444eggnog

[444eggnog]

Light-Up Shoes to Wedding Shoes

✍︎: i’ve always imagined Oscar as a very hands on girl dad, gentle, soft-spoken, the kind who tears up at school plays and keeps crayon drawings in his desk. and i’ve always wanted to write an AU using this song… what better way to capture its quiet beauty than through the story of Oscar and his daughter? 

This one’s for the tender moments:

The wedding. The flashbacks. The tears he swears he’s not crying.

this will probably be my last AU for a while (okay, maybe just a few weeks lol) because uni is absolutely beating me up right now. nonetheless, i hope you enjoy this one; it’s extra special to me. ♡

content: fluff, Oscar as a girl dad, wedding, flashbacks, soft crying, full heart 

wc: 6,175 (I'm so sorry, I got carried away...)

The First Time I Held You…

Oscar held tightly onto his wife’s hand, whispering encouragements as she pushed through the pain of labor. It had been a difficult pregnancy, filled with worry, sleepless nights, and quiet fear he never let her see. He was terrified. But the moment their daughter’s first cries pierced the air, all that fear melted away.

Tears welled in his eyes as the doctor gently placed the baby on his wife’s chest. He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. She was beautiful, soft features, a tiny button nose, a mix of them both. Somehow brand new, yet already the most important person in his life.

Later, in the quiet of their hospital room, Oscar hesitated when the nurse offered to let him hold her. She looked so small, too fragile, like the world might break her if he wasn’t careful. But his wife gave him an encouraging nod and smiled. You can hold her, Osc.

So he did.

He cradled his daughter with trembling arms, heart pounding in awe. A smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in and whispered the softest “Hi,” like she was a secret only he got to keep.

In that moment, something shifted inside him.

He’d thought he knew what love was. But now he understood something deeper. He would do anything to protect her. No one would ever hurt her, not if he had anything to say about it. He’d never let her cry, never let her feel alone.

And if someone did hurt her? Well, he wouldn’t end them, but he’d think about it.

The Very First Walk

It happened one lazy afternoon.

Oscar was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, toy blocks scattered around him, watching his daughter as she clung to the edge of the couch like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her legs were still wobbly, soft knees locked with determination, curls bouncing every time she shifted her balance.

She’d been practicing for days. Holding onto furniture. Testing her limits, then sitting down with a soft thud like she needed a break from trying so hard.

But today felt different.

Oscar held out his hands, close but not quite touching.

“Alright, bub,” he murmured gently. “You ready?”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, uncertain but curious. Then slowly, cautiously, she stepped away from the couch. Her little hand reached for his finger, gripping tight like she trusted it, like she always would.

One step.

Then another.

Oscar walked slowly, backward, matching her rhythm. Guiding. Not rushing. Just being there.

“Good job,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

Her grip loosened.

She kept going.

And Oscar, heart lodged somewhere between awe and ache, let her hand slip from his.

She kept walking.

Tiny steps. Wobbly legs. Arms out like wings.

He didn’t catch her this time. Didn’t rush forward or steady her.

He just stayed close, watching.

Letting go, but never far.

When she finally plopped onto the floor with a surprised laugh, he dropped beside her, scooping her up in a hug that felt too big for such a small moment, but it wasn’t. Not to him.

“You did it,” he whispered into her curls. “You walked.”

His wife peeked from the hallway. “Is she walking already?”

“Just now,” Oscar said, still grinning. “We walked together.”

His daughter giggled in his arms, cheeks flushed, tiny fists tugging at his hoodie string like it was her prize for getting across the room.

First Birthday

Oscar had no idea why she was so obsessed with Bluey.

Maybe it was the voices. Maybe it was the colors. Maybe it was the way she’d go perfectly still completely entranced whenever the opening theme played. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t even thought twice before choosing it as the theme for her first birthday.

He just wanted to make her happy.

Now, standing in the middle of a sea of blue streamers and balloon dogs, Oscar was panicking. His heart raced, his palms were sweaty, and he’d forgotten where the gift table was, again.

Why had he invited everyone?

Why did he think he could pull this off?

She didn’t even know what a birthday was. She didn’t care if the cake had fondant or if the streamers matched the cups. She just wanted Bluey. And maybe some mashed bananas. 

So he found her, sitting in the middle of a blanket someone had laid out on the grass, hands sticky with frosting, curls a little wild from crawling around too much.

And just like always, the moment he saw her, everything slowed down.

She was clapping off-beat to the music from the speaker, squealing at the screen as Bluey danced with Bingo. Her laugh was loud and messy and perfect, cutting through all the noise in his head. Nothing else mattered.

He crouched beside her, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Happy birthday, bub,” he whispered.

She turned to him with cake smeared across her cheek and a proud little sound that sort of sounded like “dada...”

Oscar’s chest tightened.

She wouldn’t remember this day. Not the balloons, not the presents, not the chaos he’d wrapped himself in trying to make it perfect. But maybe, she’d remember how safe it felt to be in his arms. How he was always there. Always watching. Always loving her more than he ever thought was humanly possible.

He picked her up, ignoring the frosting on her fingers now clinging to his shirt. “I hope you stay weirdly obsessed with this dog show forever,” he said, kissing her cheek. “But even when you’re not, I’ll still be here.”

She giggled and reached for his nose like it was her favorite toy.

And in that moment, Oscar realized he didn’t need to throw the perfect party. He already had the perfect girl.

It's Just 90 Minutes

It was only ninety minutes.

One and a half hours. That’s all.

Oscar had repeated it to himself at least twelve times that morning, pacing the kitchen in mismatched socks while his daughter munched on a banana in her high chair, completely unbothered by the milestone looming over them.

Today was her first day at daycare. Just a trial. Ninety minutes.

Still, it felt like someone had yanked the ground out from under his feet.

She looked so small in her tiny sneakers and oversized backpack. The straps kept sliding off her shoulders, and her curls were tied up in a little puff that wobbled every time she walked. She was fine. Giggling. Pointing at the fish stickers on the daycare windows like it was the most exciting place in the world.

Oscar smiled and waved, crouched next to her as the teacher led her inside.

Then the door shut.

And so did something in his chest.

He made it back to the car. Barely. And sat there in silence, hands frozen on the steering wheel, heart thudding in the kind of rhythm that made his eyes sting.

His wife reached across the center console and gently touched his arm. “Oscar.”

He shook his head quickly. “I’m fine.”

But his voice cracked. And that was it.

His shoulders dropped as the tears spilled over, quiet and frustrated and way more emotional than he wanted to admit. “She’s just a baby,” he whispered. “She’s so little. I’m supposed to be with her, always.”

She squeezed his hand. “You are. She’s just in a different room.”

He gave a watery laugh, wiping at his face like it would erase the truth. “She didn’t even cry. Didn’t even look back.”

“That’s because she’s brave,” his wife said softly. “Like her dad.”

Oscar looked out the window, blinking hard. “It’s just an hour and a half.”

“Yep,” she nodded. “And then you’ll get to tell her how proud you are and give her the biggest cuddle in the world.”

He didn’t answer. Just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, cheeks damp, heart too full.

Because maybe it was just daycare. Maybe it was only ninety minutes. But it was also the first time he’d felt the space where she wasn’t.

And he didn’t like it.

Light-Up Shoes and Rainbow Wishes

By the third day of daycare, Oscar thought he’d gotten the hang of it.

