said, pausing just long enough before adding, “And also a part time cardiothoracic surgery resident.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Seriously? That’s intense.”

“Tell me about it,” I smirked. “Between 12-hour shifts and flatlays, I barely have time to breathe.”

He laughed, and it was genuine. Warm.

“I don’t think I’ve met a doctor-influencer before.”

“I’m a niche market.”

We stood in a moment of comfortable quiet, and I felt the strangest thing—calm. Maybe because there was no audience out here. No flashes, no glances. Just two people who had unknowingly been orbiting each other from entirely different worlds.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “it’s kind of refreshing meeting someone who didn’t immediately want a selfie.”

I smiled, folding my arms. “I mean, the night’s still young.”

He laughed again, eyes glinting. “Fair enough.”

The quiet hum of the city wrapped around us as the noise from inside faded further into the background. Lando leaned lightly against the stone railing, arms relaxed, suit jacket open like he wasn’t just the reason half the event was losing their minds.

“You’re really a cardiology resident?” he asked after a pause, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“Cardiothoracic surgery, we uh, basically do surgery on people’s hearts.” I corrected him. “It’s my third year. It’s intense, but I love it.”

“That’s mad,” he said, eyes wide with genuine awe. “I can’t imagine having people’s actual hearts in your hands. Literally.”

“Well, not literally every day,” I said with a laugh.

“And you do content on top of that?”

“I never really planned to,” I admitted. “It started with me posting outfit pics during call nights to stay sane. Somehow, it blew up.”

He leaned back against the railing beside me, just close enough that I could feel his presence without it overwhelming the moment. “Must be intense.”

“It is,” I said softly. “But I like it that way.”

There was something curious in his expression. Not flirty. Not flashy. Just… intrigued. We stood in silence again, the kind that doesn’t need explaining. The kind that feels a little too comfortable for strangers.

“You into F1?” he asked after a while, almost cautiously.

I gave him a slow, measured look. “Oh, I follow.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s just say I know the difference between understeer and tire deg.”

His brows lifted, impressed. “Well, alright, doctor.”

“I’ve been watching for a few years,” I added.

“Let me guess,” he said, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Ferrari fan?”

“I’m a Mercedes fan.”

That made him laugh again, louder this time. “Ouch.”

Another beat of quiet passed, and this one lingered. I could feel it settling in the space between us—the unspoken curiosity. He didn’t know who I was—not the girl who posted race-day looks, not the one who debated tire strategy in the close friend’s story, not the one who pretended not to notice him every time he appeared on her screen. And yet, standing here with him, I felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with recognition.

“It's weird,” I said quietly, “how the sport changes on you.”

Lando looked over, his profile soft in the terrace light. “What do you mean?”

I ran a finger along the edge of my glass, tracing nothing. “I started rooting for Mercedes because of Lewis Hamilton. Not because they were winning—well, maybe at first. But more because of him. The way he carried himself. Composed. Relentless. Loud in the ways that mattered and quiet in the ways that didn’t. He made the whole thing feel like art.”

Lando didn’t speak. He listened, eyes steady.

“I think I needed someone like that back then,” I continued. “During med school, when everything felt like it was falling apart, there was this guy out there, making every race look like poetry and still showing up for more than just himself. He was… I don’t know. Constant.”

“You said was,” Lando said softly.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

A silence stretched again, thicker this time.

“When he announced he was leaving for Ferrari…” I paused, exhaling slowly. “I felt like the ground shifted.”

Lando’s expression didn’t change, but there was something thoughtful in it. “Everyone’s still adjusting.”

“Sure. But for me, it wasn’t just a driver changing teams. It was like the foundation cracked.” I looked up at him. “You spend so long tying yourself to one thing—one team, one identity—and then suddenly it changes. And you’re just… left figuring out who you are without it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s heavy.”

I gave a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. That was a little too existential for a brand dinner.”

“No,” he said quickly, gently. “I get it.”

“Do you?” I asked, unsure if I was pushing.

He shrugged, gaze slipping back out toward the skyline. “You think being a driver means you get to choose who you are in all this. But sometimes… you’re just trying to keep up with who everyone thinks you should be. Sometimes you don't even know who you're racing for anymore. Yourself? The team? The headlines?”

That surprised me—how quietly he said it. How real it sounded.

“I guess we’re all just trying to hang on to what makes us feel like ourselves,” I said.

He looked at me again. “And what’s that for you?”

I hesitated. The question was too sharp and too soft at once.

“Honestly?” I said finally. “Right now… maybe standing out here, talking to someone who sees the chaos from the other side.”

His lips curved into a faint smile. “You don’t seem like someone who likes chaos.”

“I don’t,” I said.

He looked at me—not like someone just trying to place me, but like someone trying to understand the shape of me.

“You ever think of switching teams?” he asked, his voice lighter now, teasing.

I laughed softly. “Lando Norris trying to recruit me to McLaren?”

He smirked. “No harm in asking.”

“Let’s just say… I’m open to change.”

And this time, the silence that followed didn’t need to be filled at all.

I took another sip of my drink, letting the quiet wrap around us again. Lando glanced at his phone—not in a rude way, more like he’d just remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be. The smile that had rested so easily on his lips began to slip back into something more practiced.

“I should probably head back in,” he said, quietly.

I nodded. “Of course. You’ve got a room full of people to... charm.”

He smiled at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes the same way it had before. He took a slow step back, then paused. Like he wanted to say something else but wasn’t sure if he should.

Instead, he simply said, “It was really good meeting you, Y/N.”

My name sounded different coming from him. Softer. Like he’d memorized the shape of it just in case.

“You too,” I said, more gently than I meant to. “Thanks for the… quiet.”

He hesitated, just for a breath, then gave me one final look. A glance that felt like a question left unanswered. And then he turned and walked back into the golden light of the terrace doors, swallowed by the noise, the cameras, the curated chaos. I stayed out there a little longer, letting the night press gently against my skin, the city stretching quiet around me. There was no music now. Just memory.

No glowing terrace lights, no shared silence, no subtle look across the railing like we’d both seen something in each other we weren’t ready to name. Just the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights. A surgical mask pressed to my face. And the weight of clipped, focused voices calling out vital stats over the beep of monitors. If last night hadn’t been etched into my mind like a strange, golden dream, I’d almost believe it didn’t happen.

The thing about being a CT resident is, it doesn’t care about who you talked to the night before. It doesn’t wait for you to process anything. You scrub in, focus up, and hold a human heart in your hands like it’s the only thing that matters. Because it is.

Rounds were brutal that morning. Two back-to-back valve replacements, one trauma case that rolled in unexpectedly at 4 a.m., and an attending who seemed personally offended by anyone who’d gotten more than three hours of sleep. I moved on autopilot. Efficient. Precise. Calm.

But every now and then, during a lull—when I checked a vitals screen or scrubbing my hands for the next case—my mind drifted.

"It was really good meeting you, Y/N." "You too. Thanks for the… quiet."

I hadn’t followed him. Not after that night. Not even when I’d seen tagged photos pop up from the event, his name trending again that weekend. It felt too fragile to touch. Like acknowledging it publicly would make the memory evaporate.

Exactly two months later, I was in Rome.

I’d flown in for an international cardiothoracic seminar I never imagined I’d get selected for, let alone present at. It had taken weeks of prepping slides, coordinating surgical footage, polishing up every word of my case report until it sang.

And somehow, it worked. My name was called. My report was named the best presentation of the entire conference. Applause rang out in that massive, echoing hall. My mentor squeezed my shoulder. My hands, usually so steady in an OR, trembled slightly as I accepted the plaque.

Later, in the hotel room, I propped my phone against a lamp and snapped a photo—the plaque tucked in my lap, still in my formal outfit, dark circles under my eyes, but glowing. Proud. Real. I posted it to Instagram along with a snippet of video my fellow resident took of me while i was presenting my case report on stage with a caption that didn’t overthink it.

Today was loud in all the right ways. Grateful to be doing what I love, even when I forget to sleep.🫀🇮🇹✨ #CTSurgery #WomenInMedicine

I closed the app without refreshing it and drifted to my sleep.

The next morning, I opened my phone while waiting for my espresso in the hotel café. Notifications stacked higher than usual. Comments. Story mentions. DMs. My med-following engaged, a few comments from fellow residents, some reposts. A couple of med pages reshared it. Some surgical meme accounts reposted it with the caption “CT Barbie strikes again.”

And then I saw it, that faint heart icon from someone I hadn’t seen on my feed, maybe intentionally avoided, in weeks.

@lando liked your post.

I stared at it for a second longer than necessary.

Then I swiped up. He’d followed me. Not just liked the photo. Followed.

I froze, thumb hovering over the screen. The room suddenly felt too small. I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me. His profile picture, the blue checkmark. That name. There was no message. No comment. Just a like. A quiet digital fingerprint on a life he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet… He did.

Or maybe he’d just stumbled across the post by accident. Explore pages were unpredictable. But deep down, I knew better. Something about the timing, the quiet of it, the way it felt—not loud or performative. Just a quiet nod, like he’d looked and thought, there she is.

My heart thudded once, low and solid. And I did the only thing that made sense. I followed him back.

I'd just arrived from Rome last night and the reality of residency had kicked in. The show must go on. The early follow-ups, lab-ordering, rounds with the attendings, and back-to-back heart surgeries. This morning started the way most mornings did—too early, too cold, and with Tiara poking her head into my bedroom like an overly caffeinated storm cloud.

"Did you see it?” she asked.

I groaned, face still buried in my pillow. “If this is about my missed laundry pickup, I already hate myself.”

“No,” she said, sliding onto the edge of my bed, phone in hand. “Lando.”

That woke me up. I lifted my head just enough to see the screen. A clip from a race weekend interview—one of those soft, casual paddock setups, with the usual “rapid fire” questions that drivers either deflect or accidentally get too real with.

The interviewer asked, “Anyone outside of F1 who’s impressed you lately?”

And there he was. Looking thoughtful. A little tired, like they’d caught him between commitments. Lando smiled, soft, crooked, barely there.

“Met someone recently,” he said. “Not from this world. Completely different, actually. But smart. Focused. You can tell when someone’s used to pressure. She… surprised me.”

Tiara turned to me slowly, mouth already open. “Smart, someone used to pressure. Y/N, he’s clearly talking about you.”

I blinked, sitting up. “You don’t know that.”

“Girl, you are the only CT resident he’s had a moonlight chat with on a brand dinner terrace. Just admit it. You are his mysterious ‘not from this world’ girl.”

I didn’t respond. Mostly because part of me wanted it to be true. And the other part was terrified it was.

Hours later, I was back in my actual world—under too bright hospital lights, halfway through rounds, no makeup, hair in a half-frizzed ponytail, scrubs wrinkled from walking around the hospital for too many consults this early morning.

I’d just finished morning notes and slipped outside to grab a coffee from the tiny café around the corner. It wasn’t fancy—just a very good espresso, low noise, and no crowd seen. I had one AirPod in, my tote slung over one shoulder, phone open to patient labs, brain already a dozen miles ahead, partly still thinking about the interview Tiara showed me this morning.

The barista was halfway through ringing me up when I heard it, “Didn’t think you were real until I saw the badge.”

I turned.

There he was. Hoodie. Joggers. Hat pulled low. No PR team. No cameras. Yet, I recognized that smile anywhere.

Lando.

My heart felt like it dropped to the floor. “Shouldn’t you be in Monaco or Milan or… not standing behind me in a hospital café?” I asked, voice low.

He smiled, that same half-smile he wore in the interview clip. “Flight delayed. So I had time to kill and someone on the team recommended this brand. Googled it, and found the nearest one from my hotel. Saw the reviews, said the coffee saves lives.”

“It saves mine,” I said, trying to keep it light.

Then his eyes flicked down to my ID badge. My name. The hospital crest. My scrub top–creased, definitely unglamorous, still faintly coffee-stained from pre-rounds.

“You look different,” he said.

I winced. “Bad different?”

“No.” He shook his head, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Just… real. Like this is your grid.”

I laughed, cheeks warm. “You mean exhausted and slightly overwhelmed?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “But also confident. Focused.”

My coffee came up. I reached for it, trying not to let my hand shake.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I admitted, voice lower now.

“Same,” he said. We stood there for a moment in that weird, suspended quiet—the kind of quiet that happens when something’s shifting and neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Finally, he reached for his coffee, then nodded toward the door. “You have time to sit?”

I glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes until my next consult. Not long. Not nearly enough. But I nodded. “Yeah. A few.”

He smiled, “Then let’s sit in your world for a bit.”

