#f1 team radio

[thepersonnamedsam]

radio

pairing: the genz!driver x team x 23!grid

summary: some team radios of our beloved genz!driver

warnings: some swearing

note: oh i hope you all will like what i did here, it took me a hot minute, soo, pls don’t be a ghost reader

our genz!driver doesn’t drive for a specific team (pls imagine which ever is your fav), so the colours of the team radio will be violet, bc it’s not used :)

masterlist / taglist

Bahrain 2023

Q2

- „Okay y/n, you made it into Q2! Let’s keep that same pace you had in Q1“

- „Oh did you hear that? Where did Oscar place??“

- „Piastri is out in Q1, P18“

- „Wooh!! Oscar owes me 50 bucks!!! He lost the bet, he lost it! He didn’t think I’d out-qualify him!“

End of Qualifying

- „Good job, y/l/n! Thats P12 for you! Great start of the season“

- „Yeah baby! I’m the new Smooth Operator, Smooth Operator!“

Race

- „Uhm guys, I think there’s something wrong with my car…“

- „What is it, y/n?“

- „I just overtook Charles, how is that even possible?! Wtf guys, am I that fast?“

- „Oh my god, y/n, you had me stressed out here. I really thought you had technical problems for a second“

- „No worries, I’m just faster than a Ferrari“

—

- „Radio check“

- „It’s a cruel summer!“

—

- „Tell me, tell me how we finished, how I finished?!“

- „P11 baby!“

- „Uh, yeah, who’s almost in the points?!“

- „YOU!“

—

Saudi Arabia 2023

FP2

- „Tell me, is Danny here?“

- „Yea, why?“

- „Can you tell him I said hi? Please“

- „Uhm, sure I can, why?“

- „I just promised him yesterday I‘d give him a shoutout from the track, hahaha“

Q1

- „Okay, y/n, let’s get into Q3 today!“

- „Let’s gooooo!“

- „Could you not scream into the coms, please?“

- „WOHOO!“

- „y/n…“

- „Love you“

- „I don’t…“

- „You totally do“

- „I don’t“

- „You dooooo“

Q2

- „P12, good job y/n“

- „Could’ve gone better“

- „It’s a good result, y/n“

- „But still no Q3“

- „Hey, y/n, cheer up, it’s the same result as last race“

- „I thought we improved, I thought I improved“

- „We can still climb up the ladder“

- „As if, I’m not good enough for that many overtakes, I can defend, but that… I don’t know man“

- „Hey hey, listen to me, y/n. You deserve that spot in F1, you’re young and you’re learning with every race, with every test. I know you’ll be champion one day. Maybe not this race, but you’re gonna go far, kid“

- „…“

- „Are you crying, hahaha?“

- „Let me be emotional, dipshit“

- „Oh Lando is gonna have a field day with this, hahaha“

- „Please don’t show that to Lando“

- „Come to the garage first and we can discuss it“

Race

- „Radio check, y/n“

- „Vamos a la playa“

- „Loud and clear…“

—

- „FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, SHIT, SHIT, DAMN, WHY DOES IT NEVER GO MY WAY?!“

- „Unfortunate events, retire the car, y/n“

- „UNFORTUNATE?! STROLL JUST STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD AND I HAD TO BREAK SO HARD NOT TO CRASH INTO HIM THAT I CRASHED INTO THE WALL!“

- „It is what it is“

- „Don’t meme me, I’m mad… haha, okay, thank you“

Australia 2023

Q2

- „Good pace, y/n, let’s keep it that way and we’ll make it into Q3“

- „Alrighty mighty“

- „Cringe“

—

- „AND THATS P9 FOR YOU“

- „Huh?“

- „P9“

- „I’m into Q3?! Am I really?“

- „Yes! Yes you are!“

Q3

- „Whoop, whoop, that’s the sound of the police“

- „Whoop, whoop, that’s the sound that I need“

- „P10 baby“

- „P10!“

Race

- „Hi y/n, you’re doing really good out there, bring 'em home for me, will ya?“

- „Danny?“

- „Yes?“

- „Hi Danny“

- „Hi, y/n! You’re currently P9, with 0.548s to Piastri“

- „Okay“

- „Let’s push and stay in the points!“

—

- „YOU‘VE CROSSED THE FINISH LINE AS 7TH!!!“

- „THOSE ARE 6 POINTS, RIGHT?“

- „YES!“

- „It’s all because of Danny!“

- „I’ll gladly let him know“

Miami 2023

Race

- „I- help!“

- „What’s going on? y/n talk to me“

- „I don’t think my break is working“

- „y/n, we are going to retire then, box box“

- „I’ll try for one more lap“

- „No you won’t“

- „I will“

—

- „I think it’s fine“

- „…“

- „Yea, it’s fine, I can brake normally, hihi, sorry for the worries“

- „You’re a menace, y/n“

Monaco 2023

FP1

- „Monaco baby, the land of pretty people and expensive things, I am home“

- „Why’s that, you’re not from Monaco, y/n“

- „I am pretty and expensive therefore I am home“

Race

- „Radio check, y/n“

- „NOT NOW“

- „Noted“

—

- „I don’t feel pretty“

- „Sucks for you“

- „Man, that’s a shit move“

- „Sucks“

—

- „Okay y/n, you’re currently P11 with 0.639s behind DeVries, let’s push to P10“

- „DeVries? Nyck is P10? What happened?“

- „I don’t know, let’s just push him off of P10“

- „Harsh“

- „I’m a bad bitch“

- „Fuck that bitch“

—

- „Great job, y/n P10!“

- „Where is DeVries?“

- „P12“

- „Who overtook him?“

- „Bottas“

- „HAH!“

- „Be nice“

- „Ugh“

Montréal 2023

FP3

- „You are currently P3, I repeat, you are currently placed on P3“

- „Who’s pranking me? Max? Lando?“

- „No one, you ARE P3!“

- „WHAT?!“

- „Let’s take that pace into qualifying“

- „Uhm, yea, definitely“

Q2

- „What’s my time?“

- „1:18.725“

- „And Max‘s?“

- „1:19.092“

- „WHAT?“

- „You are P1, y/n“

- „Are you kidding me?“

- „I would never“

- „Mhm, but really? P1?“

- „I swear to god, P1“

Q3

- „Fuck! Shit! Holy macaroni fucking meatballs! I crashed, I repeat, I crashed“

- „Yea, we saw, retire the car“

Race

- „P7, good job!“

- „Thanks…“

- „Oh and y/n, you’ve been voted driver of the day“

- „Really?“

- „Really“

- „Firstly, I wanna thank the ground, because without it, I wouldn’t be standing here today“

- „That only works if you’re really standing somewhere, y/n, you’re sitting in an F1 car“

- „Then I’d like to thank my F1 car…“

- „I deactivated your coms“

Austria 2023

Sprint Shootout

- „What exactly is a Sprint really?“

- „Oh my god, really y/n?“

- „No… of course not…“

—

- „Great job, you placed P13“

- „Mhm, thanks… I‘m thirsty“

- „…“

- „Did no one hear me? I want my drink, where is the drink?“

- „You will not have the drink“

- „Oh you waited so long for that, didn’t you?“

- „No…, yes“

- „Kimi is a legend.“

Sprint

- „I don’t like this Sprint thingy“

- „Why?“

- „I don’t know, just because“

—

- „P15“

- „No good job?“

- „Not today“

- „Understandable“

Race

- „I want to go home, I am tired of this“

- „What?“

- „It’s getting boring with Max always leading and winning“

- „Thats why we need to push as hard as we can“

- „As if I’ll ever overtake Max“

- „One day, y/n, one day“

- „But not today, that’s why I want to go home“

- „You can’t“

- „Loser“

Silverstone 2023

FP2

- „Why do I not see Charles on the grid?“

- „Why do you have time to look at the screen and not see Charles on there?“

- „You should be driving“

- „I am“

- „Clearly not fast enough“

- „Hey, I am faster than you think“

- „You are currently driving with a speed of 156 km/h“

- „How do you know that..?“

- „I am your race engineer, I know everything“

- „Did you know that I just farted, hahaha?“

- „Unfortunately“

- „Hihi“

- „You’re gross“

- „Thank you“

- „Welcome“

—

Race

- „If Lewis stands on that podium, he owes me a dinner“

- „And if he doesn’t?“

- „I owe him a pity dinner“

- „And if you stand on that podium?“

- „Thats unrealistic, that’s why we didn’t bet on it“

- „True“

- „HEY!“

- „You said it first!“

- „Not a reason for you to call it out!“

- „Women“

- „I heard that“

- „You were supposed to“

- „Less talking, more driving!“

- „Yes boss“

- „Yes boss“

—

- „Omg, omg, omg, tell me I crossed that line without a single penalty and we don’t get a grid penalty? Please tell me this is true?“