He no longer cried in the car (small victories), and drop-off had gotten smoother, no clinging, no wobbly lip, just a cheerful wave and a distracted “Bye, Daddy” as she toddled inside.

But that afternoon, when he came to pick her up, something was off.

She wasn’t running to him like she usually did. She was sitting cross-legged on the mat, poking at the velcro on her shoes, quiet.

Oscar crouched in front of her, brushing her curls back gently. “Hey, bub. You okay?”

She looked up at him with eyes far too thoughtful for a toddler. “I want fluffy socks.”

His brows lifted. “Fluffy socks?”

“And shoes that light up when I walk.” Her voice got even softer. “And a water bottle bag. Pink. With rainbows. Gemma has one.”

Oscar’s heart cracked a little.

He didn’t care about the socks. Or the shoes. Or the price tag. What got him was that look, that tiny frown she didn’t quite know how to hide yet.

He bundled her into the car, promising they’d stop by the store “just for a look.” What followed was a two-hour quest through three different shops and one online order. He didn’t know where people even found pink water bottle bags with rainbows, but somehow he did.

That night, she tried on her new fluffy socks with pride, stomping around the house to test the lights on her shoes. Her laughter echoed down the hallway like it was made of gold.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her spin in circles. A soft chuckle slipped out.

“Thirteen bucks for sneakers and she’s acting like she won the lottery.”

He smiled to himself, a little dazed by how much joy something so small could bring.

But then again, so was he.

Almost There

Oscar was cleaning up in the kitchen, humming under his breath, when he heard a soft grunt from the hallway.

He peeked around the corner.

There she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tongue sticking out in pure concentration, tiny hands wrestling with her favorite pair of shoes.

The light-up ones.

The ones with the glittery pink straps and soles that blinked when she stomped. The ones she’d begged for after daycare because “everyone else had them,” and she wanted hers to be pink with rainbows “not just pink, Daddy, pink with lights.”

She was trying to put them on by herself.

Left foot first. A small pause. Then she adjusted it just so, like she was checking her own work. She beamed, proud.

Then the right foot. A little sideways at first. She frowned. Tried again. Wiggled her toes in.

The lights blinked once, soft, faint, a flicker of magic.

She didn’t know how to fasten the Velcro properly yet, not tightly, not evenly but that didn’t stop her. She mashed the straps down with all the strength in her tiny arms, completely convinced she’d done it perfectly.

Oscar didn’t say a word.

He just stood there, heart climbing up into his throat, watching her figure it out. His little girl. The same one who used to cry when her sock bunched up weird. Now sitting on the floor, shoes slightly off-center, still glowing with each proud little kick of her heels.

She looked up when she noticed him.

“I did it!” she grinned, cheeks pink with effort.

Oscar nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yeah, you did.”

She stood up, the lights in her shoes flashing unevenly, Velcro flapping a little with each step. She held out her hand toward him.

“Help me fix?”

He knelt beside her, fingers gently peeling the straps back, smoothing them down with a care that came straight from his chest. Slower than usual. Deliberate. Letting the moment stretch just a little longer.

“Almost there,” he murmured.

And maybe he meant the shoes.

Or maybe he was just trying to come to terms with the fact that she was growing right in front of him and faster than he was ever going to be ready for.

Her Favorite Superhero

Oscar had pulled up to the school gate like always, sunglasses on, window down, already scanning the sea of backpacks and untied sneakers for the one pair he cared about most.

Usually, she came out running, arms flailing, curls bouncing, talking a mile a minute about story time and snack swaps and who got a time-out today.

But not today.

Today, she walked out slowly. Shoulders low. Her hands were curled around something, crumpling it tighter with every step.

Oscar stepped out of the car the second he saw her face.

Her bottom lip was trembling, eyes pink and glassy like she was trying really hard not to let the tears fall. When she reached him, she didn’t say a word, just wrapped her arms around his legs and pressed her face into his hoodie.

“Hey, bub,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffled. Then carefully, she uncurled her fingers and held out a wrinkled sheet of paper.

It was a drawing. Stick figures and squiggly stars. Her usual style, lopsided but full of love. He could tell instantly who it was meant to be: him, in his racing suit, a cape drawn behind him in bold, wobbly orange. In the corner, a tiny her, holding up a gold medal.

But all across the center, thick, angry black spots were scribbled over the drawing. Like someone had tried to cross it out.

Oscar’s stomach twisted.

“Who did that?” he asked, voice still soft but tighter around the edges.

“Riley,” she mumbled. “The teacher told us to draw our favorite superhero. I drew you.” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “But he said dads can’t be superheroes. And he ruined it.”

Oscar blinked. Hard.

He looked at the page again, imagining her sitting at one of those tiny tables, tongue between her teeth, coloring each little detail just right because she wanted it to be perfect for him.

He pulled her gently into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Hey. You listen to me, yeah?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“That’s the best superhero drawing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Even better than the rocket ship one. And I’m still putting it on my wall.”

“But it’s all messy now…”

He looked at it again, folding it carefully. “No. It’s not ruined. It’s got battle scars. Makes it cooler. Like the real superheroes.”

She gave a small, watery giggle and curled closer into his chest.

Later, when he buckled her into her seat, she reached between the chairs to hold his hand, her little fingers sticky with crayon smudges. He drove slow on the way home, like the whole world needed to take a breath.

That night, he taped the drawing up right above his desk, scribbles and all.

And underneath it, in her tiny handwriting with a backwards 'S', it said:

For Daddy! My Favorite Superhero!!!

And every time he looked up at it, he smiled. Because no one, not even some kid with a black crayon could take that away from him.

Who’s Got A Crush?

Their little café booth had become tradition. Same place, same order: pancakes with too much syrup for her, black coffee for him. A "father-daughter date," she'd called it once, and the name stuck. He blocked out time every month for it. No calls, no training, no team meetings. Just them.

She was older now, legs swinging off the bench seat, baby teeth gone, ponytail messy in that way that said she didn’t care about neat anymore.

Oscar was mid-sip of his coffee when she said it. Casual. Like it was nothing.

“I think I have a crush on someone.”

He choked. Audibly.

She blinked at him, confused. “Are you okay?”

He coughed into his sleeve, heart stuttering. “Yeah. Yep. Totally fine.”

Crush? She has a crush? On who? Why? Who gave her permission to grow up?

She took another bite of her pancake like she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. “He’s in my class. He has a dog. And his lunchbox is shaped like a dinosaur, which is really cool.”

Oscar stared at her like she’d announced she was moving out. “That’s... very specific.”

She nodded, matter-of-fact. “I think I’m gonna marry him. Or maybe be a vet. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar gave a weak laugh, setting down his coffee. “Right. Of course.”

She tilted her head. “Why do you look weird?”

“I don’t look weird,” he lied.

Because what was he supposed to say? That his heart just folded in on itself? That hearing those words “I have a crush” felt like someone had turned the page on a chapter he wasn’t ready to end?

He cleared his throat. “Well… whoever he is, he’s very lucky.”

She grinned. “I know.”

He smiled back, trying to hide the ache behind it. Then reached across the table, ruffling her hair the way he always did.

“Just remember,” he said lightly, “you can have crushes and dinosaur lunchboxes and all that. But you’ll always be my girl first.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened.