We slipped into a corner table near the window, tiny, wobbly, barely enough space for two coffees and the weight of whatever this was between us. I set my drink down, unwrapped the corner of a protein bar, and leaned back in my chair, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I was sitting across from Lando Norris in scrubs and no lipstick.

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he kept looking at me like this was the version of me he’d been trying to find since that night on the terrace.

“Do you always start your mornings like this?” he asked, glancing around the small café.

“More or less. Surgery, caffeine, maybe a protein bar if I remember I’m a human with needs.”

He smirked. “And yet somehow you still look like you belong in a magazine.”

I gave him a look. “This?” I motioned to myself. “This is the opposite of Vogue.”

He shook his head, smiling behind his cup. “Still. There’s something about the way you carry all of it. Like… you know exactly where you’re going. Even when you’re sleep-deprived.”

I took a sip of my coffee, avoiding his eyes, those green eyes, for a beat. It was flattering. But also disarming.

“So,” I said finally, setting my cup down. “That interview.”

He didn’t flinch, but I could tell by the way his thumb tapped the side of his drink that he knew exactly what I meant.

“Tiara, my best friend and manager, woke me up at 5 am showing me the clip ,” I added. “She was convinced you were talking about me.”

He met my eyes then. “Was she wrong?”

I held his gaze, let the silence stretch.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “I think if it wasn’t me, you’re either dating a pilot or having deep talks with your Uber drivers.”

Lando laughed. That warm, unguarded kind of laugh that made his eyes squint. “Fair.”

There was a beat. Then he said, more seriously, “It was you.”

I watched him for a moment—this person who lived in a world of constant spotlight and chaos, now sitting across from me in a quiet café like we did this all the time.

“You didn’t have to say that,” I said.

“I know.”

“So why did you?”

He leaned back slightly, shoulders relaxed, tone softer. “Because when we talked that night, it stuck with me. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You weren’t performing. You just… were.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And that impressed you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. A lot more than people pretending to have it all figured out.”

There was something deeply sincere about the way he said it. Like it wasn’t part of a game. Like he didn’t want anything from me except the truth.

“So,” he added after a moment, “what did you think? About what I said.”

I considered that for a long second.

“I think… I’ve spent so much of my life trying to prove I belong in this field. In the OR, on the rotation list, on conference stages. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that it’s okay to let people see me outside of that, in all the mess and exhaustion and…” I gestured to my coffee, my tired eyes, my stained scrubs. “This.”

He smiled again, more tender this time. “I don’t think it’s mess. I think it’s real. That’s rare.”

“Especially in your world,” I said.

He nodded. “That’s why yours stood out.”

I looked down at the sleeve of my coffee cup. The moment felt full — not rushed, not loud, but weighted. And honest.

He glanced out the window, then back at me. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Did I make it into any interviews?”

I gave a soft laugh. “Not yet. I’ve been a little busy doing heart surgery and accidentally going viral.”

His grin returned. “Right. The case report win.”

I paused. “Oh, you saw that?”

“Of course,” he said, sipping his coffee like it was obvious. “It popped up on my explore page, and then suddenly your name was everywhere. Reposts, medical blogs, even a ‘Hot Doctors of Instagram’ list, which—by the way—terrible photo crop.”

I flushed. “You did a deep dive?”

He grinned. “A shallow scroll. But yeah, I saw it. That was impressive.”

I softened. “Thanks. That case meant a lot to me. The kid we operated on was thirteen. Rare congenital defect. She’s doing well.”

Lando didn’t joke or deflect. Just gave a small nod, like he was processing more than he let on. “That’s a lot to hold.”

“It is,” I said quietly, almost to myself. “But it’s the weight I signed up for.”

He leaned back slightly, swirling the coffee in his cup. “Kind of wild, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“That people trust you with all that,” he said, glancing at me over the rim of his cup, casual on the surface but something else flickering underneath. “Like...you just show up and do it.”

I tilted my head. “I could say the same about you.”

“Eh,” he smirked. “I get help from a fast car and a very good team.”

“And I get help from caffeine and very good fellow residents and very experienced attendings.”

He laughed—low, easy. “You know, I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I saw you again. But scrubs? Kind of iconic.”

“Iconic?” I raised a brow.

“Yeah,” he said, half-shrugging. “Honestly? You might pull them off better than I do my race suit.”

I gave him a look. “That’s a bold statement.”

He leaned in just slightly, grinning. “Terrifying for my ego, really.”

I laughed, shaking my head. The kind of laugh that slipped out before I could catch it. Then, quieter, I added, “I didn’t think I’d see you again, either.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just met my eyes, something unreadable there. Then he said, lightly, “Yeah. Thought you’d disappear back into the OR and never look back.”

“Almost did.”

His smile was crooked now. “Guess I got lucky.”

The silence between us stretched, calm and unhurried. It felt like we were both aware of something hanging just out of reach—but neither of us wanted to pull it down too fast.

Then the sharp buzz of my pager inside my tote bag cut through it. I glanced down. “Consult in fifteen.”

He stood with me, brushing his hand through his hair. “Back to real life, huh?”

I nodded, slipping my phone into my coat pocket. “Always.”

As I reached for the door, he followed a few steps behind, then spoke, easy, offhand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant it as an invitation or just a thought said aloud.

“If you ever feel like stepping out of this world for a bit…” A pause. “I know one with slightly worse coffee. And way more noise.”

I turned, a smile already forming. “That your way of offering a paddock pass?”

He shrugged, all mock innocence. “Could be. Could also just be coffee. Somewhere quieter. No pagers allowed.”

I looked at him for a moment, really looked. The way he wore calm like armor. The way his grin never quite gave away everything he was thinking.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Fair enough.”

I stepped out into the hallway, coffee in one hand and my pager buzzing in the other, still half-processing what had just happened. I hadn’t expected to see Lando again—especially not here, in the middle of my chaotic, unfiltered reality. But there he was, showing up in a space that wasn’t curated or polished, and somehow that made it mean more. I felt an unexpected sense of relief. He’d seen me exactly as I was—tired, wrinkled scrubs, zero glamour—and he hadn’t flinched. No cameras, no performance, just a quiet kind of presence that lingered even after he was gone. And in that moment, it felt more intimate than anything that came with spotlights.

The DMs started sporadically. A reaction here. A comment there. A joke about terrible coffee or the chaos of hospital vending machines. Nothing serious. Nothing obvious.

But it became a rhythm.

When I posted a photo of the CT team post-surgery, hair tied back, mask line still faint on my cheeks, Lando replied to my DM.

@lando : can’t tell if this is a flex or a cry for help.

@you: it’s both. we survived three surgeries and one cafeteria meatloaf.

@lando: that’s championship-level endurance.

When Lando posted a mid-week race prep selfie, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes serious, I replied:

@you: that face says “I’m pretending to listen to strategy notes.”

@lando: you’d be correct.

@you: you need flashcards.

@lando: you offering to tutor?

The pace was easy. Undemanding. And somehow, it became routine.

I’d find myself checking my phone after long cases, smiling at his messages without thinking. He’d send voice notes at odd hours. One while waiting on a delayed flight, another from the driver’s room after a rainy quali. Sometimes I responded with text, sometimes a photo of me half-asleep with a post-it on my forehead that said "Charting. Mentally gone."

Still, neither of us named whatever this was.

Until one night, two months after our coffee. I posted a selfie on my Story—legs kicked up on couch, pizza in hand, hair loose for once, and the caption “First day of annual leave: achieved.”

Less than a minute later, his name popped up.

@lando: Wait, you’re finally off? Like, not going to crack open a sternum tomorrow?

@you: Wild, I know. Two weeks. Already forgetting how to hold a scalpel.

@lando: So you’re saying there’s a window where you’re not tied to a hospital?

@you: Technically yes. Why? Need heart surgery?

@lando: Not today. But... there’s a race next weekend. Silverstone. Home turf.

@you: I know. I watch F1 even when I'm in my on-call room.

@lando: Then maybe… @lando: Come watch it from this side of the fence?

I blinked at the screen. Read it twice. Then once more.

@you: You inviting me?

@lando: I mean… yeah. @lando: I’d like you there. @lando: No fireproof or scrubs required.

I hesitated—not because i didn’t want to go, but because it suddenly felt real. The kind of invitation that wasn’t just playful DMs or stolen café moments. The kind that made me wonder what this was becoming.

@you: I’ll think about it.

@lando: I figured you’d say that. @lando: So I already told my team you might say yes.

I rolled my eyes.

@you: Arrogant.

@lando: Confident.

And just beneath that message, a second one popped up:

@lando: Would be good to see you again, Y/N. @lando: Off the grid, but maybe not so off-limits this time.

The inside of the McLaren hospitality suite felt like walking into a universe that ran on its own frequency. Sleek, fast-moving, humming with quiet intensity. Engineers moved between rooms, screens blinked with data I didn’t pretend to understand, and everyone wore the same focused expression she recognized from pre-op mornings.

“This is insane,” I whispered, watching someone walk by with three radios clipped to their belt and an iPad tucked under one arm.

Lando glanced at me. “You’re literally training to become a heart surgeon and this is what impresses you?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “My OR doesn’t have telemetry data and tire warmers. You’ve basically built a spaceship garage.”

He grinned, slowing his pace so I could take it in. “Want the grand tour?”

“You mean the one that ends with me somehow accidentally breaking a wing mirror and owing McLaren several million?”

“I’ll keep you away from the carbon fiber,” he promised.

They weaved through corridors, and he showed me where the team debriefs happened, the simulator space, the briefing room I wasn’t technically allowed in—but he still opened the door with a wink.

At some point, a few mechanics passed by and nodded at me with curious smiles. Just as I was admiring a display of past liveries, a familiar voice sounded from behind them. “So you’re the doctor.”

I turned, pulse quick. Oscar Piastri strolled over, wearing his race suit half unzipped and a look that was either neutral or mildly amused, I couldn’t quite tell.

“This is Y/N,” Lando said. “A surgeon. Came to make sure I don’t pass out mid-turn eight.”

I gave Oscar a half-nod, trying to summon cool professionalism but ending up somewhere between a smile and a please don’t notice I’m internally combusting expression. “Cardiothoracic resident,” I clarified. “Not a full surgeon yet.”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

I blinked. “You… do?”

He shrugged, totally unfazed. “Instagram algorithm loves you. My girlfriend showed me a video of your fit checks in the hospital, she said you have energy of a vampire, being a surgeon yet still doing contents. And Lando mentioned you a while back — said you beat five guys in tuxedos at a case report seminar.”

Lando groaned. “Okay, I told that story once.”

“You told it twice,” Oscar replied. Then, to me: “Nice to finally meet the doctor who apparently has better lap time under pressure than Lando on mediums.”

I laughed, maybe a little too hard. “I don’t know about that. I just talk fast when I’m nervous.”

Oscar gave a small, approving nod, then glanced at Lando. “Good luck today.”

And then he was gone.

I turned to Lando. “You told people about me?”

He gave me a lopsided grin. “I might’ve mentioned you in passing.”

“In passing?”

“Very quick passing. Like, turn-two kind of quick.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

I was still recovering from that moment when we stepped outside toward the other motorhomes, just as a familiar figure passed by—flanked by cameras and handlers, sleek in a red polo and sunglasses.

Lewis.

Lewis Hamilton.

I barely had time to register the Ferrari logo on his chest before he caught my eye with the briefest flicker of recognition—probably because I was staring like he was the second coming.

“Lewis!” Lando called out to him from the entrance of the hospitality while I’m internally trying hard not to freak out. Lewis walked our way, and Lando gave him a quick nod. “Lewis. This is Y/N, she's a big fan.”

Lewis smiled and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I shook it, praying my palm wasn’t sweating like a med student on their first day in the OR.

“You’re the surgeon, right?” Lewis asked, casual as anything.

I blinked. “I—uh, yeah. How do you…?”

“Your seminar clip popped up on my feed,” he said. “That case with the congenital defect? Nicely handled. Takes a lot of clarity under pressure.”

I think I blacked out for a second. I didn’t expect that instagram post of mine was this.. viral.

“Thanks,” I managed, heart thudding. “That… means a lot. You were the reason I started watching Formula 1, actually.”

Lewis smiled—wide and warm and humble. “That’s good to hear. Maybe next time we'll chat more. So nice to meet you. Sorry—gotta run. Team debrief.” He gestured vaguely toward the scarlet motorhome behind him.

“No worries,” I said, heart thudding in my chest like an over-caffeinated metronome. “Big fan. Of everything.”

He gave a small laugh, already turning away. “Stay out of the heat.”

And then he was gone.