- „YOU ARE P4 Y/N“

- „Am I really?“

- „Yes!“

- „If it weren’t for the safety car you would’ve been P3!“

- „I don’t care! It’s my best result so far!“

- „So near and yet so far“

- „Lew is P3?“

- „Yep“

- „P4 and I get a free dinner from Lew, what a day“

- „Be proud and loud“

- „WOOHOO!!!“

- „Maybe not so loud…“

- „Sorry not sorry“

Hungary 2023

FP1

- „Oh Danny Ric is back on the grid!“

- „Mhm“

- „Aren’t you happy to see my favourite person driving again?“

- „Totally“

- „Be happy!“

- „Okay…“

—

- „Oh… I just passed Danny“

- „You are on your flying lap, he needs to let you pass..?“

- „Yeah… but he needs a positive experience on his first race back…“

- „HES THE ENEMY“

- „He’s my best friend…“

- „Does he know that?“

- „Uhm, I hope so“

Race

- „Tell Lando he’s doing a great job“

- „Just drive“

- „Okay…“

—

- „Lando says thank you, by the way“

- „For what?“

- „Just forget it“

- „Okay“

—

- „Oh, for that! You’re welcome, Landi“

- „It took you 4 laps to realise“

- „My brain is sometimes slow, let me be“

- „I would if I could“

—

- „Oh how I hate Perez“

- „It’s mutual“

- „Hihi“

—

- „Radio check“

- „I am so glad that the summer break is right in front of me, just 33 more laps and it’s me chilling on the beach, getting tan and reading good books and you know, that’s how my dream life looks like and…“

- „How can she be so talkative but still be on for a podium? It’s a mystery for me“

- „And Lando and me oh and Danny will go on vacation together. Maybe Lewis will come as well. I want to go to the Maldives but we’ll see. Oh and you know what would be cool? If we really…“

- „Is she still talking? Yep…“

- „I could learn how to surf and eat loads of stuff and just relax“

- „So you finally decided to stop speaking and concentrate on the race? Great job, y/n“

- „Thanks!“

—

- „Thats P5 for you! What a race to start the summer break“

- „Thank you so much“

- „We’ll see us in 3 weeks!“

- „Byeeeee“

°°°

@ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @biglittlesecret, @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21 , @youkissedareaderinthedark , @mikauraur , @thybulleric , @lpab , @fdl305 , @mellowarcadefun , @teti-menchon0604 , @vildetry06 , @bibissparkles , @aurora-maria , @lunnnix , @sya-skies , @Buckywifeyy , @dakotali , @rechtrecht , @noncannonships , @1eclerc16 , @pitlanebabe , @sopheeg , @avengersheart , @thatsadsmallchild , @peachiicherries , @idkiwantchocolatee , @callsign-scully , @mehrmonga , @badbatch-simp24 , @lissyontour , @din0nugs , @elliegrey2803 , @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis , @10vely-yutazen , @daggersquadphantom , @azriel-the-shadowsinger , @i-love-scott-mccall

[landoom]

(via Magnet avec l'œuvre « Stickers Radio Message Best of 2023 » de l'artiste Lastlapmadness)

NEW STICKERS AND MAGNETS AVAILABLE!!

Best of 2023 radio messages!

[alexturntable]

what do you mean you pushed ALL THE BUTTONS

[mistressemmedi]

"I have no brakes" Pierre, I think you have a few more issues than just that??

[papayafox]

may i present... mewis hamilton, serving up a stong cup of english sassfast

request an f1 mofusand cat!

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, domestic Lamelia, autistic meltdown on page, vaguely referenced public sex.

Notes — Timeline fuckery, as in I seem to have written Silverstone twice, in the last chapter and this one too. Clearly the podium fluff is too much for me to keep track of. So... Enjoy the extra fluffiness.

2023 (Silverstone — Hungary)

The sea was warm and quiet, the waves nothing but a soft hush against the sand.

Amelia sat with her legs tucked under her, an oversized white linen shirt hanging loosely over her bikini. Her hair was wet, curled slightly at the ends from the salt water. She was squinting at the horizon, watching the sunlight paint the beach in a million shades of gold.

Behind her, Lando dropped onto the towel with two icy cold drinks, one for each of them. He pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“This place is fucking amazing,” he said.

She hummed in agreement, leaning her head against his. “Warm, but breezy. The perfect in-between.”

He grinned. “Yeah? You glad I managed to convince you to come then?”

“Yes.” She said. “I’m going to have so much to get done when we get back to the factory, but I needed a break.”

Lando chuckled and stretched out beside her, propping himself on one elbow. “Hm. I know. And now you’re relaxed. That’s nice.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t say it like that. I can be relaxed. I relax a lot.”

“…No you don’t.”

She huffed. “Shut up.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “C’mon. Don’t get pissed off. It’s true, yeah? You have been stressed, but you’ve also been fucking ace with Oscar. With the team. I know the car isn’t what you want it to be, but it’s a lot bloody better than it was.”

Amelia softened. She leaned down to kiss him. “Thanks, husband.”

Lando’s eyes sparkled. “Say it again.”

“Husband?”

He groaned. “God, that’s hot.”

She laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You married me.”

“I clearly have poor taste.” She teased.

“Liar.”

He sat up and kissed her properly this time — slow and warm and a little lazy. She all but melted into it, fingers curling in the fabric of his swim shorts.

They ended up tangled together on a beach blanket under the slope of the rocks, just out of sight. The rest of the world fell away. It was just them. Skin on skin, hearts in sync, breathless laughter caught in the salt breeze.

Later, Amelia rested her cheek on Lando’s bare chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“I think,” she said softly, “I could stay here forever.”

He smoothed her hair back out of her face. Stared at her, like he was memorising her all over again. “Yeah, baby. Me too.”

—

The design lab was buzzing — a low but constant thrum of voices, keyboard clicks, air vents, printers, someone’s half-muffled phone call. The kind of sensory chaos most people filtered out without effort.

Amelia couldn’t today.

She had her noise-cancelling headphones on, her iPad open to three separate CAD model views, and a mechanical pencil tapping against her knee in a rhythm only she understood.

They were reviewing a mock-up for the 2024 suspension. One of the junior engineers; bright, eager, but careless, had accidentally uploaded an outdated spec into the shared build folder.

It seemed small. A mistake, an easy correction. But it meant the last two days of precision design work she’d done were out of sync with the rest of the development team’s data.

And that meant wasted time. Faulty conclusions. A domino collapse of calculations that had been perfect in her head.

She tried to breathe through it. In. Out. In again. But the wrongness sat in her chest like a ton of bricks.

Someone, Callum, tried to make light of it. “It’s no big deal. We’ve still got time before CFD locks—”

“No,” she said, voice tight. “You don’t understand. It’s wrong now. It’s all wrong.”

Her hands were shaking.

“Hey, it’s okay,” another engineer said carefully. “We’ll fix it. It was just a wrong upload—”

“Stop talking.” Her voice cracked, sharp and sudden. “Please. Just stop. Stop—”

She couldn’t hear them anymore. The hum of the lights had turned into a roar. The feeling of her shirt collar was too much. Her thoughts weren’t lining up right.

She stood up too fast. Knocked over a pen cup. The clatter made her flinch violently.

Then she was breathing hard. Too fast. Too loud. Her eyes stung. Her palms burned.

The room blurred. All noise. Too many people. Too many things out of place.

She left. Walked straight out the door, down the hall, past the glass break room, past a surprised intern holding two coffees. She found an empty office, one of the glass-walled side rooms, and ducked inside.

Lights off. Curtains drawn.

She sat on the floor. Curled into herself, hands pressed to her ears. Shaking.

She didn’t cry, not exactly. But her body trembled with the overload — her nervous system in revolt. All she could do was breathe and wait it out.

—

Ten minutes later, the door opened slowly.

Lando.

He said nothing at first. Just slipped inside and sat down on the floor beside her. Close, but not touching.

She didn't look up.

“Callum came to find me. He’s panicking.” He said.

She let out a half-broken noise. “I hate this. I hate when this happens.”

He shook his head. “Baby—“

Her shoulders curled tighter. "It’s all wrong,” she whispered. “I had it perfect. In my head. And now it’s wrong and I can’t fix it, and they don’t understand why it matters. They think I’m overreacting.”

“You’re not.”

“They think I’m difficult.”

“You’re not.”

She finally looked at him. Her face was pale, eyes glassy. “It felt like… too much. All at once. I couldn't stop it.”

Lando reached out, slow, deliberate, and gently took her hand. “I know, baby.” He said softly. “You don’t have to pretend, though. You know that. And I’m proud of you for walking away when you needed space.”