Later, when she ran ahead to look at the pastry shelf, Oscar sat back and watched her, laughing, confident, growing into herself.

And in that moment, he realized he didn’t need to stop time. He just needed to be there as it moved.

Medals, Caps, and Gowns

Oscar didn’t think he’d cry.

It was just primary school. A short ceremony, small chairs in a sunlit auditorium, kids in too-big uniforms fidgeting in their seats. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But then they called her name.

She walked up, chin up, ponytail bouncing, the sleeves of her button-down still a bit too long and Oscar felt his throat close.

First medal: Athletics. She’d broken the school’s sprint record. Still said it was “just for fun.” Second medal: Academic Excellence. Oscar’s heart nearly gave out.

Then the third one.

“Most Encouraging Teammate,” the principal announced with a smile. “For her kindness, her endless support, and for cheering louder than anyone else, no matter who was winning.”

Oscar laughed under his breath, wiping at his eyes as his wife handed him a tissue.

Of course.

She stood there, medals glinting, grinning like the stage was the best place on earth. When she caught Oscar’s eyes in the crowd, she gave a tiny wave, subtle, just for him and he swore his heart would never be the same.

After the ceremony, she ran straight into his arms, all laughter and tangled ribbons.

“Three medals,” she said proudly.

“I saw,” Oscar whispered, his voice thick. “You crushed it, bub.”

“I almost tripped on the steps,” she added with a giggle. “But I didn’t.”

He hugged her tighter.

He remembered the first day he dropped her off at daycare. The fluffy socks. The pink light-up shoes. How small she looked walking away.

Now she was tall enough to hang her own medals on the hook by the door.

Growing up, he thought, was just a series of letting go, one handshake, one applause, one medal at a time.But holding her now, still breathless and warm in his arms, he knew: He’d never stop being proud. And he’d never stop being hers.

18th Birthday and a New Face

Oscar stood when they asked him to say a few words.

He didn’t grab a mic. Didn’t tap his glass with a fork. Just stayed where he was, hands loosely tucked into his pockets, shoulders a little hunched, eyes steady on her.

The room quieted.

She was glowing in her dress, surrounded by friends and family and a cake that probably took four hours to decorate. But Oscar only saw her, his girl, the same one who once cried because her sock felt weird, now standing tall at eighteen.

He gave her a small smile. The soft kind. The only-for-her kind.

“Eighteen,” he said. “Feels fast.”

There was a short pause. The kind that always followed when Oscar searched for the words that lived somewhere in his chest but not always in his mouth.

“You’re smart. You’re kind. And you’ve always been... good. You’ve always had this way of making people feel seen. I don’t even think you realise it most of the time.”

Another pause. He shifted a little, the room silent, listening.

“You’ve got a strong head, a stubborn heart, and a laugh that’s way too loud. But it’s you. And I love it.”

He cleared his throat. Not because he was emotional, of course, just… clearing it.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Always have been. That’s all.”

Then he sat back down like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just quietly shattered the room.

And she was already blinking fast to hold back tears, smiling at him like he’d given the greatest speech in the world.

Because to her, he had.

A little later, after the candles were blown out and the room had settled back into music and chatter, she found him standing near the corner, sipping from a paper cup.

“Dad,” she said, tugging gently on his sleeve.

“Yeah?”

She glanced over her shoulder and then back at him. “There’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She bit her lip. “You remember that guy I told you about at our cafe? With the Dino lunchbox?”

Oh. That guy.

Oscar blinked, holding her gaze.

She looked so hopeful. Nervous, too, but sure. And somehow still his little girl, even in heels and lip gloss.

He took a slow breath, then gave her a faint nod. “Alright. Go on, then.”

And she smiled, wide and excited and turned to wave someone over.

Oscar kept his expression neutral.

But inside? Inside, he was already silently evaluating every single thing about this Dino lunchbox boy.

Because even if she was grown now... He still remembered the baby in light-up shoes who once reached for his nose and giggled like it was magic.

And he wasn’t about to hand her heart over to just anyone.

The Drive

The car was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet they usually shared on long drives. Not the sleepy hum of the engine with music low and snacks in the middle seat. This one felt heavy.

Oscar glanced sideways.

She was curled up against the window, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes fixed on the blur of the road. Her suitcase was in the back. Her university acceptance letter still folded neatly in the glove compartment. The city they'd be leaving in the rearview. And a name they hadn’t said since they left the house.

Dino Lunchbox Boy.

He hadn’t brought it up. Wasn’t sure he was supposed to. But it was all over her face, every sigh, every blink too long, every time she picked at the edge of her thumbnail like she used to when she was a kid trying not to cry.

“You okay?” he asked gently, eyes still on the road.

She was quiet for a second. Then gave a tiny nod.

He waited.

Then: “We broke up,” she whispered. “Before I started packing.”

Oscar nodded once, slow and steady. “Because of uni?”

“Yeah. His offer was overseas. Mine’s here.” She cleared her throat. “We tried to figure something out. But it just… didn’t make sense anymore.”

He could hear it in her voice, that quiet kind of heartbreak. The kind that doesn’t shatter, just bruises deep and slow.

She was always so careful with her heart. But she gave it anyway.

“He was a good kid,” Oscar said after a while.

She nodded, wiping the corner of her eye. “Yeah. He was.”

They pulled up to campus not long after, cars unloading, students hugging their parents, dragging duffels and dreams into dorm rooms. He parked in a quiet corner, far enough that it still felt like they had a moment left to themselves.

Oscar helped unload her things. Carried them up the stairs. Let her lead.

When it was all set, bed made, desk neatly stacked, a mug she didn’t really need sitting on the shelf, he paused at the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“You’ll be alright,” he said.

“I know.”

“And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

She looked at him then. Eyes red, lips trembling, not from Dino Lunchbox anymore, but from this. From goodbye.

Oscar stepped forward and wrapped her in the kind of hug he used to give when she was five and scraped her knee on the pavement. She was taller now. But somehow, she still fit.

“You still call me when you need help opening jars,” he muttered into her hair.

She laughed. “They’re really tight jars.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss the side of her head. “Call me if anything hurts. Doesn’t have to be a jar.”

She smiled. “You’ll come visit?”

“Course I will.”

“And text?”

He raised a brow. “You won’t answer, but yeah.”

She laughed. He memorized it.

Then he walked out of her room. And for the first time since she was born, he left without her.

The One

She graduated on a hot, cloudless day.

The kind of heat that clung to the back of your neck and made dress shoes feel like punishment. But Oscar didn’t care. He stood in the crowd, sunglasses on, camera in hand, smiling like he was watching the sunrise.

She wore her cap slightly crooked. Medas  tucked into the collar of her gown. That same proud, unshakable grin she’d worn her whole life like she knew exactly who she was and wasn’t about to shrink for anyone.

He swore she looked taller up on that stage. Braver, too.

After the ceremony, she came bounding through the crowd, arms wide, tossing her cap somewhere behind her as she crashed into his chest.

Oscar caught her with a laugh and held on tight. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered into her hair.

“Even in this heat?” she teased, voice muffled by his shirt.

“Even if I melt into the pavement.”

Later that night, their house was filled, family packed into every corner, laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, cupcakes half-eaten and champagne corks missing. She looked radiant, floating between people like she belonged in every room.