Once Lewis walked off and the initial shock wore off just enough for me to start breathing like a normal human being, I turned to Lando, completely dazed.

“I just shook hands with Lewis Hamilton,” I whispered.

“You did,” he said, smug.

“And he complimented my case report,” I added.

“He did.”

"He looked pretty good in red,"

Lando sneered at me, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

“I’m going to sit down before I faint.”

He laughed softly and nudged his head toward a quieter spot behind the hospitality suite—a small bench overlooking the back part of the paddock, away from the main media flow. “Come on. Take a pit stop.”

We sat in a kind of bubble—close enough to hear the background hum of crew radios and tire warmers, but just far enough that no one was really paying attention to us. For a minute, neither of us said anything.

I sipped a cup of coffee someone had pressed into my hand without me noticing. My palms were still a little clammy. “I still can’t believe you invited me,” I said finally, voice low.

He glanced over, one arm slung across the back of the bench. “Why not?”

I shrugged, eyes still fixed ahead. “You didn’t have to.”

“Exactly why I did.”

I turned to look at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone.

“You looked like you needed air that night,” he added, more lightly. “And now here you are, inhaling brake dust and I've warned you, our coffee here isn't the best.”

I laughed under my breath. “It’s a weird kind of paradise.”

“You get used to it,” he said. “But I figured if you were going to take a break from your world, it should be somewhere that doesn’t ask anything from you.”

My throat caught, just a little. It wasn’t a big gesture. Not loud. Not grand. But in a life where everything had been so rigidly scheduled, measured, timed to the minute—this, whatever it was, felt like a pause I hadn’t realized I needed.

The sky hung low and heavy, a deep silver stretched across the horizon. The kind of rain only Silverstone knows how to summon. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and electricity, every heartbeat around me syncing to the growl of engines waiting to be unleashed. I stood just beyond the garage, headset idle in my hand, watching the grid form beneath the mist. Max at the front. Oscar beside him. And Lando, third, just as he said he would be. His home race, and he was right in the thick of it.

The downpour came like a curtain, sudden and unrelenting. Rain turned the track into a mirror, reflecting the blinking start lights above like tiny stars trembling in water. Everything blurred, the outlines of helmets, the streaks of color, the boundary between nerves and awe. I gripped the headset tighter, though I had no role to play. I was just there to feel it. And God, I felt everything.

The lights went out, and the cars surged forward like unleashed storms. Max took the early lead, but Oscar moved like a blade through water, slipping ahead with calculated grace. And then Lando, steady, patiently found his moment. A sharp breath caught in my throat as he swept into second, fluid and fearless. My chest swelled with something too big for words.

The storm thickened. The safety car was called. Pit crews danced in the chaos, tires changed with choreography that defied the rain. Lando held his ground. Oscar widened his lead, until a penalty rewrote the script, and suddenly, Lando was first.

The final laps blurred into something dreamlike. Raindrops hit the tarmac like applause. Every corner felt like it could tilt the world. I didn’t know I was holding my breath until I saw the flag, that checkered promise slicing through the storm.

Lando had won. He won the British Grand Prix, his home race.

The crowd roared, but I could barely hear it over the wild beat of my own heart. McLaren spilled into the pit lane, arms raised, faces soaked in rain and joy. Confetti tangled with droplets in the air, a strange kind of magic. I leaned back against the cold wall, still trembling from it all—the tension, the beauty, the impossible victory that felt so utterly right.

This wasn’t just the race I had always dreamed of attending. It was his moment. And somehow, impossibly, I had been there to see it from the inside.

Parc Fermé was an electric blur.

Rain still misted down like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the race was over, and yet no one cared. Crew members were yelling, hugging, crying, soaked through and grinning like fools. Cameras surged toward the cars and the winning driver, Lando, helmet off, hair damp and curling at the edges, absolutely radiant with disbelief.

I hovered near the back of the McLaren crowd, not wanting to intrude. My heart was still racing, as if I’d driven the last fifteen laps myself. I’d screamed into the headset so hard during the final overtakes I was surprised I hadn’t broken it.

He climbed out of the car slowly, like it took a moment for his brain to catch up to what had just happened. He tore off his gloves, tossed them aside, and let the cheers wash over him.

And then—he turned. Not to the cameras. Not to the reporters. But to someone just outside the barrier. His mother.

I recognized her immediately. He’d posted about her once—on Mother’s Day, I think—and the resemblance was undeniable. Her expression was nothing short of overwhelming joy, pride etched in every line of her face as she leaned over the barrier to wrap her arms around him.

He melted into her hug like a kid again, helmet pressed against her shoulder. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, not with all the chaos around us, but I saw him nod, saw his hand squeeze hers, saw her brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead before pulling back with a teary smile.

He laughed, and then turned back into the swirl of the crowd.And that’s when his eyes found me.

I was still half-hidden behind a line of engineers, hands shoved in my coat pockets, trying not to look like I’d just lived through a spiritual experience. But when our eyes met, the noise seemed to dim. He didn’t hesitate. Just started walking toward me, like everything else could wait. And as he got closer, I noticed it—the glint in his eyes that wasn’t just adrenaline or victory. It was something softer. Calmer.

“Hi,” he said, just above the noise, still slightly breathless.

“Hi,” I replied, blinking rain out of my lashes. “Nice little drive.”

He huffed a laugh, cheeks flushed from effort and cold. “Could’ve been worse.”

“You made Verstappen look slow.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he teased, but his smile faltered a little—turned thoughtful. “I kept wondering… if you’d stayed through the whole thing.”

I tilted my head. “I wasn’t going to miss your first home win.”

His mouth twitched. “Wasn’t sure if it’d ever happen, to be honest.”

“Well,” I said, stepping a little closer, “you made history. In the rain. At Silverstone.”

The moment held—not loud, not dramatic. Just full.

And when he finally pulled me into a damp, exhausted, elated hug, I realized I didn’t care about the cameras or the cold or how wild this all was. Because I was here. And so was he.

The crowd roared as Lando stepped onto the top step of the podium, rain still falling in that classic Silverstone drizzle—light but ever-present, like the British weather was weeping with pride.

I stood off to the side with the team, tucked under a sea of orange jackets and champagne-soaked flags. The cheers were deafening, but my smile felt louder. He looked up as the anthem played, face tilted toward the sky, big smile etched to his face. His name echoed through the speakers, through the grandstands, through my chest.

“First time?” a voice said beside me, light and amused.

I turned—and froze.

His mother.

She had the same warmth in her eyes as her son, the same wry half-smile, like she already knew something you didn’t. She was dressed casually but elegant, rain mist clinging to her curls, and she was watching the podium like her heart was right up there with him.

“I—uh, yes,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. “To the Grand Prix. Not… not life.”

She chuckled. “You’re Y/N, right?”

My brain short-circuited. “He… mentioned me?”

She gave me a knowing look. “He doesn’t shut up, actually.”

That made me laugh—genuinely. The tension in my shoulders slipped just a little.

“I’m—sorry,” I said, holding out a damp hand. “I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I didn’t want to—well, it’s his moment.”

“It still is,” she said kindly, shaking my hand. “And you’re part of it, aren’t you?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. But I smiled, and I hoped it said enough. We stood there together, watching him raise the trophy over his head like it weighed nothing, the crowd roaring his name. And for the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel like I was intruding. I felt like I belonged.

I woke up to over two hundred unread notifications, a slightly damp McLaren hoodie draped over the armchair, and the distinct post-race high that hadn’t quite worn off. The silence in the room felt unnatural after the roar of Silverstone the day before, like my body was still waiting for another engine to rev, another crowd to scream. My phone buzzed again. Probably the seventh time since I opened my eyes.

And then it rang.

Tiara. FaceTime. Of course.

I answered without thinking, still rubbing sleep from my eyes.

Her face filled the screen immediately—wide-eyed, fully dressed, holding a smoothie she clearly wasn’t drinking.

“Don’t even try to pretend nothing happened,” she snapped. “You—you—are in a full-on F1 fanfic and didn’t tell me?!”

“I literally texted you ‘I survived’ at midnight.”

“You survived a victory hug from Lando Norris that’s now a trending GIF on Twitter,” she deadpanned. “You think I’m talking about your survival?”

I groaned, rolling onto my back. “It wasn’t a hug-hug. It was just… we were both soaked. Emotional. You had to be there.”

“Oh, I was,” she said, tapping her screen. “Courtesy of this HIGH-DEF footage of you two at Parc Fermé. He spotted you across a crowd like some rom-com lead. It’s giving British Golden Retriever sees girl who understands cardiovascular surgery.”

I buried my face in the pillow. “Oh my God.”

Tiara wasn’t done.

“And don’t think I missed the Race Day Fit Check post either. You looked fire, babe. Leather jacket, tailored trousers, white trainers — very off-duty surgeon meets paddock princess. The timeline’s obsessed.”

I sat up finally, switching app to my instagram. She wasn’t lying.

My Instagram post from yesterday was just a simple mirror pic captioned “On leave. Let the engines do the stitching today 🏁🫀” had blown up.

Fashion accounts were reposting it under #OffDutyGridMuse, and I had DMs from people asking for the links to my outfit. Apparently, my second slide—a short video clip of me walking along the McLaren hospitality line, lanyard swaying, hair slicked back, sunnies on—had also hit explore.

But that wasn’t even the main event.

Everywhere I looked, people were posting clips of Lando’s hug. The way his eyes had found me. The fact that, soaked and trembling with adrenaline, he’d walked straight past the cameras to me.

There were side-by-side comparison edits already. Me in my scrubs. Me in McLaren orange. Headlines like:

“Who is Y/N? The CT surgeon-turned-style icon quietly taking over Silverstone.”

“From ORs to Overtakes — Dr. Y/N and Lando’s Rainy Moment Sparks Internet Buzz”

“Lando Norris Celebrates Home Win With Emotional Hug – Not With Teammates, But a Certain Doctor?”

I blinked, still processing.

“Okay,” I mumbled, “this is insane.”

“No, you’re insane for not warning me this was even on the table,” Tiara said. “Also, side note, your smile in that video? That wasn’t your 'friend' smile. That was your ‘I have a pulse because he makes it race’ smile.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Lando Norris liked your post.

I just stared at the screen, my own OOTD post sitting there—still getting comments, likes ticking upward faster than I could read them—when the notification came through. For a moment, it felt like the online world and my real one had crashed into each other.

And then—a DM came through.

@lando: So... race-day fit rating 10/10 @lando: Surgeon x paddock runway walk? Untouchable. @lando: Also @lando: If you’re not on a plane yet… breakfast?

I smiled. Not the camera kind. The kind that starts behind your ribs and works its way up. Tiara narrowed her eyes at me through the screen. “That’s his name popping up, isn’t it?”

“I have to go,” I said, biting back a grin.

“Oh my god, you’re going.”

“I’m just getting food.”

“With Lando. Norris.”

I didn’t deny it. I just stood up, grabbed my towel before beelining for the bathroom. “Wish me luck.”

Tiara was grinning like she’d manifested this entire storyline herself. “You don’t need luck, babe. You’ve already got pole position.”

The café was small—the kind with handwritten menus, slightly chipped mugs, and windows that fogged easily from the warmth inside. It smelled like espresso and sourdough toast. The only people around were a couple with a toddler in the corner and a server who clearly didn’t care about anyone’s fame level.

Which was, I realized, exactly the point.

Lando was already there when I arrived. Hoodie pulled over damp curls, cap low, eyes on the window like he was still processing the race in slow motion. But when I stepped inside, he looked up and smiled—the kind of smile that wasn’t just reflex.

“You came,” he said.

“I thought about ghosting you,” I teased, pulling off my coat.

“But?”

“But you look like someone who forgets to eat post-victory, so I figured I had to be here.”

“Not wrong,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to the coffee in front of him. “You want something?”

I nodded, and he flagged the server down. When I slid into the seat across from him, he gave me a once-over. “You look different.”

“Better or worse?”

He smiled. “Just… not the grid version of you. It’s nice.”

“Same,” I said, nodding to his hoodie. “No helmet. No microphones. You’re kind of quiet without the noise.”

He laughed into his cup. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” I said. “I like quiet.”

His gaze lingered on me, serious for a beat longer than I expected. Then he reached for the sugar packet and shrugged like he needed to lighten the air.

“I almost missed my press call last night,” he said.

“Why?”

“Kept wondering if I should’ve kissed you.”

I choked on my coffee.

He grinned. “Relax, I didn’t.”

“Obviously.”

“But I thought about it.”

I stared at him, trying not to smile. “Why?”

He leaned back. “Honestly? I don’t know. You were just there. And I’d been in the car for almost two hours and all I could think about was the tumi dinner where I first met you, and the hospital cafe, and how you make a race feel quieter. Like, less... frantic.”