She gripped his fingers tightly. Grounded. Fiddled with his wedding band.

And little by little, her breathing began to slow.

—

Later, Amelia returned to her desk. The office had quieted. A sticky note sat on her monitor from Oscar, in his neat, blocky handwriting.

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO HAVE BAD DAYS — Ducky

She exhaled a shaky laugh.

Callum brought her tea an hour later and didn’t say a word, just left it on her desk like a peace offering. She nodded her thanks, smile tight but genuine.

She reopened her iPad, fingers steady now. Her brain still hurt, her skin still buzzed with leftover static, but she was here. She was okay.

And she could fix this.

—

The strategy room was windowless, cold, and lit by the slightly too-white fluorescents that made Amelia’s eyes burn.

She sat near the front with her iPad open, stylus twirling between her fingers as various engineers clicked through performance graphs on the large screen. Tyre degradation, pit stop windows, stint lengths, lap delta comparisons. The usual mess of variables before a race.

Oscar was next to her, elbows on the table, listening intently. He never interrupted. Never fidgeted. Just watched. Logged everything.

When the final graph flicked across the screen with the projected optimal strategy, medium-hard-medium, Amelia tilted her head, expression flat.

“No,” she said simply.

A pause.

One of the strategy engineers, Jeremy, looked up. “You don’t agree?”

“No. That doesn’t win us anything. That gives us a decent P6, maybe. P7 if the Mercs behave.”

“And what would you suggest?”

Amelia tapped the stylus against her pad. “Soft-Hard. Big launch, early gain. One stop. Pit window between 14 and 18, if the tyres last. Risky, but Oscar’s tyre management is good enough. He’s not heavy on the fronts.”

Oscar, quiet until now, nodded. “That’s what I felt in FP2. Softs felt clean even on the heavier fuel run. Just needs the rear temps managed early.”

Amelia gave him a slight smile, not warm exactly, but approving. “Driver agrees.”

Jeremy frowned. “If we pit early, we get undercut risk. Traffic.”

“We’re already in traffic,” Amelia replied. “You think anyone’s just going to make room for us? The only way through is to make it past them before the midfield concertina sets in. That means launch tyre, low fuel window, commit to Plan A. We stay reactive. Flexible. But we commit.”

Oscar added, “And if it doesn’t work?”

She looked at him. Direct. “Then it doesn’t. But we’ve learned more than we would’ve finishing behind both Alpines.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Andrea leaned back in his seat and said, “It’s bold.”

“That’s how we race,” Amelia said.

Another pause. Then a nod from Andrea. “Alright. Amelia, prep two versions of the radio calls. One if we need to abort early. One if we push deep into the stint.”

“Already halfway done,” she said, flipping to a new tab.

Oscar leaned toward her, voice low. “You really think we can pull it off?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“I like it,” he said, almost to himself.

She looked at him sideways. “You trust me?”

He blinked. “Yeah. I do.”

She smiled, barely. “Then we’re good. Don’t be late to the grid walk. Make sure Lando’s had some water.”

“Yeah. I will,” Oscar muttered.

As the team filed out, Jeremy passed Amelia with a nod. “You’re not as scary as everyone said you’d be.”

“No,” she shrugged. “Not scary. Just… specific.”

Oscar held the door open, glancing at her. “Will you make me cookies if I finish top five?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “With raspberries. Just don’t tell Kim. He keeps telling me off for giving you treats that aren’t on your meal plan.”

“Mean.” Oscar complained.

“Very mean.” Amelia agreed.

—

The moment Lando stepped off the scale in parc fermé, Amelia launched herself at him.

He barely got his arms up in time to catch her — she collided with his chest like a missile, legs wrapping around his waist, arms tight around his neck.

“You crazy, crazy man,” she whispered fiercely into his ear, smiling so wide it hurt. “You data-defying freak.”

Lando laughed, breathless, still winded from the final laps but suddenly full of adrenaline again. “Hello, my beautiful wife.”

She kissed him hard, not the polished PR kind, but the messy, gleeful, post-race kind that tasted like sweat and relief. Cameras were around them, but neither of them cared. Hadn’t for a long time.

“P2,” he said, dazed.

“Yes,” she said, still clinging to him. “I’m so proud of you.”

He set her down, barely. She kept one hand fisted in his fireproofs, grounding herself.

“That was such an amazing drive,” she said, quieter now. “Every lap. You didn’t put a single foot wrong. And I’m so proud of you, Lando.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes glinting under the brim of his cap. “Thank you, baby. For this. You. The car.”

“Anything for you,” she whispered, leaning up on her tiptoes and brushing their noses together. “I was getting tired of you moping around the apartment and yelling at Gran Turismo.”

He snorted. “You love when I yell at Gran Turismo.”

“I love you,” she said simply.

Someone called his name, an FIA official, maybe, or one of the social team, but he ignored it for a second longer. His thumb brushed her jaw. “Meet me at the podium?”

“I’ll be there.” Watching, always watching, always in awe of the man she loved.

“I want to spray you with champagne.” He told her.

“You’re not allowed to,” she warned. “I’ll be sticky.”

“Don’t care.” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes, kissed him again, and let him go.

Later, after the podium ceremony, after she did get sprayed, and did yell “Lando Norris, don’t you dare!” on live television, they curled up together in the back of the hospitality unit, him shirtless, her in one of his McLaren hoodies, and split a tiny bottle of celebratory wine Oscar had swiped from the hospitality fridge.

“I missed this,” Lando murmured, head on her shoulder.

She brushed his curls back from his forehead. “Podiums?”

“No,” he said, looking up at her. “You. You being happy. You being here, at McLaren, with me.” He paused, and she leaned closer curiously as he gazed at her, all soft and sweet and so dearly tender. “I kept it, you know? The note you left me before you joined RedBull. The one where you called me an asshole. The booklet too, with the race notes. You were the reason for every podium I got the year after that, you know?”

She swallowed thickly. Stared at him. Reached her hand up to cup his face. “You’re not an asshole.” She whispered. Needed to say it. Needed him to know that she didn’t believe that anymore.

“I am sometimes,” he grinned lopsidedly. “But you love me anyway.”

“I love you anyway.” She whispered.

—

It started with the toaster.

Specifically, with Lando kicking the cupboard under the sink in frustration because where the hell was the toaster? and why is there no bloody counter space anymore?

“I moved it because your smoothie machine was leaking again,” Amelia said from the floor of the living room, surrounded by three open boxes of car telemetry printouts and what looked like half of a sock drawer.

“I fixed the leak.” Lando told her.

She frowned at her pencil. “You fixed it with duct tape.”

“That’s how men do it,” Lando said, crouching to help pick up a stack of papers that had slipped under the coffee table. “Are these important?”

“Yes. They’re the data sheets from Oscar’s last long run simulation—don’t fold them!”

“I wasn’t going to—” He paused. “Okay, I was.”

She snatched them out of his hand, stuffing them back into a manila folder that was already bursting. Over the last few months, their beautiful apartment had started to look less like a home and more like an office. Helmets on shelves, engineering notebooks piled on chairs, printer cables tangled with furniture.

Lando stood up and did a slow 360° in the living room. “Have we… always had this much stuff?” He asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

“No,” Amelia said. “You moved in with a single suitcase of clothes and a sim rig. I had four crates of notebooks, over two hundred pairs of shoes, and a bookshelf. Now you have a room full of gaming stuff, we have two Dyson fans, my office is overflowing, and Max’s cats all-but live here part-time.” She pointed at the cat-tree they had stuffed into a tight corner by the window.

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. “You want to move?”

“I don’t want to,” she said bluntly, “but we’ve started tripping over each other. Literally. I had to do my work in the bathroom yesterday because you needed to use the extension cord in my office to use your NutriBullet.”

“There was no space in the kitchen.” He argued.

“Yes, I know. It was still a ridiculous solution.” She told him flatly.

He tried not to laugh. “Baby, you’re still mad?” He cooed.

“Lando,” she said, looking up at him, serious now. “We’ve outgrown this place. I love it, and it will always be our first home, but I don’t want to have to think about if I have space in my wardrobe to buy a new pair of shoes when I see ones that I like.” She said, biting her lip. “And I need a bigger office. You need a streaming room that doesn’t double as a spare room. It’s not fair to shove Oscar onto a pull-out bed every time he’s here.”

He flopped down next to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her onto his lap. “Suppose we could have a bigger kitchen.” He mumbled against her neck. “A nicer balcony. Maybe a dining room.”

“And plenty of space for guests,” she said.

Lando leaned his head against hers. “Okay. Let’s look. After the triple header.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, letting herself relax into his side. “I want to stay in this neighbourhood. Or close.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” He hummed.