Then she walked in with someone at her side.

He was tall. Pressed shirt. Neatly combed hair. Shoes that looked too clean for this house. He stood close, but not too close. Hands carefully folded in front of him, like he was afraid to touch anything without permission.

Oscar straightened instinctively.

“This is Jack,” she said, her voice light. Then, with a smirk, “I think he’s the one.”

Oscar blinked.

The one? She’d never said that before.

“I like the name,” she added, nudging Jack with her elbow.

Jack smiled nervously and offered his hand. “Sir. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to call me that.”

Jack chuckled, glancing down. “Right. Sorry, Sir.”

He didn’t make eye contact for more than two seconds at a time. But he said thank you when offered a drink. Helped her mom without being asked. Laughed, albeit awkwardly, at her cousin’s awful puns. And when Oscar’s dad started talking about old cars, Jack listened like it was the most important history lesson he’d ever heard.

When she wasn’t looking, Oscar caught him gently tugging her chair in so she could sit. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

Just thoughtful.

Later, Oscar stepped outside to get some air. The backyard was quiet now, soft light spilling from the kitchen window, music playing low inside.

Jack found him there, shifting on his feet like he didn’t quite know if he should interrupt.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said “I just wanted to say thank you. For welcoming me. I know… meeting the family isn’t easy, especially on a day like this.”

Oscar studied him.

The stiff posture. The polished shoes, now dusty from the yard. The way he stood up straight but looked down when he spoke. Professional. Polite. Nervous. Trying.

“And I also wanted to clear my intentions,” Jack added, voice more certain now. “I care about her. A lot. And I’m not here to waste her time.”

There was a pause. Oscar looked at him, really looked. The shoes scuffed from the yard. The shirt a little wrinkled now. Still standing up straight, still choosing his words with care. Nervous, but honest.

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked through the window again, at his daughter, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, joy tucked into every corner of her.

Then he nodded.

“Good,” Oscar said. “That’s all I need.”

Jack let out a breath, relieved and a little stunned. “Thank you, sir. I mean Mr. Piastri. Sorry.”

Oscar cracked the smallest smile. “You’ll figure it out.”

He watched as Jack headed back inside, slipping beside her naturally, their hands brushing, still not holding, but getting closer.

Oscar stayed out a minute longer, watching through the glass.

She looked happy. Safe. Like someone who’d finally found her way home.

Maybe she had.

The Blessing

It had been a few years since Jack first sat in this kitchen: sweaty palms, dress shirt too stiff, calling him sir like he couldn’t help it.

Not much had changed.

Jack was still Jack. Still a little too polite, still a little too nervous around Oscar. But he had settled into himself more now. His hair wasn’t gelled to perfection, and he didn’t panic when the dog jumped on him. He laughed easier. Fit into the family noise like he belonged there.

But today he was quiet again.

He sat at the table with both hands folded in front of him, back straight, eyes flicking between Oscar and his wife like he was preparing for a formal boardroom pitch. The air was soft, late afternoon light spilling through the windows, mugs half-full on the table. Their daughter was out.

Jack had asked to come by. Said he had something important to talk about.

Oscar had a feeling he knew what.

Jack cleared his throat. “Thank you for having me. I, uh…” He paused. “I just wanted to say thank you. For welcoming me into your home. For trusting me with her.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. His wife smiled faintly.

“I care about her a lot. You know that.” Jack looked between them, more serious now. “And I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

Oscar waited.

“I’m here to ask for your blessing,” Jack said. “Before I propose.”

There was a silence, small, still, and full.

Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair. Studied him. “Big question.”

Jack nodded once, hands a little too tightly clasped now. “I know, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar glanced at his wife. She gave a tiny, knowing nod.

“She’s a lot like her mum,” Oscar said slowly. “Strong. Stubborn. Smarter than most people in the room.”

Jack smiled. “She is.”

“And she’s not someone you ever take lightly.”

Jack’s voice was quiet. “I don’t.”

Oscar watched him a moment longer, then finally gave the slightest nod.

“Alright, Jack,” he said. “You’ve got our blessing.”

Jack let out a breath, blinking a little like he hadn’t been sure he’d get that far. “Thank you, sir. I—I really appreciate it.”

Oscar’s wife reached across the table and gave Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re proud of her. And we’re glad she has someone who sees how special she is.”

Jack’s voice cracked just a little. “I do. I really do.”

As Jack stood to leave, jacket folded over one arm, Oscar walked him to the door.

“Jack,” he said quietly, just before the boy opened it.

Jack turned.

“You can drop the sir, you know.”

Jack gave a sheepish smile. “I’ll try, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar just shook his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Close enough.”

And with that, Jack left, heart thudding, a ring in his pocket, and a quiet kind of peace blooming in his chest.

Oscar stood at the door a moment longer, hand resting on the frame.

His little girl was really getting married.

And somehow, he was okay with it.

Wedding Shoes

Oscar’s phone buzzed once.

Then it rang, shrill and familiar.

He didn’t even look at the screen before answering. “Hey, bub.”

Her voice came through, a little breathless. “How do you feel about closed-toe heels?”

Oscar blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“For the wedding,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do I go with something classic? Or like, a block heel? Or maybe flats, since the ceremony’s outside…”

He leaned back in his chair, the warmth of the afternoon sun spilling through the kitchen window, one arm resting on the table.

It hit him quietly, without fanfare, without warning.

Once, when she was three, she cried because her light-up sneakers didn’t match the color of her hair clips. He’d spent forty-five minutes convincing her that Bluey would totally wear mismatched shoes.

Those sneakers had cost thirteen pounds and lit up every time she stomped on the ground like a dinosaur. He remembered the sound, the way her tiny feet would race across the floor, squeaky, chaotic, full of life.

And now she was asking him about wedding shoes.

There was a lump in his throat he didn’t quite expect.

“You there?” she asked, soft again.

He cleared his throat gently. “Yeah. Still here.”

“So? Closed-toe or open?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Whichever one lets you dance properly. You’ve got terrible balance in heels, remember?”

She laughed. “Rude.”

“True.”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened. “Thanks, Dad.”

“For what?”

“For still picking up on the first ring.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, he always would. No matter what. No matter how far, how grown, how busy life got. If she called, he’d answer.

Always on the first ring.

And she knew that. Somehow, she still knew that.

“You’ll look beautiful,” he said finally. “Doesn’t matter what’s on your feet.”

She smiled through the phone. He could hear it.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, bub.”

The call ended, but Oscar didn’t move. Not right away.

He just sat there, thinking about sneakers and wedding shoes, mashed bananas and wedding cakes, night lights and aisle lights.

She wasn’t little anymore.

But she still needed him.

And somehow, that was enough.

The Most Important Walk

The music had started. Soft, distant, barely there beneath the rustle of satin and the flutter of nerves.

Oscar stood beside her, just out of sight from the waiting aisle. His hand rested gently on hers, not leading, not pulling, just there. Like it always had been.

She adjusted her bouquet, breath coming out in small, uneven huffs. She looked radiant, hair pinned just the way her mum used to do it, dress flowing like water, eyes wide and shining.

But beneath the shimmer of highlighter and lace, she was still his little girl.

Oscar leaned in slightly.

“You okay?”

She gave a shaky smile. “Nervous.”

He nodded, soft. “That’s alright.”

Then he waited a beat.