My chest tightened at that — because I knew exactly what he meant. That thing we hadn’t said out loud yet.

“So,” I said softly, “why didn’t you?”

He shrugged again, slower this time. “Didn’t want to make it a moment you’d regret.”

I looked down, tracing the edge of my spoon. “And now?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Now I’m having breakfast with a girl who slices open hearts for a living and still showed up to Silverstone looking like a Vogue spread.”

“And?”

“And I think I should let her finish her coffee before I consider kissing her again.”

My mouth curved without meaning to. “So considerate.”

He raised a brow. “I’m patient. Also mildly terrified of you.”

“Good.” I gave him a simple smile, despite the butterflies. We sat there, quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t full of tension or nerves. It was steady. Grounded. Like we had time to figure this out.

“I cannot believe I left it,” I muttered for the third time that morning, thumbing uselessly through my camera roll, where I had taken a photo of the last chapter of a book I read like it might magically reappear.

Lando glanced over from the driver’s seat, amused. “Still talking about that book?”

“Yes,” I groaned. “I was two chapters from the end. Two. And it was just getting brutal in the best way.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth pulled. “You sound like you just left your kid at an airport.”

“Close. Except my kid is fictional and probably about to die in the snow.”

He chuckled then, soft and teasing. “Well, we can’t have that.”

I assumed he’d let the conversation drop, but ten minutes later, when we took an exit off the motorway, I realized we weren’t headed back to my hotel.

“Where are we—?”

“You’ll see.”

It wasn’t until he parallel-parked (impressively well, to my surprise), that I looked up and saw it. An old brick storefront tucked between a florist and a bakery. Wooden windows. Worn navy awning. The kind of place you’d miss if you blinked.

Wren Books. Since 1968.

I turned to him slowly. “Did you just bring me to a bookstore?”

He slid his sunglasses onto his cap. “You said you were in pain.”

I blinked. “That was a dramatic exaggeration.”

“Didn’t sound like it.”

The tiny bell above the door jingled as we stepped inside. The air smelled like dust, lavender, and ink. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Narrow aisles. A rolling ladder I was absolutely going to climb.

“You come here often?” I whispered, like we were in a church.

He nodded. “Sometimes. It’s quiet. No one ever really recognizes me in here. And the old man who runs it thinks F1 is a fancy vacuum brand.”

I laughed under my breath and let my fingertips trail across the spines. Hardcover. Softcover. Gold-foiled titles. A bookshop that made time feel soft and slow. Lando trailed behind me, hands in his pockets, content to let me browse.

It felt strange, in the best way, to be seen like this. Not scrubbed in. Not wearing a pass around my neck. Just… a girl chasing the last two chapters of her story, and a boy who made sure she didn’t have to do it alone.

“Found it,” I breathed, yanking a familiar cover off the shelf like a lifeline. Same edition. Same dog-eared chapter.

Lando appeared behind me, peering over my shoulder. “You gonna finish it right here?”

“Tempting.”

He smiled. “Want a coffee with that?”

“Are you bribing me into reading next to you?”

“Obviously.”

I smirked, holding the book close to my chest. “You really don’t mind doing something this… slow?”

He looked at me, really looked at me, and shrugged. “With you? It doesn’t feel slow.”

The back of the bookstore opened into a little indoor garden, with barely more than three mismatched tables. An elderly barista with faded tattoos slid two mugs across the counter without asking for names—just smiled like she’d already decided we were harmless.

“Didn’t even order,” I whispered, amused.

“They know,” Lando said, taking the seat across from me. “I’m a creature of habit.”

“Let me guess. Black coffee, no sugar?”

“Flat white. Two sugars. Don’t stereotype me.”

I laughed as I settled into the seat beside the window, tucking my knees up and cracking open my book. It felt almost surreal, like I’d stepped out of a sprint and into a still frame. Outside the window, the sky was silver with low clouds. Inside, it was just warm light, soft pages, and the gentle clink of mugs against worn wood.

Lando didn’t pull out his phone. He didn’t even pretend to be checking the time.

Instead, he watched me read for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, like he was content just being there. With me.

“Okay,” he said eventually, voice low. “Tell me what happens.”

“I can’t,” I murmured. “You have to read it yourself.”

“I hate not knowing.”

“Welcome to my life.”

I turned a page, then added, “Besides, you strike me as the kind of person who skips ahead to see who dies.”

He looked mildly offended. “I do not. I skim.”

“Same thing.”

He reached for his coffee, clearly not planning to argue. “If you ever publish something, though—like, I don’t know, a book of medical essays or a memoir—you’d better tell me what happens.”

I raised a brow over the top of my book. “You think I’m going to write a memoir?”

“I’d read it. Especially if there’s a chapter about the time you made a race car driver wait while you finished a novel.”

I smiled without meaning to, eyes scanning the page—but the words were starting to blur. Because the truth was, I wasn’t really reading anymore. Not in the usual way.

I was memorizing this moment. The way he stirred his drink without thinking. The way his leg bounced lightly under the table. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t some story he had to figure out, but one he wanted to keep unfolding.

“This is nice,” I murmured, half to myself.

He didn’t respond right away. Then, “Yeah. You’re kind of… dangerous like this.”

I glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“Calm. Soft-spoken. Reading in an old bookstore. That’s how people fall in love in movies.”

My breath caught, not because it was a grand declaration, but because it wasn’t. It was a tease, barely a flicker of a grin, but there was something behind it. Like a door left cracked open.

“And you?” I asked, a little too steady. “You fall in love at bookstores?”

He looked at me, the faintest trace of heat behind his lashes. “No. But I think I’d come back for this.”

We didn’t rush.

The bookshop café let us linger, long past the last sip of coffee. At some point, I stopped pretending to read, and he stopped pretending not to watch me. The silence between us wasn't awkward, it was charged. Like a thread stretched between two pins, tightening just enough to make us both aware of how close we were and how easily we could pull away.

But we didn’t.

When we stepped outside, the world had softened. A fine mist had settled over the street, the kind that clung to your skin instead of falling like proper rain. Lando pulled up his hood; I didn’t bother. My cheeks were already warm.

“Where to now?” I asked.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You’ve got your book. I’ve got time.”

We walked, without direction, even when we saw Lando’s car parked outside the bookstore, we still walked without talking, just the quiet rhythm of our steps echoing off the pavement. The street curved gently past ivy-covered flats and flickering old lanterns that hadn’t been updated to LED yet. It felt like walking through a city that had forgotten what century it belonged to.

“I like it here,” I said, finally. “It’s… still.”

“I thought you might.” His voice was soft, and he glanced sideways at me. “You talk fast when you’re nervous. But when it’s quiet? You don’t fill the space.”

I gave a small smile. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

That sentence hung there, fog-wrapped and feather-light—and yet somehow heavier than anything either of us had said all day.

We turned a corner, and our shoulders brushed—not on purpose, but not entirely by accident either. I didn’t move away.

“I was trying not to like you, you know,” I said, eyes still ahead.

“I know,” he replied. “You did a terrible job.”

I laughed, and he smiled. That slow, lopsided one that made me want to pause in the middle of the street and forget every reason I’d ever built a wall in the first place.

“Can I tell you something?” he said after a few more steps.

I nodded.

“I thought that morning at the hospital's café would be it. You in your scrub, mid-shift, looking like you didn’t have five seconds to breathe. And me, standing there like I accidentally crossed timelines. It felt like one of those weird little moments the calendar forgets. Something out of order. Unexpected, but… unforgettable.”

My chest tightened. Not because it was grand or poetic, but because it was true.

“And now?”

He looked at me then, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to say what came next — but also knew he couldn’t not.

“Now I think about you in places where you don’t belong. Like the paddock. The grid. On a Sunday morning when I’m supposed to be mentally prepping, and instead I’m wondering if you’re making coffee in your kitchen reading a latest journal in your iPad in a messy bun.”

I swallowed, heart in my throat. The mist curled between us like breath. Cold on my skin. Warm in my chest.

“So what happens now?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He looked down at me, still walking, close enough that I could see the glints in his green eyes, close enough to see the white mist that came out of his mouth each time he exhaled, the way his voice stayed low like this was something just for me.

“Now we keep walking,” he said. “Unless you want to stop.”

I did. I stopped.

And he did too, immediately. His eyes searched mine, not startled, but like he knew. Like maybe he’d hoped I’d be the one to stop first.

The space between us tightened. Breathless. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him, really looked, like I was memorizing the moment before it unraveled. And then he smiled. Small. Crooked. Not the smile for fans or cameras. The one that meant, you don’t scare me, you undo me.

“So?” he asked, voice barely a thread. “Why’d you stop?”

My pulse tripped over itself.

“Because I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t feel different,” I whispered.

And before I could second-guess it, I took a step closer. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch or breathe too loud. But his gaze softened. Like he already knew what I was about to do and was letting me have the moment.

So I reached up, slowly, fingers grazing the edge of his jacket. Not pulling, just anchoring. Just saying I’m still here. And then, without another word, I leaned in.

Our nose brushed first. Barely. My lips lingered, like I was testing gravity. And then I kissed him.

Gently.

No rush. No tilt of urgency. Just a slow, steady press, like punctuation at the end of a sentence I’d been writing for months without realizing.

His hand came up to cradle the side of my neck, warm even in the chill, and he kissed me back with the same stillness. Not cautious. Not unsure. His thumb brushed just under my jaw, and I let my eyes close. The rain didn’t matter. The street didn’t matter. Time, for once, didn’t matter.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded a future. It was the kind that honored everything that had already happened–the almosts, the timing, the pages in between.

And when we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. “Finally,” he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, like the word had been waiting at the back of his throat for weeks.

I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners. That boyish grin was there too, not smug, not teasing. Just real.

“Was starting to think I imagined all of it,” he added, brushing a raindrop from my cheek with his thumb.

“You didn’t,” I whispered.

He smiled a little wider. “Good. Because if you had chosen to walk again, I might’ve let you… but I wouldn’t have liked it.”

That made me laugh, quietly, into the space between us.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I said.

And I meant it.

People always ask how it started. Like they’re expecting a moment, a grand ask, a rose-tinted “Will you be my girlfriend?” over dinner or after a race or under fairy lights. But that’s not how it happened.

Lando never really asked me out.

Not in the way people expect.

There was no question, no label. Just… a beginning. A slow, steady unfolding that felt more like a choice we made quietly, over time. Like people who had lived enough lives separately to know that love doesn’t always need a declaration. Just presence.

He kept showing up. In texts. In coffee shop corners. In flights he didn’t tell his team about until after he booked them. And I kept letting him in. Carefully, but willingly.

We didn’t rush to name it. We were busy, his world spun at 300 kilometers an hour, mine cracked chests open and stitched them back together. But between grid calls and ORs, airports and after-round coffees, we built something that was ours.

We didn’t try to hide it, exactly. We just didn’t parade it around.

It was easier that way. Simpler to keep the world out. Tiara called it “the perfect soft-launch relationship.” I called it safe.

And then... the jacket incident happened.

It was Monza, where I was free from the on-call schedule all weekend and decided coming to his race was better than spending the weekend in my bed hibernating. It was wet, windy, and I was miserable. I had no idea the cameras were rolling, F1’s content team was filming behind-the-scenes moments, team footage, crew interactions. Lando had lent me his McLaren jacket cause the rain decided to soak me from top to bottom. My hair was losing its curls. My sneakers were ruined. I looked like someone’s exhausted sister, not a romantic interest.

I didn’t even realize I’d made it into the background of the final cut–just a quick frame of me laughing with a race engineer, my face a bit blurry, half-draped in Lando’s soaked orange jacket. Nothing glamorous. Just… human.

But the internet noticed.

The next day, my phone exploded. Someone posted a still on twitter, “Who’s that girl?? Wearing Lando’s jacket??”

That would’ve been enough. But two hours later, a TikTok fan edit surfaced: a slowed-down frame of me in the jacket, followed by a split-screen comparison—the same smile, same posture, as the viral hug video from silverstone.

Comments went wild: “Did they just hard-launch in 0.2 seconds??” “So silverstone wasn't a friendly hug??” “Why is this the softest reveal I’ve ever seen??” "Isn't that the doctor from silverstone??" “Not Lando dating a literal surgeon goddess, I’m sobbing.” “Finally WAG with a real job.”

It was over. We were officially found.

Lando texted me a screenshot of a tweet with 40k likes. Just the words, “he’s soft-launching a surgeon. i can’t breathe.”

You: you gave me the jacket. that’s on you.