She cracked a smile. “And I want us to start looking for a house in England, too. Not for now… but for later. Somewhere to disappear during off-seasons. With a big garden, and trees, and a big garage for me to play around with some cars again.” She rambled.

He stared at her, hearts in his eyes. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said softly, and kissed his cheek. “Come on. Carry me into the kitchen. My legs are numb, but I’ll help you find the toaster.”

—

From the pit wall, the view was beautiful.

The sun beat down on the Hungaroring like it was trying to melt the asphalt. The air was thick with it though, and Amelia’s headset slightly with heat distortion.

Oscar was starting from the second row. P4.

Lando P3. 

Both of her boys making up the second row.

Her fingers tapped restlessly against her keyboard, eyes flicking between sector deltas and real-time tyre temp data. She barely noticed the world around her, only the voices in her ear and the heartbeat under her skin.

“Oscar, radio check?”

“Radio good.” Calm, sharp. His tone was always a little flat, that’s what everyone said; that he was emotionless. It made them a perfect duo — she never needed to try to unravel his tone. If he was thinking something, feeling something, he said it.

“Copy. Full systems looking good. Expect higher degradation on rear left — we’ll manage it through lift points. Brake temps will spike early. Keep it smooth, ducky.”

“Understood.” He said.

She leaned back in her stool and glance to her left, giving her dad a confident smile. He leaned across to give her a heavy shoulder pat, squeezing hard.

—

The launch was perfect.

Oscar didn’t just hold his position off the line; he gained. He swept into Turn 1 ahead of Lewis, ahead of even his teammate. For one brief, glorious moment, he was P2 behind Max Verstappen, in only his 11th Formula 1 race.

Amelia didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just… hyper focused.

“Amazing job, Oscar. Straight into it. Eyes forward — target delta plus point-three, we’ll manage tyres early.” She said.

“Copy.”

Her hands hovered over the live strategy tools. They were starting on Plan A, soft-to-medium, but she had contingencies mapped like a chess board. She refused to ever resort to a late reaction.

—

By Lap 16, Lando had undercut Oscar and slotted into net P2.

Amelia knew it would happen. Still, she hated how early they’d had to box Oscar, forced into it by track position pressure and the undercut threat from Lewis behind. The window had been tight. And the McLaren pit stop wasn’t their best; 3.8 seconds. Enough to cost.

Oscar rejoined in traffic. Slower cars. Dirty air.

The moment Oscar keyed his mic, she knew he felt it too.

“Tyres feel edgy. Car’s moving around.”

“Yeah. I know. Let’s build up our temps gradually. Try not to fight the dirty air. We’re still advantage three, ducky. Cleaner air will come to us once we’re through this pack.”

He didn’t reply right away. But when he did, it was with full faith in her plan. “Copy. Staying patient.”

She made a note on her pad, already tracking tyre drop-off curves from the medium runners around him. There was still a shot at a P4 finish. Maybe more, if Ferrari made the wrong call. Again.

—

The race stabilised. Max was untouchable up front, but Lando and Oscar were both holding on. Lando ran solidly in P2. Oscar, behind him in P5 with Charles closing. Too slowly to be dangerous yet, but Amelia knew better than to relax.

“Leclerc at 2.2 behind. He’s on slightly newer mediums, but they’ll plateau. You’re doing exactly what I need you to do.”

“Rear left’s starting to slip.” He reported.

Amelia adjusted her headset mic. She didn’t raise her voice, but the sharpness of her tone cut through the heat and static. “We’re monitoring. Keep it tight in 11 and off the kerbs in Sector 2. We’ll be okay.”

Will leaned toward her, murmuring, “You sure we’re not going to lose it to Leclerc?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “Not if he does exactly what I tell him. And he will.”

—

Leclerc wasn’t fast enough. And Oscar, even with graining tyres, rising temps, and thirty-five laps of non-stop pressure, didn’t put a wheel wrong.

“Last lap. Keep it clean. You’ve broken DRS.”

“Copy.” Calm. Professional. Perfectly Oscar.

When he crossed the line in P5, just behind Lewis, Amelia didn’t outwardly react. But her hand curled into a fist beneath the desk, opening and closing five times in even succession.

It wasn’t a podium. But it was a statement.

—

In the garage, the heat clung to them like a second skin. Amelia handed Oscar a water bottle before he even had to ask.

“You made them work for it,” she said.

Oscar looked at her, face half-smeared with visor marks, and raised a brow. “I was pushing hard.”

“I know,” she said, voice level. “Even after the weak strategy call. You salvaged your position, and it was impressive.”

He tilted his head. “Even that moment in Turn 2 where I had to back off?”

“Especially then,” she said. “That’s when I knew you were supposed to be my driver. You fight hard, but you race clean.”

Oscar snorted, leaning against the garage wall. “You’re very dramatic. And demanding on the radio.”

“You stayed ahead of a Ferrari on thirty-lap-old tyres. So…” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He smirked, then looked at her sideways. “Think we could’ve held that podium if we boxed one lap later?”

Amelia refused to lie. “Maybe. But we don’t deal in maybes. We deal in execution. And yours was great.”

He bumped her arm. “Thanks. I got a bit stressed there, after the first stop. You helped me keep my head.”

She smiled, faint but proud. “I’ll always do that.”

—

It wasn’t victory.

But it was control. It was consistency. It was yet another way of telling the world that Oscar Piastri, under her watch, was going to become something extraordinary.

—

Amelia found her husband sitting on one of the stackable pit wall chairs, half out of his fireproofs, head tipped back, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were closed, not asleep, but close to it. That bone-deep exhaustion that only comes after a truly hard-fought podium.

She nudged his knee with hers.

He cracked an eye open. Smiled when he saw that it was her. “Hey, Mrs. P5.”

She smiled right back at him. “Hi, Mr. P2.”

He let out a slow breath, opened his arms. She fell into them, onto his lap, and let him hold her. Tight. “Felt good today.” He started. “Felt like we were… properly in it. Like we’re not just pretending anymore.”

“You weren’t pretending in Silverstone, either,” she reminded him, sliding into the seat beside him. “But you really earned it today with that middle stint.”

He gazed down at her. “You always manage to do this.”

“What?” She asked, blinking at him.

“Say the exact right thing. Make me feel even better about a result I’m already proper buzzing about.” He explained, with a tilted smile. “Makes me feel like a bit of a muppet, honestly.”

She didn’t respond, just leaned over slightly, drawing something out from the inside of the pocket of her McLaren windbreaker. A thin silver chain, a small pendant strung on it. Lando in cursive letters, cut from a sheet of polished silver.

She held it up between them.

“A fan gave this to me outside the paddock,” she said, tone matter-of-fact. “Asked me to give it to you. I told her I was going to keep it.”

Lando blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Because,” she went on, “it has your name on it. And that’s comforting. Like when I labelled everything in the kitchen drawers so you stopped putting the spoons in the wrong place.”

He started laughing. “You think I’m a drawer?”

“I think you’re mine,” she said plainly. “And this necklace is a tactile reminder. So I’m keeping it. And I’m going to wear it all the time. Until it goes rusty, and then I’m going to have another one made. More permanent. And I’ll wear that one all the time too.”

Lando looked at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching with affection. “You’re so romantic.”

“Maybe.” She sighed, like it was the worst thing she’d ever been told.

That earned a full grin from him. Tired, slightly loopy from the adrenaline crash, but full and wide. He reached over and ran his fingers along the chain. “I love you, baby.” He said quietly.

She looked at him, blinked once. “I know.” A beat passed. She gave him the smallest smile, then added, “And I love you too.”

Lando pressed his forehead against hers. “God, I missed you during the cool-down room. Lewis and Max were being so serious. I just wanted to say something dumb and have you roll your eyes at me. Make everything feel fun again.”

“You did great,” she told him earnestly. “You kept Max behind you for more laps than most people have managed all year.”

He pulled her in then, quick and fierce, arms around her back, his mouth warm against hers. “You’re the only podium celebration I actually look forward to.” A pause. A long, lingering kiss. And then, “did you bring the chequered flag underwear?”

She glanced around before tugging at her top. 

He peeked down and smirked.

“Fucking class.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[formulanni]

the sacrificial lamb.

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009 @korolrezni-nikolai @d00dlespng @beenucks

[marchology]

look at this team bro the car is actually fuelled by the power of age gap yaoiness

[russellius]

2025 CANADIAN GP : pole position

GR: Talk to me!! TALK TO ME!! (...) WHAT A FUCKING LAP, YES!!!! WOHOHOOOOO!!! YOU BEAUTY!!! Oh my goodness, woohoohoo.. That was fucking exhilarating.

[reidiot]

charles apologising for not being enough after going from p19 to p3 will haunt me for the rest of my life

[il-predestinato]

Ollie Bearman (Jeddah 2024): “The drink is going everywhere except in my mouth!” Charles Leclerc (Abu Dhabi 2022): “Grazie, grazie… [chokes on water] Oh, I pressed the drinks button. Ohhhh! Grazie ragazzi!”