And in the quiet before the doors opened, he gently asked, “Is this what you want?”

She looked up at him. Like she had so many times before. Like when she scraped her knee and didn’t want anyone else to clean it. Like when she forgot her lines in the Year 6 play and scanned the crowd just to find him. Like when she called wedding shoes and asked if he thought she was doing the right thing.

And now, here.

She nodded. Steady, certain. “Yeah. It is.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. He offered his arm. “Then let’s go.”

The doors opened slowly, light spilling in like the world was holding its breath.

Everyone turned.

And she stepped forward, not alone. Never alone.

Oscar walked beside her, not just down the aisle, but through every memory stitched into her stride. He could still hear the echo of her tiny feet running through the house. Still see the frosting smudged across her cheek on her first birthday. Still feel her fingers tugging his sleeve that one morning when she cried because a classmate ruined her superhero drawing.

Now her steps were steady.

And he only let her hand slip from his when it was time.

He kissed her forehead, whispered something only she would hear, something like I love you, something like you’ve got this, something like I’ll still pick up on the first ring.

Then he stepped back, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding everything he couldn’t say.

She turned to face the rest of her life.

And Oscar… He smiled.

Because she was exactly where she was meant to be.

[444eggnog]

Car Fun

✍︎: my friend and i were in a heated debate over whether Careless Whisper is actually a sexy, seductive song or just emotional chaos with a saxophone. so here’s a short au where Lando confidently thinks it is sexy and suffers the consequences, lol. as usual, i hope you enjoy! ♡

content: fluff, humor, failed seduction, chaotic car vibes, George Michael jump scare, suggestive but not smutty

pairing: bf!Lando x reader

wc: 1218

Lando was exactly four and a half hours into a nine-hour flight back to Monaco, lounging under a cashmere blanket in first class, slippers on, champagne half-finished, and utterly, violently bored.

He'd already scrolled through the snack menu twice. Watched the safety video purely to roast it. Tried but failed to nap. His mind was restless, skittering between thoughts of the last race, the next one, and Y/N.

He missed her. That was rare for him to admit, even internally, but it was true. Two weeks of video calls and blurry schedules had taken their toll, and he could still hear her sleepy voice from that morning’s call: “Come home soon. I miss annoying you in person.”

He smiled at the memory, then opened the in-flight entertainment system.

He wasn’t expecting to find it. Fifty Shades Freed.

He blinked. Paused. Then smirked.

Y/N had this thing, no, a phase. “He’s not even that hot,” he always said, to which she’d roll her eyes and argue, “You can’t say that if you haven’t watched it. That's a lie.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, popped a chocolate-covered almond into his mouth, and clicked play like a man with nothing to lose.

A few minutes later, he was fully committed. The infamous sports car scene hit, and Lando's eyes went wide.

That’s it? That’s the scene that made her blush?

He had that car. Literally. Same size. Same engine. A way cooler playlist.

And suddenly, he had a mission.

─── 🏁

He got home late that night. Y/N was already fast asleep, curled up in one of his hoodies, face squished into his pillow. He stood in the doorway for a moment, grinning to himself like a man with a Very Stupid Plan.

Tomorrow night, he thought. Dinner. Drive. Pull over. Blow her mind.

He even curated a special playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours), and yes, he was proud of the title. Track 1: The Weeknd. Track 2: That one Miguel song. Track 3: I’ll Make Love to You – Boyz II Men. Track 4: A wild card: Let’s Get It On by Marvin Gaye.

─── 🏁

The next night went perfectly, until it didn’t.

Dinner was great. She looked beautiful. They laughed the whole time. Then came the drive. The city lights blurred past the windows. His hand grazed her knee at a red light. Her lips curved into a smirk. Go time.

He turned off the main road and pulled into an empty overlook, the city glowing softly in the distance, music humming low through the speakers.

She really did try to be sexy. Gave him that look, slow and dangerous, the one that once made Lando drop an entire protein shake because, in his words, he “forgot how arms worked.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up her thigh, voice low like he was auditioning for a softcore drama.

“Get on top of me,” he whispered.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t act like you didn’t rewatch that Fifty Shades car scene twenty times.”

She snorted, but played along. Moved slowly. Dramatically. Or at least she tried, until her head slammed into the roof of the car.

THUNK.

“OW. What the… your car is a damn coffin,” she groaned, rubbing her head and collapsing against the console.

Lando wheezed so hard he nearly activated the horn. “You okay?!”

“No! I was trying to be hot, and now I think I have a concussion.”

Still, she repositioned, half-laughing, half-committed and climbed onto his lap. That’s when her knee hit the screen on the dashboard.

And that’s when it happened.

“TENENEN-TENTEN-NEHNEH-TENENENENEH…” 

The saxophone. George Michael. Careless Whisper. Blasting at full volume.

Lando froze. Her mouth fell open.

“Lando,” she whispered, slowly turning to him, “did you seriously put Careless Whisper on your seduction playlist?”

He looked like he’d just been caught cheating on a math test. “I—no. It was supposed to be Miguel. Or The Weeknd. That wasn’t meant to happen.”

She blinked. “You thought Careless Whisper was sexy?”

His jaw dropped. “It’s a classic! That saxophone? It’s iconic!”

The saxophone blared louder behind him, like it was personally offended on his behalf.

She stared at him.

He doubled down. “Come on, ‘I’m never gonna dance again’? That’s heartbreak. That’s pain. That’s—”

“That’s not foreplay, Lando.”

She tried to keep a straight face. She really did. But the music swelled, dramatic, tragic, borderline theatrical, like the car itself was trying to seduce her.

She lost it.

Full-blown laughter. The kind that made her fold in half, wheezing into his hoodie while the ghost of George Michael wailed behind them.

Lando sighed, utterly defeated. “You have no respect for the greats.”

“You tried to seduce me with a meme.”

“I tried to seduce you with emotion.”

“Next time,” she said, still breathless, “just stick to Miguel.”

Lando slumped. “This is literally the opposite of hot.”

“No,” she grinned, wiping tears from her cheeks. “This is exactly us.”

They climbed out of the car and into the cool Monaco night, laughter still echoing as they leaned back against the hood, legs tangled, breath steadying under a sky full of stars.

Everything felt quieter now. Softer.

She leaned over, pressed a kiss to his neck, and whispered, “Wanna finish this in bed?”

Lando stilled.

“No horns. No saxophones. No head trauma. Just us. A mattress. And the whole night to make up for the two weeks you were gone.”

He looked at her like she’d just offered him the universe. “I thought you'd never ask,” he murmured.

She smiled. “But the playlist stays in the car.”

He groaned. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Never. I want it played at our wedding.”

Lando flopped dramatically against the hood. “I seduced you with George Michael. I’m never recovering from this.”

“You seduced me with a horn section, love. Respect the artistry.”

And that’s how the night ended, not with steam or scandal, but laughter, starlight, and a slow drive home.

Where no saxophone would interrupt them again.

Probably.

─── 🏁

short epilogue:

What Lando forgot because of course he did was that his phone automatically reconnected to the car’s Bluetooth the moment they started it back up to go home.

And worse?

He forgot his Spotify account was public.

So while Careless Whisper blasted through the speakers during the most chaotic failed seduction attempt in history, it also blasted onto his “Recently Played” for every single one of his friends to see.