Lando: bold of you to assume i wasn’t planning it.

I could’ve panicked, yet I didn’t. Because by then, we already knew what we were.

No posts. No statement. No “Instagram official.” Just the quiet knowledge that somehow, without either of us needing to say it out loud, we had chosen each other.

The media storm had burned through most of the morning. I hadn’t opened Twitter. Lando had–for research, he claimed–and immediately regretted it. Tiara had sent seventeen screenshots, all with the caption: “YOU HAVE 8 SECONDS TO EXPLAIN.”

Now, I was sitting beside Lando on a low couch in McLaren’s motorhome. Across from us sat Julia, his PR manager, expression somewhere between mildly impressed and professionally panicked.

Julia set her tablet down, folded her hands. “So. Let’s talk about… whatever this is.”

I didn’t flinch. “That wasn’t a rollout plan, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Julia offered a tight smile. “I figured. But the algorithm doesn’t care about your rollout strategy, unfortunately.”

Lando leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the couch. “Is it bad?”

Julia raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘bad.’”

He winced. “Okay.”

I glanced at him, then back to Julia. “We weren’t trying to hide it. We were just… keeping it ours.”

Julia nodded. “And honestly? It shows. The response is overwhelmingly positive. Curious. Intrigued. But positive.”

She flipped the tablet around to show them a few headlines. “F1’s Quietest Power Couple?” “Surgeon, Influencer, McLaren Soft-Launch Queen?” “Lando’s Jacket Might Be the Real Main Character of the Italian GP.”

Lando snorted. “They’re not wrong.”

Julia gave me a more pointed look. “You’re already media-trained by default, your hospital interviews, your fashion work, your seminars. You’re polished. That helps.”

I tilted my head. “But?”

“There’s always a but.” Julia paused. “There will be questions. Requests. Invitations. Maybe even some articles about your past. People will want to define you by your proximity to him.”

I didn’t look away. “They’ll learn quickly I don’t orbit anyone.”

Julia smiled at that. “Good. Then we have two options.”

She held up two fingers. “One: you both say nothing. Keep it quiet. Let the moment fade. Risk speculation-maybe some ‘are they or aren’t they’ articles every time you’re in the same city.”

“And two?” Lando asked.

“Two: A soft confirmation. One photo. One line. Maybe on your terms–not the media’s.”

Lando turned to me, and for a moment the buzz of the day, the headlines, the chaos—it all fell away. “It’s your call,” he said. “If you’re not ready, I’m not pushing it.”

“My call?” I asked. “You don’t care?”

His expression didn’t shift yet his hand reached mine and holded it. “Of course I care. But it’s your world, too. Your life. Your name.”

There was something so unflinching in that, not indifference, but respect.

Still, I tilted my head. “Okay, but what would you want, if it were just you?”

He gave a small laugh under his breath, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t expected the question to come back at him. “Then I’d want to say it,” he said quietly. “Not because I owe anyone anything. Just because I don’t want to pretend.”

The pen stilled in his hand. “But I also don’t want this to make your life hell. You’ve got an actual career–your patients, your followers, and a thousand people who already think you can’t be both things at once.”

Julia looked between us, silent. I took a breath. The truth was… he wasn’t wrong. I’d spent so long trying to keep the two sides of my life separate–influencer and resident, fashion and medicine, and now here was this third thing: a person who straddled two worlds too. A person who, somehow, felt like belonging in both.

I looked back at the screen. The freeze-frame showed me in the jacket, rain in my hair, laughing like I didn’t know a single lens was turned my way. I didn’t look like a brand. I looked like myself.

“I think,” I said slowly, “if we’re already here… we don’t deny it. We don’t parade it either. No red carpet hard launch. No ‘joint statement.’ Just… let them figure it out.”

Julia tapped her screen. “Understood. Soft confirm, no formal announcement. Just authenticity.”

“Just us,” Lando echoed, still watching me.

The buzz of Monza had faded fast as I was back navigating my life as a resident. I kept replaying the way Lando held my hand, his kisses, soft whispers, the loud garage and roar of the car, which felt so contrasting with the loudness of the hospital that somehow felt lonelier than ever. I fell back into a routine I knew too well, scrubs, rounds, charting, back to scrubs. The comments online hadn’t stopped either. Whispers about my intentions, how I was just like another influencer, that this relationship wouldn't last that they'd give it only two months.

I didn’t respond—not to the noise, and not to the ache of missing him. Because even when Lando texted, FaceTimed, sent photos from his hotel breakfasts or during pre-race training, there was still a distance. Not just in kilometers, but in everything else too. I told myself to focus. I told myself to hold it together. Until I couldn’t anymore.

Some nights don’t end, they just bleed. This one started like that. The hallway outside the NICU smelled like antiseptic and tired decisions. I rubbed sanitizer into my hands until they burned—my fourth coat in under an hour—and blinked back the sting in my eyes from too much air conditioning and not enough sleep.

It was close to midnight when the alarms started. Not the shrill, chaotic kind, but the cold ones—the ones that tell you something has already gone wrong. When the baby’s heart rate began to dip, it was like a warning bell sounding in my chest.

She’d been ours for nearly three months.

Born with a rare congenital heart defect, one I’d written case notes about in med school but never seen up close. I knew her chart like my own reflection. She had survived two surgeries, and had the fiercest will I’d ever seen in a NICU incubator. She had hair like peach fuzz and a grip stronger than her weight in grams should allow. Her parents called her “our little fighter,” and for a long time, she lived up to the name.

Until tonight.

We tried everything. I led the code—compressions with two fingers, switching off with the paeds resident on-duty every two minutes, while our attending called out meds and timers like an orchestra conductor keeping chaos from slipping off rhythm.

I didn’t think. I reacted. Muscle memory. Protocols. Calm voice even when the room stopped breathing. That’s what they teach you. That composure equals clarity.

Fourty-five minutes.

That’s how long we tried to bring her back. To reach ROSC. A heartbeat. We pushed epi. We begged with our hands. I don’t even remember when the attending finally said it, “Time of death: 3:37 a.m.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peace.

It was ruin.

I took off my gloves in the corridor like they weighed double. One of the nurses handed me water I couldn’t drink. Another touched my elbow. I think she meant it kindly.

Then came the worst part.

The family room was dimly lit, too warm. Her parents were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the vinyl couch, eyes puffy, coffee untouched. The mother stood when I entered. The father didn’t.

I told them gently. Clearly. Like I’d practiced. Like the words were surgical tools. Sharp, clean, necessary.

And just like that, their world ended.

They didn’t cry right away. Grief didn’t look like it did in movies. Her mother covered her mouth and sank back down. Her father stared at the wall. Then the voices rose—not at each other, but at me. It wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t unkind. It was anguish disguised as blame.

“You said she was stable.” “You said she had a chance.” “You were supposed to help her.”

They didn’t say it to hurt me. But it did.

Because I had said those things. Because I had believed them. Because I had meant every single word.

I didn’t cry. Not when I debriefed with my attending. Not during sign-out. Not even when one of the nurses hugged me a little too long after shift change.

But my hands shook when I changed out of my blood-specked scrubs. And my chest ached when I walked past her empty isolette on the way out.

Outside, the sky was trying to be morning.

I crossed the lobby and thought maybe I’d make it to the parking lot before everything caught up to me. That maybe if I just kept walking, it would stay inside.

Then I saw him.

Lando. In flesh.

Leaning against the far wall near the revolving doors, holding two coffees and wearing that dumb black hoodie that barely covered his curls. He looked up just as I spotted him.

I stopped. My body did before my mind could.

His face shifted when he saw mine.

And then I broke.

No warning. Just shattered.

I stumbled forward like my body gave up on pretending, and I was crying before I reached him—raw, shaking, inconsolable in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain.

He put the coffee on the chair, no, he basically dropped the coffees on instinct. Didn’t hesitate.

His arms came around me in a heartbeat. One around my back, one cradling my head, his chin resting just above my temple like he’d rehearsed this. Like he knew I needed it more than I needed air.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over. “I’ve got you, love.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just sobbed into his chest in the middle of the hospital lobby, as the early shift staff filtered in with badge swipes and takeaway cups, quietly pretending not to notice the resident collapsing into someone’s arms.

But they did notice.

I felt the stares. Heard the silence swell and shift.

Lando must’ve felt it too.

He dipped his head, speaking quietly, almost to himself. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?”

I nodded. Couldn’t do more.

He guided me gently, one arm firm around my shoulders, steering me toward the car parked near the side entrance. My feet moved because his did. My bones didn’t know how to hold me anymore, but he did.

He opened the passenger door and helped me inside like I was glass. Closed it with a soft click. Then slipped into the driver’s seat beside me without starting the engine.

He didn’t talk. Didn’t press.

Just reached for my hand.

And that’s when I cried all over again—quiet now, exhausted, with nothing left to prove. Letting the weight of a tiny heartbeat lost in the night settle into my bones.

And this time, I didn’t carry it alone.

By the time we got to my apartment, the sky had given way to a dull grey light—that post-night shift haze where everything feels a little too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Lando didn’t say much during the drive, and I was grateful for that. I didn’t have the energy to fill the space, and he didn’t seem to need me to. He just kept one hand on the wheel and the other loosely over mine in the center console, thumb grazing my knuckles like he knew I needed the contact to stay tethered.

When we reached my place, he parked, turned the engine off, and didn’t ask if I wanted him to come up. He just got out, grabbed my bag from the backseat, and waited for me to lead the way.

I unlocked the door with shaky fingers. The apartment smelled faintly like jasmine and stale coffee. My cat blinked at me from the couch, tail flicking once in sleepy judgment before curling back up.

I stood there for a beat too long, keys still in my hand.

Then Lando gently touched the small of my back. “Shoes off,” he said softly, a nudge toward normal. “And drink some water. Doctor’s orders.”

I let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Did as I was told. He followed me in, quiet and careful, setting my bag down and looking at the space like he was trying not to disturb it. Like he knew everything here had been holding something fragile.

I collapsed onto the edge of the couch and curled my legs under me. My body felt like it had been hollowed out.

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Set it on the table in front of me. Then sat on the floor, cross-legged, like getting too close would make it worse.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said, voice low. “Not if you don’t want to.”

I stared down at my hands. My nails were chipped. There was a tiny streak of dried blood near my wrist from where my glove had torn during the code.

“I keep seeing her face,” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

“She had these tiny lashes. Like air.” I swallowed hard. “And after we called time, one of our nurses brushed them with her thumb. Like she was tucking her in.”

The quiet between us wasn’t awkward. It was sacred. Heavy and gentle at once.

“I’ve lost patients before,” I said. “Adults. Older kids. I’ve told families it was over. I’ve even walked out of an OR and thrown up in the stairwell. But this one…” My voice cracked. “I really thought she’d make it.”

Lando’s brows pinched slightly. But he didn’t say sorry. He didn’t try to soften it.

“She was fighting,” I continued, “and we kept asking her to fight harder. And she did. She did everything we asked.”

“You did everything you could.”

I nodded, but it didn’t land. “That’s what everyone says. That we 'did everything'. But there’s always a part of me that thinks if I had done one thing differently—if I’d caught it sooner, if I'd pushed for another test—maybe she'd still be here.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “You’re not God, Y/N.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

I looked away.

Lando leaned forward just a little, arms resting on his knees. “You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to be human.”

“I’m supposed to be able to hold it together.”

“Says who?”

“Everyone.”

He shook his head. “That’s crap.”

A pause. Then his voice dropped even lower, quieter. “You held that baby’s heart in your hands. You gave her more time than she would’ve had. Her parents may never see that, but I do. And I know what it’s like to carry the weight of someone else’s expectations. The pressure to be perfect, even when everything’s breaking.”

I blinked at him, something tight uncoiling in my chest.

“Don’t do that alone,” he said.

I didn’t answer. But I didn’t look away, either.

A moment passed. Then I slid down from the couch, curling into him on the rug like it was instinct. His arms came around me immediately, solid and steady, and for the first time since the code, I let myself feel the full weight of it all—what we lost, what I gave, what I couldn’t fix.

We sat like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just being. Just him. Just me. And the quiet understanding between two people from different worlds, learning how to hold space in the middle of the mess.

Yesterday passed like a blink. Or maybe a fog. I couldn’t tell. We didn’t talk about what happened, not really. We didn’t do much of anything. I remembered he basically had to shoved food down to my throat because I refused to get up from the couch. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up with his hoodie around me and the weight of his arm still resting across my waist. My chest ached like I’d run through a war zone. My eyes felt swollen, though I didn’t think I’d cried again.