Name a more iconic duo than Ferrari drivers + struggling with the drink. 😓

[f1-stuff]

Monaco GP '24 // Charles' full radio after the flag

Bryan: "I'm proud of you." CL: "Mamma mia! I think it's the first time that..." Bryan: "That you cry?" CL: "Maybe yes, I don't know... Mamma mia. We did it. Finally."

[alexturntable]

"Let's add that to the words of wisdom"

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, so much fluff, strong language

Notes — This is my favourite chapter so far. Out of all 32. It's also a long one, so grab a snack and send me your thoughts!

2023 (Belgium — Japan)

The light in Nice always felt soft, like it was passing through a filter of sea salt and old stone. The sun hadn't reached its full height yet, and the market was still in that gentle hum of mid-morning, not too busy, not too still. Just alive enough.

Lando walked half a step behind Amelia, letting her pace guide them through the maze of stalls and awnings. She wasn't a talker in the mornings, not really, and that suited him just fine.

She stopped at the long flower stand, fingers trailing over a bunch of pale yellow ranunculus. He didn't say anything, just watched her examine the petals with her usual precise sort of softness. Then, after a pause, she looked back at him and tilted her head slightly.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, handed it to the vendor without a word. Amelia's lips curved just a bit.

Two stalls later, she passed him a tiny basket of sliced figs drizzled in honey. He didn't ask where she'd gotten it or how much it cost. He just took it and pressed a kiss to her temple, because of course she would know he was hungry before he even had a chance to say anything.

They moved like that; in orbit, but in sync.

At one point, a vendor selling lavender soap called out to them in a thick accent, something about being a "cute young couple." Lando smiled, striking up a polite conversational exchange. Amelia didn't say anything. After they passed the stall, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, without looking.

She didn't do that often — didn't like to be the one to initiate physical contact, especially in public.

He felt it in his heart every time she did.

They stopped near a stall selling fresh olive bread, and Amelia pulled out her phone, tapping something into her notes app. Lando leaned over.

"What's that?" he asked, voice low and warm.

"List of food I like," she murmured. "Reminding myself."

He nodded. She paused, then handed him the phone wordlessly. There were twenty-seven bullet points. He scrolled through them.

"You liked the brown seeded rolls yesterday too. With the chilli jam," he said. "I'll add that."

She didn't reply. Just looked at him for a long second, then blinked, slow and deliberate. That was the silent Amelia version of I love you — subtle, but unmistakable.

They wandered on.

At the end of the market, they sat at a chipped café table and shared a small tart filled with goat cheese and roasted tomato. Amelia leaned into his side without thinking, her head resting on his shoulder as she chewed, still watching the crowds drift by.

Lando let his hand fall into her lap and tangle gently in the fabric of her skirt. Hers moved to rest over his without needing to look.

They didn't speak much.

And that was the thing with them. It wasn't just that they loved each other — it was that they understood how the other one loved. In gestures. In silence. In half-smiles and shared fruit and shoulders leaned into shoulders in beautiful, morning-sleepy cities.

—

The MTC sim room was cool and quiet, lit by the blue glow of monitors and the soft hum of tech. Amelia stood with her arms folded, watching the data stream from Oscar's run, her expression intensely focused. She didn't speak until the run ended and the rig slowed to stillness.

"Turn 7's still sloppy," she said bluntly.

Oscar pulled off the headset and blinked at her. "Define 'sloppy.'"

"Four degrees too aggressive on throttle reapplication. You're losing rotation mid-corner, which is fine when tyre life doesn't matter, but it will in Spa." She passed him a tablet with the graph already up. "Look."

Oscar studied it. "You memorise this?"

"I don't memorise, per se. I just... know it." She paused. "I'm pattern-oriented. You keep breaking the pattern. It's very irritating."

Lando, seated cross-legged on the floor beside the second sim rig, laughed. "She's not wrong. You are driving like a goat on ice in that sector."

Oscar shot him a look. "You crashed in Miami trying to out-brake a Williams."

"Shut up, mate." Lando stood, brushing imaginary dust off his joggers. "Alright, my turn. Fix me, genius wife."

Amelia arched a brow. "You want feedback?"

"I'm asking for it, yeah."

"Good luck," Oscar muttered, climbing off the rig.

They traded places, and Amelia slid the headset onto Lando with surprising gentleness, muttering something under her breath that only he could hear. Whatever it was made him grin.

Lando's sim run was cleaner, smoother — but not perfect. He clipped a curb on Lap 3, losing the rear slightly. Amelia exhaled loudly through her nose.

"You always hit that curb," she said. "Every year. Just lift earlier."

"I'm trying. The curb keeps coming at me," he groaned, throwing her a grin through the screen.

"Don't be stupid," she shot back.

Oscar snorted. "She's brutal today."

"She's always brutal." Lando sighed. "But it's helpful, so..." he shrugged.

Eventually his run ended. Amelia crossed to his console and tapped a few notes in; suggested setup tweaks, minor aero preferences. Lando watched her hands work.

"You're so smart, baby. How do you do it, hm?"

She didn't look up. "I watch. I notice things. I write them down. Easy"

He smiled. "You're like a high-functioning racetrack AI."

Oscar added dryly, "That occasionally hits things when she's angry."

"That too," Lando agreed, with a lopsided smirk.

Amelia looked up at both of them, expression unreadable for a beat. Then she said, very softly, "You're idiots."

Oscar grinned. "That's a compliment from you."

Lando moved to nudge her shoulder, but she stepped out of reach — except not out of irritation, just anticipation. She knew exactly what was coming.

"You're going to try to gang up on me now," she stated.

Lando blinked. "Why would we—"

Oscar pounced first, grabbing her wrist and lightly jabbing at her side. "We would never," he said with mock innocence.

Amelia shrieked and jerked away, but Lando joined in, carefully — always mindful of her reactions, but not holding back so much that it felt patronising. His fingers found her ribs, tickling just enough to get her laughing — real, loud, unfiltered laughter.

"Stop! I hate this!" she wheezed, kicking at the air as she twisted out of reach.

"You're smiling," Oscar said.

"That's involuntary!" She yelped, breathless.

They finally relented, letting her drop onto the padded bench near the wall, still catching her breath. Her face was flushed, her hair askew, and she looked... radiant with happiness.

"Jerks," she muttered, but her voice was light.

"You love us," Lando said, crouching beside her.

"Only sometimes," she said flatly.

Behind them, just outside the glass-panelled door, Zak stood watching.

He hadn't meant to intrude. He'd only come by to drop off a briefing packet. But when he'd seen the three of them — his daughter, laughing and safe, surrounded by two young men who not only respected her mind but held her heart with equal reverence — he'd stayed where he was.

He didn't move. Didn't interrupt. Just watched for a little while longer.

Amelia, who'd grown up unsure of where she fit. Amelia, who used to hide in closets with puzzle books. Amelia, who didn't make friends easily but somehow had forged these bonds — raw, steady, honest — with Oscar and Lando. A best friend and a husband.

Zak blinked hard.

When Lando looked up a few minutes later and spotted him, he just gave a little nod. Not a word passed between them.

Zak nodded back and slipped away.

Inside the sim suite, Amelia stood again, brushing herself off.

"Back to work!"

Lando and Oscar groaned in unison.

"Fine," she said. "But if either of you miss apexes like that in Spa, I'll point and laugh at you on live television."

"You'd love that," Oscar said.

"She would," Lando added. "Humiliation. She likes embarrassing us."

Amelia just smirked, already queuing up the next run. "Well. I'm not ruling it out."

And as the next session loaded, the screen filling with the digital outline of the track, she brought her hand up to apply a heavy load of pressure to her hip.

Grounding. Safe.

—

Later, much later, the sim rigs had powered down for the night.

Amelia sat alone on the low bench, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Not in discomfort; she wasn't overwhelmed. She was just... processing.

Oscar had ducked out a few minutes earlier, mumbling something about protein bars and his "cramped spine." Lando had promised to bring back coffee. That left her here, in the comfortable lull, with space to think.

Oscar.

It had taken her a while to really begin to understand Oscar Piastri on a personal level. He was quiet, like her. Dry, like chalk. Flat-voiced in a way that people often mistook for aloofness. But Amelia had recognised it immediately — that instinct for silence. The calm observation. The way he didn't try to fill air that didn't need filling.

He had become somewhat like a younger brother to her — not in the way people throw that phrase around when they mean someone's simply "less experienced," but in the very real, familial sense. She worried about him. Checked his telemetry obsessively. Snuck 'drink water/have a snack' notes into his strategy folder. Looked for signs of overwork in his eyes before every qualifying session.