🎧 Now Playing: Careless Whisper – George Michael From playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours) Public playlist · Updated 1 hour ago

Max Verstappen saw it first.

He didn’t even ask questions. Just screenshot it and dropped it straight into the group chat.

max: what the fuck is this HAHAHA max: “certified horny hours” george: did u seriously try to seduce her with GEORGE MICHAEL carlos: oh my god LANDO alex: i’m gonna print this and frame it charles: you’re finished bro. you’re done.

Across the flat, Lando’s phone buzzed violently on the kitchen counter.

He was too busy brushing his teeth and muttering “it’s not that bad” to himself to notice.

It was, in fact, that bad.

[444eggnog]

Quiet Doesn't Mean I Don't Care

✍︎: wrote this short au while stuck in traffic on the way to uni, blame the gridlock and mad by ne-yo for the inspiration. hope you enjoy the mess and the softness that follows! ♡

content: fighting (slight angst), hurt, soft, and comfort

pairing: soft bf Oscar x overstimulated gf

wc: 492

It wasn’t the sauce.

It was everything before that; the constant static in her head, the quiet ticking of time running out before the next season, the way Oscar always seemed fine even when she wasn’t.

He handed her the takeout bag with a soft smile, like always.

“They didn’t have garlic aioli. I got spicy mayo instead, hope that’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Not today.

She turned to face him, blinking hard. “You always do that.”

He paused, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Act like it’s fine. Like none of this matters.”

Oscar set the bag down gently. “It’s just a sauce, love. I can run back and get the right one if it really bothers you.”

“That’s the problem, Oscar!” Her voice broke, loud in the quiet kitchen. “You never get upset. You never fight for anything. You just… go get the right sauce. You say sorry and move on. Do you even care?”

He stood still, expression unreadable, still so maddeningly calm.

“Of course I care.”

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” Her chest rose and fell, her eyes teary now. “Why don’t you ever get mad?”

Oscar didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the floor like the words were there, hiding between the grout.

Then, softly, “I don’t like yelling. I don’t like raising my voice. I thought that was a good thing.”

“It is,” she whispered, defeated. “But sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in this.”

She turned away.

“Maybe you should leave for a bit.”

Oscar didn't move.

“Oscar.”

Still, nothing.

When she finally looked back, his eyes were red, lashes wet.

And her stomach dropped.

Because Oscar never cried.

He rubbed at his jaw, looking anywhere but her. “You think I don’t care because I don’t yell?” he said, voice cracking. “You think I don’t love you because I don’t break things or storm out?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

She stepped closer, but he shook his head gently.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Before you, I didn’t have… experience. Not with this. I’m not good at showing things the way you need me to. But I try.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I get the wrong sauce. I mess up. But I try. And I will do better.”

He looked up at her finally.

“Just don’t push me away. Please.”

Silence stretched, thick with hurt and love.

She reached for his hand, not to pull him closer, but to keep him there, anchored.

“I don’t need perfect,” she said quietly. “I just need to know you’re here.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving hers.

“I’m here. Even when I don’t know what to say. Even when I get it wrong. I’m still here.”

And for the first time in days, she believed it.

They didn’t fix everything that afternoon.

But they didn’t go to bed angry.

And that was enough for now.

[444eggnog]

tbh i haven't watched mamma mia for a long time so i totally forgot who's who but only vaguely there were 1 woman, 3 men and 1 baby girl. which made me felt like i was watching it again after reading your latest fic inspired by it. tho i couldn't unravel the mysteries just like you were expecting, at least i could say that i was so immersed in this fic to the point i felt like it was my life journey that someone just wrote it out for my stead. every dialogues, every scenes, every moments made me felt so real, so private and so... me in a way that i could confirm myself that it wasn't about me lol. and for that let me bow down to you for writing it with your own magic. because your magic had enchanted me with peaceful feelings that i'd expect no less from a really good fic like yours. i wish life will treat you well and kind so that you can continue to cast your kind of magic into every fandomds that you'll decide to visit on here to then. thank you once again for writing this wonderful fic <3

thank you so much, this truly means the world to me. 🤗🧡 i never had the courage to share my writing before because I always thought it was too corny, but I finally decided to post it in the hope that maybe it would reach the right audience. your message really warmed my heart and gave me the encouragement to keep going. also, i’m so happy the fic resonated with you in that way, it makes all the overthinking and rewriting worth it. 🧡

[444eggnog]

I've Been Waiting for You

✍︎: this story is heavily inspired by Mamma Mia, one of my all-time favorite films. i haven’t seen any F1 x Mamma Mia AUs quite like this (at least not with these exact characters!), so I thought, why not? i hope you enjoy unraveling the mystery: who’s Sam, who’s Harry, who’s Bill? let me know your guesses and your thoughts, i’d love to hear it all. ♡ (i also have a few more AUs sitting in my drafts that I can’t wait to share soon. also, thank you for reading my very first post. it means the world.)

content: coming-of-age, romance, drama, slice of life

list of characters: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, George Russell, Toto Wolff

wc: 6k

excerpt:

Y/N wanted a fresh start, something quiet, something hers. Away from the chaos. Away from the noise that always followed her father. Sure, being Toto Wolff’s daughter came with perks, but the weight of his name, the pressure, the attention, the legacy, was far louder than anything she could bear.

So the moment she graduated, she disappeared.

No press release. No grand goodbye. Just a one-way ticket and months of research leading her toward something she can call her peace. In just a few days, she’d be in San Vicente, Palawan: a sun-drenched municipality tucked along the edge of the Philippines, where the ocean was blue, the air was still, and no one knew her name.

She could already picture it: salt in the breeze, silence in the mornings, peace so full it ached. She wasn’t there yet, but soon… she wouldn’t be Toto Wolff’s daughter. She would just be Y/N. And for the first time, solitude wouldn’t be a dream. It would be real and it would be hers.

─── 🏁

Y/N sat at the airport with her passport dangling loosely in her fingers, staring blankly at her freshly painted nails, the same neutral pink she’d chosen for graduation, which had ended not even 24 hours ago.

She should’ve been on her way to Palawan by now. But instead, the overhead speakers had just announced a delay. Heavy rainfall on the island. All flights postponed.

Devastated and restless, she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out of the terminal, pushing past other travelers until she found a waiting taxi. She opened the door, climbed in— 

And someone climbed in on the other side.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, whipping her head around. “Who the hell are you? This is my taxi!”

The guy blinked, caught halfway through setting his bag down. He looked like he hadn't expected confrontation, especially not from someone with sharp eyes and graduation nails.

“Oh. I—uh—sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t trying to steal it. I thought it was still open. My flight got delayed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Palawan?”

He nodded.

“Well,” he said softly, offering a half-smile, “I guess we were going to be on the same flight.”

Y/N sighed, the irritation starting to dissolve into tired acceptance. He didn’t seem like the type to push his way into a cab for fun. And the rain outside was starting to fall harder. Great.

She scooted an inch toward the window. “Fine. But don’t talk.”

He chuckled, settling into the seat beside her as the driver pulled away from the curb.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he said. Then, after a beat: “Nice nails, by the way.”

She turned to glare at him. He looked straight ahead, pretending not to smile.

They found a modest roadside motel just off the highway, nothing fancy, just clean sheets, working locks, and a roof that didn’t leak.