Grief doesn’t come with an alarm, but duty does, and mine buzzed to life just after 5:00 AM. I’d only gotten a couple hours of restless sleep, the kind where your body rests but your mind keeps reaching for what it lost.

I didn’t want to move.

But Lando stirred beside me. He hadn’t left. He’d curled into the edge of the couch with me the night before, one arm around my waist, our breathing syncing without meaning to. At some point I must’ve shifted, drifted, finally let go, because when I opened my eyes, he was already awake, brushing his thumb lightly across the back of my hand.

“You’ve got to go in,” he said, voice low and soft, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet that had settled around us.

“I know.” My voice was scratchy, and everything ached.

“I’ll drive.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said again, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “But I want to.”

The drive was quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling–not uncomfortable, just familiar now. I watched the city wake up through the windshield, street lights blinking off one by one, and wondered how everything could look so normal when something felt permanently altered inside me.

He reached into the center console at a red light and pulled out a small container.

“I made you something,” he said, almost bashful. “Well. I assembled it. I wouldn’t call it cooking.”

I opened the lid and blinked. A sandwich. Peanut butter and banana. Cut diagonally. No frills.

“You remembered I forgot to pack anything.”

“You always forget.”

I smiled, small but real. “This is… actually really sweet.”

“It’s my signature dish,” he deadpanned. “A Norris family classic. Carefully constructed with love and no culinary training.”

I laughed softly—and that laugh, that ache-softening laugh, carried me all the way to the hospital parking lot.

When I stepped through the automatic doors, the lobby looked exactly the same as it did twenty-four hours ago.

But I wasn’t.

My badge clipped to the collar of my clean scrubs. My stethoscope looped around my neck. My expression fixed, practiced. Functional.

Lando didn’t come in with me. He knew better. He just rested a hand on my back before I stepped out of the car, and said, “Text me if you need anything. Or nothing. Or air.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”

“For the sandwich?” he teased.

“For everything.”

Inside, the shift was already moving. Rounds underway. Notes being scribbled. Coffee half-sipped and charts half-read. But the energy shifted when I walked in. Not dramatically. No gasps. No outright questions. But there were glances. Murmured conversations that paused when I passed. The kind of silence that isn’t mean–just too careful.

People knew.

They knew what had happened. Word travels fast in a hospital, especially when someone codes for almost an hour. Especially when it’s a baby. Especially when the resident who led the code collapsed into the arms of a mysterious man in the lobby before sunrise.

I caught one of the interns whispering to a nurse.

“She’s the one who lost the kid last night.” “Yeah. I saw her crying in the lobby, I feel sad for her too.” “That was Lando Norris with her, right? The F1 guy?”

The words hovered in the air like static. But they didn’t sting. No one said anything to me directly. Not about the baby. Not about Lando. And oddly, I was grateful for that. There was mercy in the hush. In the way people lowered their voices and let me slip back into routine without demanding I relive it all.

I moved from one room to the next, listening to heartbeats, checking drains, adjusting meds. I could feel the grief humming beneath my skin, but the motions helped. One foot in front of the other. One chart after the next.

Eventually, during rounds, my attending approached me in the hallway. He was older, seasoned, with a gaze that could cut you open or stitch you together in a sentence.

“You did everything you could last night,” he said, no preamble.

I opened my mouth, unsure whether to argue or thank him, but he held up a hand.

“I’ve been there,” he continued. “And I know the guilt doesn’t leave just because your shift ends. But let me be clear. It wasn’t your fault. The outcome hurts, but the care you gave? That baby passed away wrapped in it.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t speak.

He nodded once. “Take what you need from that. Then keep going.”

It wasn’t a lecture. It wasn’t pity. It was grace. And I held onto it the rest of the day.

Hours later, I found a text waiting for me during a rare ten-minute break.

Lando: You okay? Need me to sneak in and refill your sandwich?

Me: That was the best sandwich I’ve ever had. I might cry again.

Lando: Happy to deliver emotional sandwiches any time. You’re doing great. I mean it.

I smiled, leaning back against the wall of the call room. Exhausted. Hollow. But not entirely alone in it anymore. And maybe that was the difference today. The baby was still gone. The pain hadn’t vanished. But the silence around me wasn’t so isolating. And the person waiting outside my world wasn’t walking away.

We hadn’t been seen together in months. Not at a race. Not in the paddock. Not in the background of a story someone could zoom into. We never made a big announcement. No "soft launch," no black-and-white dinner photo, no inside joke caption for fans to dissect. Just… one slow, unfolding connection that was real and complicated and tucked quietly into the corners of our lives. One that fits between cases and circuits, call rooms and podiums, coffee at 5 a.m. and FaceTime kisses at midnight.

But after a while, the silence started to echo louder.

It had been nearly three months since I’d been to a race.

Three months of unmatched schedules—surgeries stacked on top of each other, international conferences I couldn’t turn down, consults bleeding into weekends, and Lando’s back-to-back race calendar pushing him from continent to continent. Even when we carved out time—stolen moments between hospital shifts and red-eye flights—we were always chasing the clock.

He still came to me after some races, slipped in quietly, stayed a day or two, and left before dawn with a kiss to my forehead. And I still waited up for his calls when he crossed the finish line, heart stuttering when I saw his name light up my screen.

But the public? They didn’t see any of it.

And so the whispers started again.

“Looks like that doctor situation didn’t last.” “Maybe it was just PR?” “Told you — people like her don’t date people like him for long.” “She hasn’t been at a race in months. They’re probably done.”

I didn’t take it personally.

At least not at first.

But some days, after a long shift, I’d open my phone and see a headline questioning my existence—like I’d been a footnote in someone else’s chapter—and something in my chest would twist.

I wasn’t angry. Just… tired of hiding something that had never been a secret to begin with.

Lando never pressured me to post anything, never asked for more than I could give. But I saw it in his eyes sometimes—when fans shoved phones in his face asking about “the mystery girl,” when he was tagged in edits that erased me entirely—the faint twitch of frustration in his jaw.

Still, neither of us spoke it aloud.

Until one quiet night in late-October, when I collapsed into his hoodie on the couch and whispered, “You know I miss it, right? Being there. Seeing you race.”

He turned toward me, brow creasing. “I know. I miss you being there.”

“I’ve got the weekend off,” I said, voice soft. “Next one. Abu Dhabi.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at me. Then he said, “Come with me.”

The paddock buzzed in a way that only a season finale could bring—humid, electric, the kind of energy that vibrated off the asphalt. Flashing cameras. Champagne chilled before the race even began. Team radios crackling like nerves.

And this time, I wasn’t watching it through a screen.

I stood at Lando’s side, fingers laced with his, sunglasses perched on my nose, paddock pass lanyard grazing the hem of my tailored vest. Confident. Grounded. Ready.

I didn’t hang back this time. I didn’t trail five steps behind or duck away from photographers. I didn’t hide behind a McLaren team hoodie or worry about the timing of a headline.

This time, I walked with him. Through the paddock. Onto the grid. Past the cameras that spun toward us like moths drawn to something newly undeniable.

Lando didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t look at the cameras. He just squeezed my hand a little tighter, like a quiet “I’ve got you” that traveled through skin and bone.

And I squeezed back.

This was no soft launch. This was a we’re here, we’re real, we don’t need your permission kind of moment.

Later, in the paddock hospitality suite, Tiara sent me a voice note that practically shattered my eardrums.

“OH MY GOD. Y/N. THE PHOTOS. You two look like an Italian Vogue feature. That outfit?? That hand-hold??? You BROKE the internet.”

I opened Instagram and saw it immediately.

The official F1 account had already posted a paddock arrival shot: Lando in his fire suit, sunglasses on, hand in mine, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. And me—steady, chin high, vest cinched at the waist like armor.

The comments were a mix of pure chaos and disbelief:

“WAIT WHAT” “She’s real???????” "THEYRE STILL GOING STRONG!!" “Hard launching on last race weekend of the season is so WILD” “She looks like she performs heart surgery for breakfast and he’s into it” “Protect this energy at all costs”

And in the middle of it all—Lando had reposted the image with a caption that simply said:

“About time.”

It wasn’t a declaration. It was a confirmation.

Of everything we’d already lived behind closed doors. Of nights he held me through grief and mornings I made him laugh on flights home. Of every late FaceTime, every cold brew drop-off, every race watched from a hospital on-call room.

We didn’t need to say it. We just showed up.

Together.

And this time, we didn’t walk quietly. We walked hand in hand, with the world finally seeing what we already knew. This wasn’t fleeting. This wasn’t a phase. This was us.

The race was chaos.

The kind that lives in your bones long after the engines go quiet—tires screeching, radio static, strategy calls that felt like gambles. But he did it. Lando did it.

World Champion.

And when the final flag waved, when the fireworks burst overhead and the grandstands shook with thunderous cheers, I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until the screen lit up with his name.

P1. Lando Norris.

My knees nearly gave out.

The McLaren garage erupted—mechanics yelling, hugging, sobbing. I stood back in the crowd, a blur of hands and champagne already misting the air, heart pounding against my ribs.

And still, my eyes were only looking for one person.

He parked the car, sounded breathless over the radio, laughter choked with tears. And then he climbed out, helmet still on, arms raised toward the sky as if reaching for something that had always felt a little out of reach.

I wasn’t sure when the tears started. Only that I couldn’t stop them.

He hugged every mechanic. Patted every shoulder. Fell into his engineer’s arms. And then—His mother.

She was the first person he found.

They hugged hard, forehead to forehead. She said something into his ear that he didn’t repeat—only nodded, fiercely, like it meant everything.

Then, He turned.

The helmet was still on. But I knew. Even across the chaos, even across the barrier, even when fans were screaming and cameras were flashing and the whole world was watching.

He was looking for me.

And when he saw me—finally, finally—the tension in his body changed.

He moved. Straight toward me, cutting through crew and crowd, unbothered by the cameras now closing in. The security guard at the edge of parc fermé barely registered me—Lando waved him off without words.

I blinked. “Lando—”

He didn’t say anything. Not at first.

He just stopped in front of me, eyes wide, chest still rising like he couldn’t catch up to the moment.

Then, without breaking eye contact—

He took off his helmet.

One slow, deliberate motion. Pulled it free. Dropped it carelessly to the side. Ran a hand through his sweat-damp curls.

And kissed me.

Hard. Unapologetically. Like a confession that had been burning in his throat for months.

The crowd went feral. The paddock flashed white with a hundred camera shutters. The media burst into chaos. Some people cheered. Others just gasped.

But I didn’t hear it. Because I was kissing him back.

And in the middle of that kiss, just as he pulled back far enough to catch his breath, still holding my face like he didn’t care about a single person watching, he whispered, “I love you.”

My breath caught.

He said it like it had lived inside him too long. Like it finally found its way out.

“I love you,” he said again, louder this time. “I didn’t know how much until you weren’t there every weekend. Until I kept winning, and it didn’t mean anything unless I could find your face at the end of it.”

Tears blurred everything again.

“I’m here,” I managed.

“You always are.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Even when you’re not in the paddock, you’re with me. In every turn. Every lap. Every quiet.”

I couldn’t say it back fast enough. “I love you too.”

And just like that, in a sea of orange and noise, with champagne in the air and a championship behind him, he kissed me again.

The paddock had emptied. The fireworks were done, the interviews wrapped. The celebratory noise still buzzed somewhere in the distance—team members laughing over drinks, music bleeding from the hospitality suite—but we had slipped away, unnoticed.

Not far. Just far enough.

Lando had taken my hand sometime between the last question and the last photo, and neither of us had let go.

Now, we sat beneath the stars on a low rooftop terrace just above the motorhome. Shoes kicked off. Racing suit had changed to a clean team merch. My hand tucked into his, thumb running small circles along his knuckles. I hadn’t said much since the podium—not after the kiss, not after the sudden onslaught of attention. But I didn’t feel like I need to.

He looked at me now, his curls messy from the wind, his green eyes soft in the moonlight, and smiled like the chaos below belonged to someone else.

“I should feel different,” he murmured, voice low.

I glanced over him. “You don’t?”

“I mean… yeah. It’s everything I’ve ever worked for. But this—” he nodded toward my hand in his “—feels bigger.”

I laughed quietly, the sound more breath than voice. My heart felt like sommer-saulting. “That’s insane.”

“I know,” he said, then looked at me again. “But when I saw you in the crowd, I knew it was all I could ever ask for.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full—of shared knowing, of ache and wonder and everything we'd survived to get here.

After a while, I spoke. “You remember when you said I didn’t fill the silence?”

He nodded.

“I think that’s how I knew you are the one. Because the quiet with you never felt empty.”