And he, in the way Oscar was able, quietly looked after her too.

He never flinched at her directness. Never called her intense or difficult or cold when she snapped out instructions without pleasantries. In fact, he appreciated it. He understood that when she called something "icky," it wasn't a personal attack; it was an opportunity for precision.

After a race where she'd gotten particularly sharp with him over comms, he'd found her in the engineering room, dropped a packet of salted pretzels on her desk, and said, simply, "You were right. I just wasn't ready to hear it in the moment."

And that was all.

That was the kind of person Oscar was. He saw her and he didn't need to explain that he did.

And then there was Lando.

The loud to her quiet. The warmth to her ice. The one person on earth who could decipher her entire emotional state by the mere shape of her shoulders, or the angle of her fingers curled around a water bottle.

They were married now, still new enough to feel surreal when people called her "Mrs. Norris" in emails, but the foundation they stood on had been built long before the vows. He was the only person she could touch when her skin physically hurt from overstimulation. The only one who could joke with her during a meltdown and have it feel safe instead of cruel.

Lando understood her chaos. He never tried to change her, only to interpret.

Like when they were in the grocery store, and she couldn't bear the way the overhead lights buzzed, and he just... squeezed her hand once, without saying anything, and then diverted them to the sunglasses section and slid a funky pair onto her nose.

Or tonight, when she'd needed the sim session to be productive, and he'd let her lead, followed her notes, asked questions only when her tone said she was open to them.

And then — when she was finally starting to relax, he'd poked her ribs and made her laugh until she curled up on the floor.

Lando gave her a kind of emotional mirroring she'd never thought possible. Like her feelings were real and reflected, but never judged. He loved her not just in spite of who she was, but because of it. Bluntness, hyper-focus, sharp tongue, and all.

Very quickly, Lando and Oscar had become one of her safe zones.

One was home. The other had become family. Both made the world feel a little less jagged.

She rested her cheek against her knees and exhaled.

They didn't tiptoe around her needs. They didn't act like they were noble for understanding. They didn't talk about her like she was a puzzle or a pet project. They just treated her like Amelia; sharp, driven, autistic, brilliant, flawed, enough.

It was rare to feel seen. Rarer still to feel seen and protected.

The door eased open then, and Lando returned, holding two takeaway cups. He handed her one wordlessly, sat down beside her, and bumped her knee with his.

"Hey, baby. You okay?" He asked.

"Yeah." Her voice was soft. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous."

She smiled. "I'm just feeling grateful, actually."

Lando tilted his head. "For?"

"You," she said simply. "Oscar. All of it."

He didn't tease her this time. Just leaned his head against hers for a second, warm and grounding.

"You're my person," he murmured. "My wife. My love."

She nodded. "I know." She whispered. "And you're mine."

—

Spa

The rain hadn't started yet, but it always smelled like it was about to in Spa. The mountains curled thick and green around the paddock, clouds hanging low. Amelia tugged her Quadrant hoodie sleeves over her hands and squinted at her tablet. Oscar's long run data looked steady, rear temps maybe a touch high, but manageable.

She heard the approach before she looked up. Soft-footed, deliberate. Someone in flats, not heels.

Oscar appeared first. Then, behind him, a woman with the exact same eyebrows and the same unbothered stillness in her eyes.

"Amelia," Oscar said, ever direct, "this is my mum."

Nicole Piastri smiled. warm and unfussy. "Nicole. It is so lovely to finally meet you."

Amelia didn't immediately move. Not because she didn't want to, but because her brain caught on the sudden shift in social rules; the expectation to greet, to be personable, to be human-shaped instead of work-shaped. She blinked once, then reflected the woman's smile as best as she could.

"Hi," she said. "Sorry. I was looking at tyre deltas. My brain's still... there."

Nicole just smiled. "Oscar warned me."

Amelia turned her head. Furrowed her brows. "Warned you?"

"He said you'd be brilliant but a bit intense. That I'd like you." Her tone was easy. No condescension, no forced warmth. Just observation.

Oscar folded his arms. "Didn't say 'a bit intense.' That was Mum's addition."

Nicole raised a brow. "You said she made a Ferrari engineer cry once."

Amelia blinked again. "He ignored my pit safety brief three times."

Nicole laughed, not unkindly, and that was the moment Amelia relaxed, just a fraction.

"I like your son," Amelia said simply.

"I'd hope so," Nicole replied. "You're guiding him."

Amelia nodded. "He listens. He understands things without needing them repeated. He's good."

Nicole gave her a look. "He's also stubborn and sometimes pretends he isn't tired when he absolutely is."

Oscar made a wounded sound. "Mum."

"True," Amelia said, folding her arms. "I've started watching for the eye-rubbing thing. It's his tell."

Nicole grinned. "Exactly."

There was a beat. A moment of quiet. Amelia stepped back slightly, giving herself a little more breathing room from the interaction. Nicole didn't follow, didn't press. She just let the silence exist.

That, more than anything, made Amelia feel at ease.

"You're welcome to come sit in for the long-run review," she said. "If you want."

Nicole's eyebrows lifted. "You'd let a driver's mum sit in?"

Amelia shrugged. "If it were any other mum, maybe not. But you raised Oscar. And he doesn't let nonsense slide. So I assume neither do you."

Nicole beamed, warm and wide. "You really are as blunt as he said."

Amelia nodded. "I'm autistic. Directness is safer for everyone."

Nicole, without missing a beat: "Well, I'm Australian. Directness is our native language."

Oscar looked between them, then shook his head with a half-smile. "This is going to be terrifying."

"Don't be dramatic," Amelia said, already turning back to her screen.

Nicole patted Oscar's shoulder, but her eyes lingered on Amelia with quiet gratitude.

She saw it.

Not just the brilliance, but the care.

And for a mother watching someone else guide her son at 300 km/h, that mattered more than anything.

—

It had rained sometime during the night — Amelia had heard it, soft and steady against the hotel room window, the kind of sound that settled right into soul and lulled her into deeper sleep. But now the world outside was damp and quiet, and inside, everything smelled like Lando: clean cotton, a little citrus, faint cologne lingering from yesterday's press outfits.

She was already awake. Always woke up earlier on race days.

Propped against the headboard, hair still messy from sleep, she had her iPad balanced on her knees — telemetry overlays already pulled up from FP3, tyre strategy notes highlighted in orange and blue.

The bed shifted as Lando stirred beside her.

"Mm... it's so early," he mumbled, voice rough and slow. "Why are you working already?"

"I'm not working," she replied, glancing down at him without shifting her hands. "I'm just reviewing."

He cracked one eye open. "That's working."

"I'm not writing anything new," she said. "I'm checking the data I already have. That can't be classed as work."

Lando groaned dramatically and rolled onto his side to face her. One arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back down into the pillows, iPad and all.

She made a small protesting noise, stiff in the unfamiliar position, but didn't push away.

"You're not a robot," he murmured against her shoulder. "You're allowed to spend your morning being sleepy and stupid—like me."

"I know," she said. Bbut being still had always been difficult. There was always something to check, a variable to account for. "But I always feel better when I've gone over it one extra time."

He was quiet for a moment. Just breathing. Then he kissed the bare slope of her shoulder, soft and deliberate.

"Alright," he whispered. "One more time. And then you let it go for an hour. Just long enough to have breakfast. With me."

She didn't answer straight away. He felt her fingers tap lightly against the back of his hand — the same rhythm he'd learned years ago. The one that meant she was thinking. Processing.

Then, finally, she turned her head and nudged his forehead with hers.

"Okay," she said. "One hour."

He smiled, satisfied.

They stayed like that for a while. Her eyes flicking between data points. His thumb tracing lazy circles against her hip beneath the blanket. They didn't need to speak — didn't need to fill the air with reassurance. That was the magic of it, really. They understood each other in silences too.

Eventually, Amelia closed the iPad with a decisive click.

"Tyre data's solid," she said quietly. "Oscar'll be fine. Track temps are stable. We're good."

Lando pressed a kiss just beneath her ear. "You always say that. And you're always right."

"I'm not always right," she replied, voice flat but self-aware. "But I am today."

He laughed and leaned up on one elbow, eyes crinkling. "God, I love it when you sound like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you believe that we're going to win."

She blinked, then tilted her head a little. "You are going to win. Or close to it. I can feel it."

"Feel it, huh?"

"Yes. Based on my extensive logic and my faith in both of you."

"That's a dangerous combo." He grinned, then leaned down to kiss her — soft, not rushed. The kind of kiss people only share when they've been through everything together and still feel like choosing each other again in the quiet moments.

When he pulled back, her hand was resting lightly against his jaw.

"You good?" he asked. "Like... really good? For today?"