“Two rooms,” Y/N said firmly at the front desk, already fishing for her card.

The stranger nodded. “Of course.”

But when the receptionist handed them their keys, Rooms 4 and 5, side by side. He glanced at her with a quiet, thoughtful look.

“Guess we’re still neighbors,” he said.

She gave a tired smile, the kind that slipped out when she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. “Just don’t knock on my door.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Unless the roof caves in. Or the power goes out. Or there's a spider.”

They both laughed.

─── 🏁

That night, as the rain tapped against the window and the buzzing motel sign painted the walls in flickering light, Y/N stared up at the ceiling, wide awake.

The sheets were cold. The silence was louder than she’d expected.

She’d left home to find peace but maybe peace wasn’t meant to look like this. Maybe it wasn’t meant to feel like loneliness.

Maybe this was a sign she didn’t have to be alone tonight.

So she did the one thing she told him not to do. She knocked.

The stranger opened the door almost immediately, like he’d been sitting by it, unsure if he should do the same.

They stood there for a moment; two strangers bound by circumstance, sleep-deprived and emotionally raw.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted. “I hate motel ceilings.”

“I’ve been counting the cracks in mine,” he replied gently.

She stepped inside.

“Hold on,” he said with a half-smile, “I don’t even know your name.”

She hesitated for a second, then smiled. “Y/N Wolff.”

He repeated it under his breath, almost like a secret. “Y/N Wolff.”

Then he hummed, amused. “Wolff? Like the animal?”

She laughed. “Yes, just like the animal.”

“Well, my name’s Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

She tilted her head, studying his face. “That sounds made up.”

He chuckled. “Coming from the girl whose last name is literally an animal. But I swear, it’s real. I can show you my passport if you don’t believe me.”

She gave a small smile. “Well, Oscar Piastri... I knocked. So that’s gotta count for something.”

He smiled back, gentler this time. “It counts for everything.” 

She learned he was from Melbourne. That he liked the silence but hated long layovers. That he’d never done anything like this before.

He learned she had a complicated last name. That she didn’t know what she was running from, only what she was running toward. That she had no idea what tomorrow looked like, and maybe didn’t want to.

As the rain fell harder, and the room grew colder, their bodies shifted closer on instinct. The space between them shrank with every word, every glance.

Until talking stopped.

Until fingers traced jawlines. Until foreheads touched. Until lips met like it was something inevitable.

Clothes slipped to the floor. Her hands tangled in his hair. His fingers gripped her waist like she might disappear.

No promises. No expectations.

Just a moment carved out of stormlight and impulse, where nothing mattered except right then.

And in the quiet that followed, as the storm softened outside, Y/N thought: This wasn’t what she planned. But maybe, for one night, it was exactly what she needed.

─── 🏁

The next morning, she slipped out quietly.

No alarms. No door creaks. No drawn-out goodbyes.

She stood in the motel bathroom for a minute, lipstick in hand, staring at the foggy mirror. The same shade she wore to graduation the day before. A soft, warm pink. Fitting, maybe, for a night like that.

She pressed the tip to the glass and wrote:

Thanks for warming up my night. Don’t look for me. Good luck on your journey, Oscar Piastri. Kisses. 💋

She capped the lipstick, took one last glance at the room, at the messy sheets, the echoes of laughter, the quiet she no longer feared and left.

A few hours later, Y/N sat by the airplane window, one leg curled under her as clouds drifted past like soft promises.

Below her, the world stretched open. Islands waiting. Oceans glowing.

San Vicente, Palawan.

She could almost see it already. Salt in the breeze. Silence in the mornings. Space to breathe and build something new.

She leaned her head against the glass, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Whatever was waiting on the other side of the globe, it would be hers.

And no one would know her there.

─── 🏁

The sun dipped low over San Vicente, casting golden light across the town plaza as music and laughter filled the air. Streamers fluttered above the streets, children danced barefoot in the dust, and the scent of grilled seafood and sweet banana fritters clung to the breeze.

It was the town’s yearly fiesta, five days of joy, devotion, and celebration. And for the first time since arriving, Y/N felt like she belonged.

She moved with ease through the crowd, offering soft smiles, exchanging greetings in half-learned Tagalog, even accepting a flower crown from a laughing grandmother. Her hair was braided. Her hands were sticky from mangoes. Her heart, strangely, didn’t ache.

That’s when she saw him.

A stranger, sun-kissed, with sleeves rolled up and a quiet focus in his eyes. He was helping a group of locals unload a cart brimming with crates of drinks and trays of pancit. He lifted with ease, moved like he’d done this a hundred times before, though she could tell from his awkward “salamat po” that he was just passing through.

Still, there was something about him.

Something that made her heartbeat stutter, made her hand pause mid-wave. Like her body recognized something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He looked up. Right at her.

And smiled.

She quickly turned away, heat blooming at the base of her neck.

But a few minutes later, after the crates had been stacked and the villagers clapped him on the back in thanks, he wandered toward her. Slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“Hi,” he said, stopping just a step away from her. His voice was light, slightly amused. “Are you from here?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No. New in town. Kind of.”

“Well, you wear that flower crown like you’ve lived here all your life.”

She raised a brow. “And you carry those crates like you grew up doing it.”

He laughed. “Touché.” Then, extending a hand: “I’m… well, I’m just visiting.”

She took his hand. “Okay, just visiting. I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N…” he repeated, then waited, brow raised.

She hesitated, then added, “Wolff.”

He tilted his head like he wanted to ask more, but let it go. “Well, Y/N Wolff. I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Is that what this was? An accident?”

He grinned. “Call it fiesta luck.”

─── 🏁

They spent the next few days caught in the rhythm of celebration, dancing under strings of lanterns, sharing halo-halo from a plastic cup, wandering through market stalls and beach bonfires.

She laughed with him. Laughed fully.

And each night, when the music faded and the town quieted beneath the stars, she found herself wondering what would happen when the fiesta ended.

But for now, she let herself stay in the moment. With him.

With the stranger who hadn’t yet told her his name.

The fifth night of the fiesta came wrapped in sea breeze and slow music. The kind that drifted through the streets like memory, tugging people closer together.

Y/N sat on the edge of the dock, legs swinging over the water, her flower crown now wilted and slipping to one side. Beside her, the stranger leaned back on his hands, looking up at the stars as if he didn’t want the night to end either.

They’d spent five days like this, entwined in a quiet rhythm of mangoes and music, inside jokes and lingering glances. She knew his laugh now. The way he squinted at the sun. The little scar on his nose he hadn’t explained.

But not his name.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “So. You ever gonna tell me your name, mystery crate boy?”

He looked over, lips twitching like he’d been waiting for her to ask. “I was wondering how long you’d let me get away with that.”

“Well, I figured if you were a serial killer, you were at least very polite.”

He laughed, then turned his gaze out to the water, suddenly a little quieter. “It’s Lando,” he said after a beat. “Lando Norris.”

Y/N’s smile faltered, just barely.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to.

“I figured it was time you knew,” he added gently. “Even if you keep calling me mystery boy in your head.”

She looked down at her hands in her lap, fingers absentmindedly spinning the silver rings she hadn’t taken off since graduation.

Norris.It echoed somewhere in her memory. Familiar, but foggy. Like a name she’d overheard once, half-remembered from a past life she’d long since tucked away.