Lando leaned in then, not for a kiss this time—but to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.

“I love you,” he whispered again.

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I love you too.”

The world spun on. The season had ended. The championship was his. But here, in this small, borrowed sliver of stillness, there was no noise to outrun.

Just two people. Just their shared quiet. And the rest of their forever, beginning softly.

#lando x reader #lando x you #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #lando norris one shot #f1 grid x reader #mclaren #f1 fic #f1 imagine #ln4 #lando norris #lando imagine #lando fanfic

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sunsetmade · 3 months ago

Text

The Greenery

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Your the new cart girl in the country club and a certain Kook takes an interest in you.

“—you’ll be out on the course, rolling by in the cart, asking if they want drinks or snacks—only after they’ve taken their swing, of course. Just looking after the golfers, making sure they’re good. Makes sense?” Her words tumbled out as easy as the wind off the dunes.

I just blinked at her, the early morning sun catching her sunglasses while my nerves twisted in my stomach. I gave a quick nod, even though my mind was still trying to catch up and understand all the instructions she just gave me.

“Alright, perfect! Your cart’s just over here—good luck out there!” she said with a kind of chipper energy that felt straight out of a preschool classroom. I stood frozen on the sun-warmed sidewalk, watching her disappear like sea foam back into the clubhouse.

Wait—which cart was mine?

Did she even say?

A wave of quiet panic rolled in as I scanned the line of identical golf carts, each one baking gently under the Carolina sun. I let out a slow sigh and headed toward them, hoping one would somehow just feel right.

I peeked into the first beige cart, trying to spot anything that screamed claimed—a water bottle, a towel, maybe a rogue granola bar. Nothing. Just a cup holder and the faint smell of sunscreen. I shrugged. Hopefully this wasn’t someone’s pride and joy. If it was, well… I’d apologize later.

I slid my light blue bag under the seat and took a short walk around the cart. The drinks and snacks had just been restocked—coolers full, chips lined up. Everything looked ready for the day. I made a quick mental note of what was where, then went back up front and sat down.

It was quiet, just the sound of the breeze and a few birds in the distance. I checked my watch—10:00. There had to be golfers out on the course already, maybe even finishing up their front nine.

Okay, first day. You’ve got this, I told myself as I started the cart. I eased forward, trying to follow the path that looked the most familiar. The woman who trained me yesterday had pointed out the best routes—ones that usually led to better tips. I kept that in mind and turned off onto the grass, hoping I was going the right way. Up ahead, I saw a few golfers. Time to start.

I cruised up slow, tires crunching over the sandy path near the green, squinting toward the three guys teeing off. I waited until they swung, clubs slicing the humid air, then eased the cart closer. “Hey, y’all want anything this morning?” I asked, chewing the inside of my cheek, trying to sound chill.

The first guy looked up, hand raised to block the Carolina sun. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take a beer. Kelce, you want one? Rafe?”

The other guy—Kelce, I guessed—shook his head, already gripping his driver like he had somewhere better to be.

But the third guy just looked at me—really looked at me—with this kind of quiet intensity that made my pulse hitch. “I’ll take one too,” he said, voice low but steady. I gave him a nod, trying not to stare, but it was hard not to. He was tall—like, seriously tall—and every inch of him looked like it had been carved by the sun. That golden tan that only comes from living outside, not just visiting. His hair was buzzed close, neat and clean, but something about him still felt wild, like he belonged out here, chasing waves or something worse.

I stepped out, tugging down the edge of my pink skirt— that suddenly felt too short—and walked around to the drink side of the cart. The cooler hissed as I opened it, grabbed two cold ones, and handed it over.

Just as I turned to leave, the guy stopped me. “Wait—don’t I need to pay?”

My heart skipped, cheeks flushing. I spun back around, flustered. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, it’s my first day.” I fumbled for the tablet, feeling like a total touron.

“You’re good,” he said with a smile that read annoyed, cracking the beer open and taking a swig. But the other guy—Rafe—just stood there with an amused smirk, like he was quietly entertained by the whole thing. It only made my cheeks flush deeper.

And of course I had to screw up right in front of someone like him—tall, stupidly handsome, and clearly amused by what was happening. My cheeks burned hotter, and I hated how obvious it probably was.

After he paid, I mumbled a have a good day pretending I wasn’t totally mortified, and climbed back into the cart. As I drove off, slow and steady, I muttered to myself under my breath.

Behind me, I heard Kelce laugh. “Topper, you could’ve gotten a free drink, man!”

Rafe rolled his eyes at his friends, barely paying attention now as the beige cart disappeared down the path. His thoughts were still stuck on the girl in it—flustered, short, a little too innocent for this place. Cute, in a way that caught him off guard.

His heart stuttered, just for a second, and he frowned. What the hell was that?

“Looks like Cameron’s got a crush,” Kelce laughed, nudging him with that stupid grin.

Rafe shot him a look sharp enough to kill, and Kelce immediately got quiet. “Shut up,” Rafe muttered, jaw tight.

I could still feel the heat in my cheeks as the cart bounced along the path, the salty wind tugging at my hair. I didn’t dare look back—I already embarrassed myself enough.

But my mind wandered anyway, replaying the way he had looked at me. Like he was trying to figure something out. Like he saw through me, even in those few seconds.

It made my stomach flutter, and I hated that.

Get a grip, I told myself. Guys like that don’t pay attention to girls like me. Not really.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I exhaled sharply as the blast of cool air hit me walking into the country club—finally a break from the heat. The place was nicer than I expected, all polished wood floors and white linen vibes, like money had been casually spilled everywhere. The only people lounging around were the kind with trust funds and last names that carried weight. I was a Kook, yeah—but not this kind of Kook.

I drifted toward the bar, eyes landing on the small “employees only” sign near the back. Just as I stepped forward, a girl I’d talked to earlier—cheerful, way too energetic for the heat—popped out of nowhere.

“Hey girl! Can you please do me a massive favor?” she started, eyes wide with that desperate sparkle. “There’s this party, and I have to go, but I can’t just leave the bar, like, totally unmanned. So could you maybe…?”

She trailed off, hanging on the question like it was already answered.

I blinked. “Uh, I’m actually on my break, sorry—”

Before I could finish, her hand was already on my shoulder.

“Perfect! You're the best, thank you so much! I owe you!”

And with that, she vanished, leaving me standing there, stunned, with her note pad to take orders. My stomach dropped when I finally caught up to the situation. How the hell was I suppose to do this?

After totally humiliating myself on the course, I knew I had to redeem the day somehow. No way I was walking out of here with just a sunburn and a bruised ego. I let out a breath and tried to shake it off, thinking back to when I used to help my mom at her restaurant. Long nights, sticky menus, endless refills—but I knew how to survive. This couldn’t be that bad.

I squared my shoulders and headed for the deck, the salty breeze catching the edge of my shirt as I pushed through the doors.

Outside, the scene was peak Outer Banks chaos. Golfers fresh off the green looked sun-tired and salty—either from their scores or the humidity. Rich moms clinked glasses while one-upping each other over SAT scores and college tours. And then there were the ones my age—tanned, tipsy, and desperate to prove they belonged. Designer sunglasses, backwards hats, practiced laughs. The summer elite.

I took a breath, rolled my shoulders back, and walked up to the first table—a well-dressed older man and a woman I assumed was his wife. They looked like they’d stepped right out of a luxury yacht.

“Hi there, can I get you anything to drink?” I asked, putting on my best smile.

The woman glanced up, her pearl earrings catching the light as she gave me a perfect, practiced grin. “I’ll have a martini, please, dear,” she said, voice smooth like she’d never been told no in her life.

Her husband barely looked up from his phone. “Beer,” he grunted.

Classy.

I nodded, keeping the smile on my face as I turned and made my way back to the bar. I slid their order over to the real bartender—wherever they were—and leaned against the counter for a second, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.

One table down. A whole sea of golf bros and country club queens to go.

I took a deep breath and slid another order onto the counter, mentally checking off another task. But just as I was about to rush off, a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you the bartender?”

I turned, heart skipping—and then stalling—when I saw him. The same guy from earlier. Handsome in that effortless, probably-drives-a-Jeep-and-surfs-before-brunch kind of way. Now standing way too close beside me.

The smirk that spread across his face made my stomach do something weird. “I thought you were a cart girl,” he said smoothly.

“I—I am,” I stammered, suddenly forgetting how to use words. “But I was asked to cover…”

Why was I nervous? No clue. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, like I was some sort of prey.

His brow quirked. “You must be new around here.”

I glanced up, straight into his blue eyes, and instantly regretted my next question. “How’d you know?”

Obvious. The golf course disaster practically screamed it.

But instead of calling me out, he let out a quiet chuckle. “Lucky guess,” he teased, flashing a smile that was entirely too easygoing.

I exhaled, thankful. At least he wasn’t reporting me to someone in khakis and a clipboard.

He stared down at me, and I found myself locked in, unable to look away from his eyes—blue and piercing like they saw right through the act I was barely holding together.

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning casually against the bar like he had all the time in the world. All the time just to talk to me.

I hesitated, just for a second, before giving it to him. And I could’ve sworn—sworn—I heard him mutter “cute” under his breath, but it was so quick I couldn’t be sure if I imagined it.

“I’m Rafe,” he said simply.

I repeated the name in my head.

A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. “Nice to meet you, Rafe,” I replied, somehow managing to sound calm despite the full-blown gymnastics routine happening in my stomach.

Rafe knew he was a goner the second she opened her mouth to talk to Topper on the course. There was something about the way she carried herself—like she didn’t know the effect she had, and that only made it worse. Or better. He hadn’t decided yet.

But after seeing her smile? Yeah, that sealed the deal.

The way she nervously fiddled with her fingers when she spoke to him—it wasn’t fake. She wasn’t putting on some country club act. Her eyes held this softness, this kind of innocence he wasn’t used to. It didn’t match the crowd around them, and that contrast made her even more interesting.

And the crazy part? He just wanted to keep talking to her. Hear her voice. Figure her out.

And this was after one day.

Rafe’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the moment and snapping his focus away from the girl standing in front of him. He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he pulled it out.

Dad.

Of course.

He glanced at the screen, then back at her—still standing there, still looking up at him with those wide eyes like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. Just letting it ring out. But he knew better. His dad didn’t call without a reason, and ignoring him only made things worse.

“I gotta go,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow—on the cart this time?” he added, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

I smiled without meaning to, nodding. “Yeah… I hope,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

As soon as I heard myself, my cheeks burned. Seriously? I hope?

His smirk deepened, like he’d caught it—but thankfully, he didn’t say anything. He just gave me one last look, then turned and walked off, leaving me standing there replaying the whole conversation in my head.

And for a moment, I forgot I was supposed to be working.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I pulled into my employee parking spot and let out a sigh, gripping the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary. Okay, I told myself. Let’s just stay as a cart girl today. No mistakes, no surprises.

My first day might’ve been a total disaster, but I couldn’t get Rafe out of my head. As much as I didn’t to admit it— mainly because I just met him, the thought of running into him again was the only thing that made coming back this morning feel… kind of exciting.

I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and made my way across the lot, the air already warm with that early summer heat. I climbed into my cart, settling in behind the wheel like I belonged there, like yesterday hadn’t been a disaster.

I glanced down at the pink and gold watch on my wrist, checked the time, and gave myself a small nod.

Time to start.

I cruised slowly around the course, starting to get the hang of the layout. Each turn felt a little more familiar, each group of golfers a little less intimidating. The Outer Banks air was crisp that morning, cooler than usual. The sky hung low and gray, the sun barely pushing through the clouds like it was trying to make up its mind.

I silently cursed my outfit choice—my skirt offered zero protection from the wind, and my thin tee wasn’t much better. Not exactly built for gloomy weather.

As I pulled around another bend, I spotted two golfers near their clubs. I eased the cart toward them, and my heart skipped the second I realized who it was—Rafe and his friend from the other day.

I bit back a smile and drove a little closer. “Would you guys like anything?” I asked, suddenly unsure of where to put my hands.

“A beer, a really cold—” Topper started, but Rafe cut him off, stepping forward with that same grin that had been stuck in my head since day one.

He leaned against the front of the cart, looking way too comfortable. “Where were you yesterday?”

I swallowed, trying not to overthink my every move as I stepped out to grab a beer from the cooler. “It wasn’t my day to work,” I said, forcing casual into my voice even though my pulse betrayed me.

He hummed, eyes drifting away for a second, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What days do you work?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, like it was just another question.

But it wasn’t.

Truth was, he'd spent more time scanning the course for her yesterday than actually playing the damn game. Every cart that passed, every flash of movement, he hoped it was her. And when it wasn’t—he noticed.