She thought about it. Then nodded. "Yeah. I'm regulated. My head's clear."

He smiled at that — the way she named her emotional state like an engineer running diagnostics. He loved that about her. Loved that she'd learned to say it, and that she trusted him with the truth.

"Then let's go race," he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

And for a few more seconds, they just breathed, tangled together in a warm, sleepy cocoon, before the noise and chaos of race day swept them back into the world.

But for now, in this tiny window of stillness, they had each other.

— The air was heavy. Dense with mist, thick with tension, and wet enough that Amelia had already pre-loaded five different strategy trees before the lights went out.

Oscar had out-qualified Lando again.

She was laser-focused on Turn 1. Always Turn 1. Always La Source.

Amelia's fingers hovered over her tablet. Not touching—just tapping in the air beside it in a rhythm: four slow, one sharp. Then again. And again.

She didn't have to think as she walked Oscar through the formation lap. It came to naturally now, like a dance you couldn't forget.

Lights out.

"Oscar launch good," came one of the spotters in her ear.

She blinked. Tracked the orange blur to the inside line.

Then a flash of red, Sainz's Ferrari. sweeping across far too aggressively.

The sound in her headset crackled with team chatter, voices overlapping. She tuned most of them out and locked in on Oscar's feed just in time to see his onboard camera jolt. Not a bump. A collision.

The screen stuttered. Then black.

"Yellow flag. Incident Turn 1. Piastri, Sainz. Debris."

Amelia didn't speak.

"Amelia?" It was one of the performance engineers. "Oscar's saying steering is compromised. Damage right side—maybe suspension."

Still, she didn't speak. She tapped once against her palm. Hard. Her throat clenched. The pads of her fingers tingled like they did when she short-circuited.

She hit the comms.

"Oscar. Talk to me."

"Yeah—um—something's broken. I can't turn right properly. Think it's done."

And it was. Less than a lap.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, trying not to fall into the spiral. Not here. Not now. There was a job to do, Lando was still out there, but Oscar was her driver. Her ducky. He trusted her implicitly. And now, for no fault of his own, he was crawling back to the garage with a wounded car and nothing to show for it.

The red mist tried to rise in her chest—anger first. Not at Oscar. Not even really at Carlos. Just at the sheer waste of it. The injustice. The gut-punch of preparation ruined by recklessness. The voice in her head hissed, He finished the sprint in P2 yesterday. He deserved better than this.

She pulled her noise-cancelling headset tighter. The extra pressure helped, grounding her in physical sensation. She curled her toes in her shoes and focused on her breath.

Lando's voice broke through on the other channel, calm despite the chaos.

"Hey—did Oscar retire?"

Will gestured for her to respond.

"Yeah," she said, quietly. Then louder, "Yes. First corner damage. Focus up."

"Copy." A pause. Then softer, "That sucks."

It did. It sucked.

But Amelia didn't get to crumble, even though every part of her was fraying. She was still on the pit wall. Still working. Still leading.

Oscar's car was pushed back into the garage. She caught sight of him from across the paddock—helmet off, jaw clenched, walking quickly past the media scrum with his shoulders stiff. She didn't call him over. Not yet. He needed a minute. So did she.

By the time Lando crossed the line in P7, she was steady again. Not okay. But functioning.

—

Oscar was sitting on a flight case, race suit peeled to his waist, water bottle tucked under one knee. Amelia sat beside him without asking.

"You alright?" She asked.

He gave a dry laugh. "I made it fifty seconds. New record."

She didn't try to make him feel better. That wasn't her way. Instead, she said, "You made the right decision boxing the car immediately instead of dragging a damaged car around the track. Steering arm was shattered. You did everything right."

He nodded, but his mouth was tight.

She nudged her elbow against his.

"Still proud of you," she said.

He finally looked at her. "Even after I didn't finish a lap?"

"Especially then," she replied. "You stayed calm. You brought it back safe. You're my driver, Oscar. One racing incident that ends badly for us doesn't erase that."

His eyes softened, just a little. "You're getting sappy."

She rolled her eyes. "No I'm not. I don't even know what that means."

That made him laugh, a small honest noise, and she counted that as a win.

—

They had a brief respite in Monaco before heading to Zandvoort.

They looked at a few apartments. Didn't like any of them.

When they arrived at Max's place for dinner on the Wednesday, he took one look at their downtrodden expressions and laughed. "It is always more difficult the second time."

—

Zandvoort

The race at Zandvoort was marked by unpredictable weather. Lando finished P7, while Oscar managed to finish just inside of the points — P9.

Amelia saw it all unfold from the pit wall, her eyes scanning the monitors. The intermittent rain was a nightmare.

After the race, she found Lando in the garage, reviewing data.

"You did well," she commented.

He looked up, surprised. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "You adapted to the conditions very well."

He cracked a smile, pulling her into a brief embrace. "Thanks, baby."

That night, as they lay in bed, the sound of rain tapping against the window, Amelia whispered, "I'm really, really happy, Lando."

Lando tightened his hold on her.

—

They escaped to Lake Como for a short break between race weekends.

On the first morning of their mini vacation, they took a boat out onto the lake. Amelia sat at the bow, the wind tousling her hair.

"This place is so beautiful," she said. "Everything looks like something you'd see in a movie. Or on Pinterest."

Lando was steering the boat. He glanced at her and nodded toward his disposable camera, "Take some pictures, baby."

She picked it up and brought it up to her eye, squinting through the mini viewfinder.

He watched her fondly.

—

Monza

At Monza, Lando finished P8.

Things didn't go so well for Oscar.

Amelia let her head fall into her hands as the confirmation of the penalty came from the FIA.

"Shit," she muttered.

Her dad gave her a sympathetic grimace.

—

Japan

Amelia's fingers were a blur. Tip of her pen flicking rapidly against the plastic corner of the radio console. Three taps, pause. Three taps, pause. She hadn't even noticed the motion — her go-to stim when her body couldn't contain everything pressing up behind her ribcage.

Oscar was crossing the line. P2. Behind Max, of course; but ahead of Charles, ahead of Lewis.

And Lando... Lando was P3.

"Piastri, across the line — that's P2! Double podium for McLaren!"

The garage exploded; engineers leaping into the air, radios dropped, shoulders clapped, bodies turned into celebratory chaos.

But Amelia stayed locked in her seat at the pit wall, still staring at the screen, her breath stuck like static in her chest.

She couldn't move. Not yet.

Oscar's voice cracked through her headset, just the barest edge of disbelief in his normally even tone.

"Holy shit. Amelia. We did it."

She exhaled sharply, finally, a sound like relief and triumph tangled together.

"You drove it," she said, her voice clipped but shaking. "You followed every direction. Managed the tyres well in every stint. Well done, ducky."

"Wouldn't have got here without your mad plans." He was laughing, light and breathless. "Tell me I wasn't hallucinating this whole race."

"You weren't," she said, and suddenly her throat closed up, emotion catching on the edges of her usually flat tone. "This is real."

Will's hand landed on her shoulder, not jarring, just grounding, and she blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet.

"You can go," he said softly. "Garage's already heading to parc fermé."

She stood on instinct, legs shaky. Her hands were flapping now — the stim automatic, rapid-firing like her brain needed somewhere to put the excess. Pride, relief, noise, lights — it was too much. And it was perfect.

—

The second she caught sight of them — Lando and Oscar, helmets off, both laughing like kids who'd just stolen something valuable, it hit her like a gut-punch of joy.

They'd done it. Both of them. Her husband. Her driver.

Oscar caught her first, jogging toward her as the crowd swelled behind the fences.

She barely got a word out before he threw his arms around her.

It wasn't their usual style; they weren't overly physical, weren't the sentimental type. But she folded into it with a small, shocked laugh, her hands fluttering uselessly against his back.

"You really are mine now," she mumbled into his shoulder. "I'm not letting anyone else engineer you ever again."

Oscar pulled back with a crooked grin. "No complaints here."

And then she saw him.

Lando, weaving through the throng, his eyes locked on hers even before she noticed he was moving.

He reached her in four long strides and didn't say a word — just pulled her in, full-body, sweaty, burning fuel smell and all. His arms wrapped around her waist, grounding, safe. "You did this," he whispered into her ear. "You did this."

She shook her head, face pressed to his shoulder. "No. You and Oscar. You drove so, so well."

His hand was in her hair now, warm against her scalp. "You made the car better. You kept Oscar calm. You brought us here. You're the one who held it all together."

And suddenly, she couldn't stop the tears.

Not loud or dramatic — just silent, uncontainable release. Her body started rocking a little, barely perceptible — a comfort motion, side to side, tiny and rhythmic. She pressed her face harder into Lando's shoulder, hiding it the way she always did when the emotions got too big.

Overwhelmed. Elated. So proud she could barely breathe.

Lando didn't flinch. He just held her tighter and whispered, "I've got you, baby. It's okay."

Oscar was still hovering nearby, giving her space now, but watching with a half-smile, the kind that said he understood. And in a small way, he did.

Because Oscar had learned her tells. Her voice drops when she's overstimulated. Her stimming when she's overwhelmed. Her flinch when unexpected noise hits too hard. And still, he trusted her implicitly. Trusted her to guide him through a Grand Prix like Spa, where one mistake could end everything.

And now they were here.

P2. P3.

Double podium.

Amelia finally looked up, eyes shining, flapping her hands once more to bleed off the weight. Lando caught one, laced their fingers, and kissed the back of it without a word.

Zak was there too — in the background, watching. And for a moment, he didn't see his driver or his race engineer or the numbers on the screen.

He saw his daughter, overwhelmed but alight with joy, held safely between two young men who'd become her fiercest allies. Her husband, her teammate, her family.

He smiled to himself. He didn't say a word.

She didn't need him to.

—

The post-race buzz was elevated. Team shirts were drenched in champagne, and the McLaren hospitality tent was buzzing with an electric excitement.

Amelia didn't usually do broadcast interviews, that was more Lando's territory. But this time, after this race — a double podium, both drivers flawless, Sky had requested her by name.

The paddock mic stand felt too tall. She adjusted it twice.

"Amelia Norris," the reporter began brightly, mic held between them. "First of all, congratulations. Double podium for McLaren — Lando second, Oscar third — how are you feeling right now?"

Amelia blinked. Twice. She hadn't stopped moving since the chequered flag. Still hadn't properly eaten. Still had telemetry fragments dancing in her brain. She opened her mouth, paused, and then nodded slowly.

"I feel... good," she said honestly, voice low and a little clipped. "A bit overwhelmed. But proud. They both drove amazingly today. Especially Oscar. He nailed every brief."

There was something endearing about her calmness — like she was one breath away from shutting the whole operation down to explain exactly how Oscar had maximised delta windows through Sector 2.

The interviewer smiled. "And fans have been picking up on your dynamic with Oscar, especially from the radio. You called him 'Ducky' today — again. Can you talk us through that? Where did the nickname come from?"

Amelia blinked again, then huffed, not irritated, just... caught slightly off guard.

"I give people nicknames when I trust them," she said simply. "'Oscar' is what everyone calls him. 'Ducky' is mine."

There was a beat of silence, the reporter briefly stunned by the directness. But it wasn't defensive or awkward — just the truth, laid bare like everything Amelia said.

"Well, it's clearly working," the reporter recovered, grinning. "Because his defending against Perez and Charles today was phenomenal."

"Yes," Amelia said. "Because we planned for it. He did exactly what I asked of him."

"Did you expect a podium today?"

"I expect possibility," she said, quick. "Expectations are dangerous. But the data said we could be there. And then Oscar delivered on it. So did Lando. That's why I build cars. That's why I stay up all night running simulations. For this."

Her hands moved a little as she spoke — stimming subtly, thumb flicking against her palm. But her voice was steady.

"Would you call this the best day of your season so far?" The interviewer asked, lowering the mic slightly.

Amelia took a breath. Looked out toward the pit wall, where orange and black were still gathered like a tide of fire. Lando was being hauled in a bear hug by one of the engineers. Oscar was still helmeted, leaning back against the barrier and grinning in that quiet way he always did when something mattered to him.

Then she turned back to the camera, deadpan:

"Yes," she said. "But I plan to beat it."

The interviewer laughed. "Love it. Thank you, Amelia. Congratulations again. And give our best to Oscar and Lando."

She cracked a tiny smile, adjusted her headset, and turned back toward the garage, already thinking about what she'd tweak for Quatar.

—

They were supposed to be taking a break from apartment hunting.

It was a quiet, post-race Monday. The heat was clinging to the Côte d'Azur like a second skin.

And sure, their little two-bedroom near the Port had started to feel a touch claustrophobic. Not because it wasn't nice — it was. It had been their first proper home. But between Lando's racing gear, Amelia's engineering schematics, and the six different pairs of shoes he was tripping over daily, the place was bursting at the seams.

Still, they weren't in a rush.

Until Lando had said, offhandedly over breakfast, "Should we just go see that listing from yesterday? The one with the big balcony and the weird layout?"

She had blinked, then nodded. "I did like that one."

"And?"

"Okay. Sure. Let's go."

So they did.

They ended up viewing three places that day. One was too sterile, the kind of cold marble and glass aesthetic that made Amelia feel like she'd been dropped inside a very expensive hospital. Another had a stunning view, but a persistent echo in the living room that made her skin crawl. It was the kind of sound most people didn't even notice. Lando did — but only because he noticed her the second she tensed up.

Then came the last one.

The agent had apologised in advance. "It's a bit... odd," he'd warned, as they stepped into the building.

Amelia, eyes scanning the corridor, shrugged. "So are we."

Lando grinned.

The apartment was on the top floor — a penthouse. A strange little split-level with slanted ceilings and sun that pooled in lazy patches across the wood floors. Amelia felt it first — not a lightning bolt, but a quiet hum under her ribs. She wandered through the kitchen, into the living room, and paused.

There was a swing.

A proper sensory swing — heavy canvas, anchored securely into a ceiling beam. It was suspended just off the floor in the corner of what looked like a reading nook, draped in soft light from a low window.

Lando stopped just behind her.

"Oh," he said, voice going quiet.

Amelia didn't speak. She walked straight to it, ran her fingers along the reinforced ropes, then sat down slowly. She shifted, testing the weight, and the swing gently curved to cradle her. The instant pressure across her hips and lower back was like flipping a switch in her chest — her breathing slowed, the tension in her shoulders eased.

It felt like being held.

Lando crouched in front of her, hands braced on his knees. "You like it?"

She nodded once. "It's perfect."

He didn't need to ask why. He already knew.

Amelia rarely explained her sensory profile to anyone. But Lando had learned it like a second language — not because she asked him to, but because he wanted to. He knew the way certain fabrics made her retreat, how sharp noises cut through her thoughts like glass. He knew the difference between her shutting down and zoning out. And more than anything, he knew what it meant when she found something that made her feel safe.

He tapped the side of the swing gently. "We could put a second one on the balcony. So you can stargaze."

She blinked. "You sound like you've already decided that we're moving in?"

"You decided," he said, standing up and offering her his hand. "You just didn't say it yet."

She took his hand. He pulled her up slowly, kissed her temple, and added with a smile, "You did say you liked this one."

—

They got home late. Amelia lay on the sofa, bare feet tucked under a throw blanket, Lando stretched out with his head in her lap. Her iPad was open beside her, a checklist of questions about the new apartment left half-ticked. But neither of them were talking.

They didn't need to.

Amelia was stimming softly, tapping the curve of Lando's shoulder in a light rhythmic pattern. He hummed when she changed tempo, like he could feel her thoughts moving.

"It felt right," she said, finally.

"I know."

"I don't mean just the swing. The light. The acoustics. Even the flooring. It was all right."

"I noticed," he murmured. "Your hands didn't twitch once while we were there."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "It felt like it was built for me. Which is statistically improbable. But still."

"Maybe it was waiting."

She looked down at him. "Places don't wait, Lando. They're inanimate structures."

"But what if this one did?" He said, eyes half-lidded. "What if someone built it weird on purpose so that one day a very particular girl with a very particular brain would walk in and go oh, this feels like home?"

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched. "That's not how architecture works."

"It's how love works, though."

She blinked again, slower this time. Then leaned down and kissed the side of his head.

When she pulled back, she whispered, "Let's make it ours."

NEXT CHAPTER

[mistressemmedi]

I'm cackling at them confirming lando missed out on a podium because Lewis was toying with him and cost him time. He ended up not being able to catch up to Charles (who drove tf out of that Ferrari) in the end. I held my breath cause I thought it was gonna be like last week where we were so close and then it slipped through our fingers.

Lewis saw that McLaren in his mirrors and activated like a sleeper agent

[tastelikechili]

Team 55 post Qualifying 📻

Gaetan: "Okay, P6, P6. That was a bit challenging in a lap for you. P7 Alex, P6 for you."

Carlos: "Yeah, you know there was potential for more there, but with compromise lap and compromise tyres. What was the possibility today, maybe P5?"

James: "Carlos, I was just gonna say, yeah, it would have P5, but really well done under the circumstances. Really impressive laps. And the lap that you did in Q2 it will stay with us all year. And, yeah, really, really impressive driving. Let's go get it far."

Carlos: "Thank you, James, and it was my call to go late, so I took the risk, so I'm not..."

James: "We're doing this together. We're doing this together. It's all about that. Let's talk like that."