He glanced back at her, trying not to let it show. He just wanted to know when to look.

“U-uh, normally every day,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “They only gave me yesterday off because they found out I worked another shift.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I’d probably given way more detail than necessary. I bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how casual he looked leaning against the cart—while I stood there feeling like my heartbeat was on full display.

Rafe chewed the inside of his lip as he watched her pull out a beer for Topper. Her skirt shifted slightly when she reached into the cooler, riding up just enough to make his gaze flick there—then snap away just as fast.

He silently cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair like that would help shake it off.

When he glanced back, Topper was staring at him with that familiar irritated look. Rafe waved him off, not in the mood for whatever passive-aggressive comment was loading in his head. Topper huffed, turned, and grabbed his club, muttering something under his breath.

Rafe rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to her—because, yeah, she was the reason he was even out here this early.

“This is for your friend,” I said softly, offering the beer with a small smile.

Rafe took it from me, and his fingers brushed mine for just a second—but it was enough. Enough to send butterflies into full flight in my stomach.

“How much?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine with that same smirk from the other day, clearly still enjoying the memory.

I let out a quiet huff, trying my best not to blush as I looked up at him. He towered over me, jacket unzipped, shorts on despite the chill. Of course he wasn’t cold. Of course he looked good.

“Twelve dollars,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And don’t worry—I’m not letting you get away without paying this time.”

A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. A little feisty. He liked that.

Without missing a beat, he pulled out his wallet and handed me a fifty. “Keep the change.”

My eyes widened as I looked at the bill. “Rafe, I can’t take this—that’s way too much,” I said quickly, trying to give it back.

But he just shook his head, gently pushing my hand away. “No. I want you to take it,” he said, voice low. “You deserve it.”

The words hit harder than I expected, warming something in my chest. I hesitated, then slowly slid the bill into my pocket.

A breeze swept past, and I shivered, rubbing my hands along my arms. Rafe’s expression shifted—he noticed and he didn’t like it.

“I better go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rafe,” I said, turning away to close the cooler and lock the protective door over it.

When I turned back around, he was still there. His expression was unreadable, but there was something lingering in it—something close to disappointment.

“I’ll be looking for you,” he finally said. The usual smirk was on his face, but his words carried a sincerity that made my knees feel just a little weaker.

I let out a quiet chuckle, feeling more confident than I expected. “Bye Rafe,” I said as I climbed into the cart.

Rafe stepped back as I pulled away, making sure he didn’t get clipped. I threw him a little wave over my shoulder, and he laughed, shaking his head before returning it.

The smile didn’t leave my face.

But as I drove off, shivering again from the cool breeze, something caught my eye in the passenger seat. I blinked, then felt my heart leap.

Rafe’s jacket.

He must’ve left it without realizing. I slowed down near the bathrooms, reaching over and picking it up. It was still warm, thick and worn in, and when I brought it closer, his scent filled the air around me—clean, woodsy, and something undeniably him.

I hesitated for half a second before slipping it on.

Instant comfort. Instant butterflies.

I could only hope he didn’t mind.

Topper let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as Rafe returned, beer in hand. “Finally, man. Thought you were never gonna stop flirting with her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, choosing not to take the bait. Typical Topper.

As Topper took a long swig, his brow furrowed. “Hey… where’s your jacket?”

Rafe glanced down at his arms, like he was just now realizing it wasn’t there. But he knew. He’d known the second she pulled away in that cart.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face in fake frustration. “Must’ve left it on her seat.”

He didn’t bother to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

It had been a week and a few days since the jacket incident, and Rafe hadn’t stopped thinking about it—or her.

Every time he caught sight of that golf cart in the distance, he found himself straightening up, scanning for her face, hoping she’d glance his way. She’d been wearing the jacket the day after he left it—he’d spotted it from across the green. He didn’t say anything, just watched her tug it a little tighter when the wind kicked up.

He liked that she kept it. Liked that she didn’t give it back.

Of course, they’d talked nearly every day when she stopped by his hole on the course—but the jacket? Never mentioned. Not once.

She was half-terrified that if she brought it up, he’d ask for it back. And honestly, she wasn’t ready to give it up. What she didn’t know was that Rafe had no intention of asking. He liked seeing her wear it. Liked the idea that a part of him was keeping her warm out there.

I drove around the course feeling more at ease than I had on my first day. Country music played softly from the cart speakers, mixing with the wind that cut across my bare legs—I’d forgotten to dress for the weather again. Rafe’s jacket rested on my lap, a comfort. I tugged it a little tighter.

As I rounded a curve, my eyes scanned the fairway like they always did. And there—tall, lean, standing alone—it had to be him.

I’d never admit it to him, but every time I approached a group of golfers, I secretly hoped it would be Rafe.

I drove my cart up closer to the golfer and smiled when I could confirm it was him. “Hi, Rafe!” I called out cheerily, the words rolling off my tongue with way more ease than they had that first day. I’d definitely gotten more comfortable around him—too comfortable, maybe.

Rafe turned at the sound of my voice, that familiar grin already tugging at his lips. It was like he’d been waiting for me.

“Hey, pretty girl. Whatcha up to?” he asked, voice low and cool as ever.

The nickname hit me —warm and unexpected—and I felt the blush creep up my neck before I could stop it.

Rafe had gotten bolder with his flirting over the past few days—it wasn’t subtle anymore. His compliments, the way he looked at her, lingered just a little too long to be casual.

Still, she played it off. Told herself that was just how he was—charming, smooth, flirty with everyone. But deep down, she couldn’t help but hope... that maybe it wasn’t just his personality. Maybe it was just for her.

“Just driving around, listening to some music,” I said with a shrug, the faint twang of country still playing in the background. “You’re alone today?”

I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. It was rare to see him without the other two guys trailing behind.

Rafe nodded, walking up to the cart and resting his hands on the roof, leaning in slightly. The move brought him closer—close enough to steal my breath a little.

“Yeah,” he said, casually. “Decided to come alone today.”

His eyes flicked over the inside of the cart, lingering for a beat too long. Then they landed on his jacket still draped over my lap—and something shifted in his expression. A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he seemed... almost proud.

“Want company?” he asked, voice a little lower now, a spark of confidence threading through his words.

I looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips tugging into a smile before I could stop myself.

“Would you really want to come along?” she asked, the doubt in her voice betraying the slight nervousness she felt. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd get bored—it seemed unlikely, but still, it felt too casual.

But Rafe was anything but bored when it came to her. He nodded slowly, a low hum escaping his chest. "Yeah," he said, his tone confident but soft. "I’d like that."

She let out a light laugh, the sound warm and easy. "I guess you could join me. If I get fired, it’s your fault."

Rafe smirked, stepping closer. Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, the gesture light but meaningful. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. They won’t fire you,” he reassured her, his voice low and steady.

And even if they tried, he thought—he wouldn’t let that happen. Not on his watch

Rafe stood there, waiting with that confident look on his face, as if he expected me to do something.

I raised an eyebrow, confused. “Are you going to get in?”

He stared at me for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly, before the smirk spread across his face, as if he were offended by the suggestion that he might not.

“Yes. Scoot over, I’m driving,” he said, his voice firm with an edge of playfulness.

Before I could even protest, he was already sliding into the cart, practically nudging me to the side. His leg brushed against mine, and I immediately felt the heat crawl up my skin. It was a simple touch, nothing overly intimate—but it felt like a spark.

The warmth between us was suddenly so palpable, I almost forgot how to breathe for a second.

I could feel the heat from his leg radiating against mine, and despite myself, I shifted slightly, trying to keep the space between us. But Rafe didn’t seem to mind. He leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms above his head, completely at ease as if he owned the place. His confidence was infectious, and I found myself getting more comfortable with every inch he moved closer.

“Comfortable?” he asked, glancing at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I smiled, trying to act like I wasn’t completely aware of every inch of him next to me. But deep down, I liked it—more than I cared to admit. “Yeah, totally,” I said, though the way my heart was racing told a different story.

Rafe’s smirk widened, sensing my nervousness—or maybe enjoying it. He nudged my leg with his casually, as if to remind me of how close we really were. “Good,” he said, his voice low, his eyes flicking down to my lap where his jacket still lay. “You know, I like seeing you in my jacket.”

I chuckled, my heart fluttering a little. “I guess it’s better than being cold,” I said, my voice betraying the flutter of warmth spreading through me.

“Mm-hmm,” Rafe hummed, his gaze lingering on me, that same playful smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s one way to put it.” He knew I was covering up the real reason.

Rafe started the cart, the engine humming softly as we cruised along the course. The country music played in the background, its soothing rhythm filling the space between us. The wind had calmed down a bit, and the cool air felt refreshing as we made our way down the winding path. It was peaceful—more so than I had expected—and I found myself relaxing in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

After a couple of minutes of comfortable silence, Rafe’s eyes drifted toward me. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was intense—calm yet purposeful, like he was taking in everything about me.

I glanced over at him, and for a split second, our eyes locked. I could feel the subtle tension between us, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the cart. His gaze softened, but the intensity remained, making my heart beat just a little faster.

“Y’know,” Rafe started, his voice casual but his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel, “there’s this event coming up at the club. Some really formal, over-the-top thing my family always drags me to.” He glanced over at me, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “I was wondering if… you’d want to go with me?”

His usual confidence was there, sure—but underneath, I could hear it. That slight edge of nervousness he was trying to hide.

I froze, eyes wide. Was this real? Was he seriously asking me to a fancy club event? As his date?

“L-like a date?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Rafe looked down at me, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. His gaze held mine, steady and unwavering. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and sure. “Like a date.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I quickly cleared my throat, trying to play it cool even though my face was probably on fire. “I—uh—I would love to. That sounds... fun,” I said, my voice steady enough, but the grin spreading across my face totally gave me away.

Rafe let out a soft laugh and shook his head like I was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. His hand moved without warning, resting gently on my thigh, his touch warm and grounding and gave it a squeeze.

“You don’t understand the effect you have on me,” he murmured, his tone more serious now, more honest than I’d ever heard it.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not with the way my whole body was buzzing at the feeling of his hand, his words, him.

But inside, I was screaming.

His face was so close to mine—closer than it had ever been. I could feel his breath on my skin, warm and intoxicating. My gaze was locked on his eyes, but his flickered downward, landing on my lips. The world seemed to still around us.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving me a chance to pull away. But I didn’t want to. I was frozen, heart racing, anticipation buzzing through every inch of me.

I’m about to kiss him, I thought giddily, my lips parting just slightly as my eyes fluttered shut. I felt his lips ghost over mine, a whisper of a touch that sent goosebumps up my arms.

And then—

Thunk!

“Watch out!” someone called from across the course.

Both our eyes snapped open just as something hit the roof of the cart with a loud clunk. Rafe let out a groan, dropping his forehead gently against mine in defeat.

His hand, still resting against my cheek, caressed it softly, his thumb brushing back and forth as if trying to soothe the moment we’d just lost.

I giggled, unable to help myself.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, one brow raised as a smirk tugged at his lips. “Funny?”

I nodded, biting back another laugh. “Kinda.”

That teasing spark lit up in his eyes again. “I was so close,” he mumbled under his breath.

I smiled, leaning into his touch just a little more. “Yeah,” I whispered, “you were.”

But the moment wasn’t really gone. If anything, it left us wanting more.

“You drive me insane,” Rafe murmured, his voice low and laced with a kind of frustration that only made me smile wider.

“Good,” I teased, my eyes gleaming with mischief.

He chuckled, that deep, effortless sound that always made my stomach flip. Before I could say anything else, he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. And another. Each one slower, more deliberate than the last.

I giggled, warmth rushing up my face as I squirmed slightly in my seat. “Rafe!” I laughed, playfully pushing at his head. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, that smug grin on his face, eyes full of trouble. “Worth it.”

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cherrypickedchaos · 27 days ago

Text

Framboisine

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

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

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

Inspired by Turning Page by Sleeping At Last

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

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

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

That earned the faintest twitch of her mouth.

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

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

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

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

Margaux didn’t answer. Just tilted her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They started back, uphill this time. Slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole room turned to look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando’s stomach twisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willem disappeared again.

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

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

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

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

Third time was technically the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was awful. It was perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled softly, heart pinching.

The moment passed and they melted back together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, already setting off. She followed Bas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to ask the question that mattered most.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did good, Lieveke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not without my lucky charm,” he replied.

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

She rolled her eyes and turned inside.

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at him for a long moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hands loose at her sides, pulse racing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a moment. And it was hers.

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

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

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

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

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

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

Something shifted in her chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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