Maybe it was nothing.

She nodded slowly, brushing it off. “Well… Lando Norris,” she said with a small smile. “It’s nice to officially meet you.”

He grinned at her like she’d just said something important. “It really is.”

─── 🏁

Later, when the music had faded into the background hum of waves and distant laughter, he walked her home beneath a sky full of stars.

The cottage was quiet when they reached it, modest, weathered, the kind of place that smelled like salt and old wood. He hesitated outside, hands tucked in his pockets.

“You want to come in for a bit?” she asked, already reaching for the key tied around her neck.

He looked up. “Only if I’m not intruding.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have asked if you were.”

Inside, she lit a candle on the table. The glow flickered across his face as he walked around, taking in the books scattered on the floor, the half-hung tapestry, the sandy flip-flops by the door.

“This is yours?” he asked.

“For now,” she said. “It’s rented. Still smells like the last person who lived here.”

“I like it.” He sat down at the edge of her daybed. “It suits you.”

She poured two glasses of water, handed him one, then sat across from him, knees tucked to her chest.

“So,” she said. “Bristol?”

He nodded. “Born and raised. Spent most of my time in go-karts before I could legally drive.”

“That tracks,” she teased.

He grinned. “I like fast things. Love cars. I stream sometimes too. Games, mostly. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly. It’s cool.” She sipped. “You’re doing what you love.”

“And you?” he asked gently. “You said you’re new here.”

She hesitated. “Just graduated high school.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but not in judgment.

“My dad wants me to go to college,” she continued. “But… I want to carve my own path. Away from him. Away from all the noise.”

He nodded, listening, not interrupting nor pressing.

“So that’s why I’m here,” she said. “Palawan felt far enough.”

There was a beat of silence, soft and full.

“You seem brave,” he said.

She laughed quietly. “I feel like I’m just winging it.”

“Sometimes that’s the bravest thing.”

─── 🏁

The longer they talked, the smaller the space between them became. He leaned back against the bedframe, and she inched closer, her arm resting on the pillow near his.

Her laugh had gotten quieter. His gaze had grown softer.

And then, without saying anything, he reached up.

Gently. Carefully. Slowly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger just a second too long against her skin.

Her breath caught.

His hand moved again, tracing lightly along her jawline, his touch featherlight, reverent.

She looked at him, eyes wide but unmoving, lips parted as though caught mid-thought.

And he moved in.

Not rushed. Not unsure. Like he’d known from the first night of the fiesta that this was always where they were headed.

He kissed her.

And the whole cottage went still.

Outside, the waves kept rolling. The moon kept rising. But in that moment, all she felt was the warmth of his mouth, the steady pulse in her throat, the quiet knowing in her chest that whatever this was had already started to mean something.

She didn’t pull away.

Her hand found his, fingers curling between his like they’d done it a hundred times. Like this moment had been waiting for them since the very first glance across the festival crowd.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. One hand resting at the small of her back, the other still cradling her jaw like she might vanish if he let go.

And she let him in.

Let him trace the curve of her shoulder as he slipped the strap of her top down with careful hands. Let him pause when their eyes met, her breath shaking slightly as he waited for her nod.

Her top fell away. Then her skirt. And then his shirt followed, landing softly beside hers on the floor like petals being shed.

They moved like music. Quiet breaths, wandering hands, soft laughter when knees bumped awkwardly or when her hair caught in his fingers.

There was nothing rehearsed about it. 

Just skin warmed by candlelight, hearts trying to speak without words, and the way his thumb stroked her cheek like he couldn’t believe she was real.

She felt weightless in his arms. Anchored and adrift all at once.

And when he whispered her name, low, she felt something in her unravel, like a thread gently pulled loose, not broken.

They made love not with urgency, but with wonder.

Like two people discovering something sacred in each other.

Like the world outside had gone completely quiet, just for them.

Later, wrapped in blankets and each other, her head resting on his chest as the fan hummed overhead, she listened to the rhythm of his breathing. Steady. Calming.

Her fingertips traced lazy lines over his ribs, memorizing him in the dark.

And just before sleep pulled her under, she thought—This was the first thing that felt right. He felt right.

─── 🏁

The sky outside was beginning to bruise with dusk when Lando stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still wet from the ocean. Y/N was curled up on the couch, flipping through her old notebook, wearing one of his oversized shirts that hung off one shoulder.

It was peaceful. Golden.

He thought maybe this was what people meant when they talked about belonging.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She didn’t notice, too focused on whatever half-written thought she was reading so he reached to slide it toward her.

That’s when he saw the screen.

“Dad Calling.”

The name was so familiar it didn’t even register at first. But then the surname popped into his head.

Wolff.

His hand stilled over the phone.

And then he said it quietly and carefully. Like he was checking if the air around them would change:

“Wolff... like Toto Wolff?”

Y/N’s head snapped up. Eyes wide.

And that was all the answer he needed.

There was a moment, barely a second where they both just stared at each other. Nothing moved. Not the fan, not the trees outside, not the ocean.

Then she sat up, slower now, placing the notebook down.

“Lando—”

“You’re his daughter?”

She didn’t deny it. Just pressed her lips together, jaw tight.

He let out a breath, hands on his hips. “You’re Toto Wolff’s daughter and you didn’t think that was something I should know?”

“I didn’t want you to know,” she admitted. “That was the whole point of coming here.”

His voice was quiet. “So you were hiding.”

“I was protecting myself.”

“From me?”

“No—” she stood, crossing the room, “from everything that comes with that name. The questions. The assumptions. The way people stop seeing me and just see him.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in days, it felt like he was seeing someone he didn’t fully know.

“You watched me unpack my whole life to you,” he said, shaking his head. “And all this time…”

“I never lied,” she cut in. “I just didn’t offer it.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight in his chest.

“Jesus. I was falling for you, Y/N.”

The way he said it made her knees weaken.

“I didn’t want to be someone you fell for because of who I was or someone you’d walk away from because of it,” she said, eyes glassy.

Lando ran a hand through his damp hair. “I wouldn’t have.”

“You say that now.”

Another silence.

Then: “When were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t.”

And that, somehow, hurt more than anything else.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to accept it.

Then he looked at her again, really looked and she saw it: the shift. The beginning of distance.

“I have to pack,” he said finally. “Early flight.”

He walked past her toward the bedroom, leaving behind only the scent of saltwater and fading sweetness.

Y/N stood there, alone, her heart beating loud in a cottage that suddenly didn’t feel like home anymore.

And for the first time since arriving on the island, she felt like a stranger in her own skin again.

─── 🏁

The suitcase sat by the door like a clock ticking.

Y/N stood at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, arms folded, watching as Lando zipped up the last of his things. The morning was warm, but her skin felt cold.

Neither of them had said much since he found out.

“I leave in an hour,” he said. “Monaco called. They want me there early for media rounds.”

She nodded, like that was just another weather report.

“I want you to come with me.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move.

“Y/N, I’m just starting. Everything’s opening up. The seat. The team. This could be it.”

“I know,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

He stepped closer, reaching for her hand, curling his fingers around hers. “You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to run anymore.”

“But that’s just it, Lando,” she said, pulling her hand away slowly. “You’re running toward it. I’m running to get away.”

His expression faltered. “It doesn’t have to be either-or.”

“Yes, it does,” she said, firmer now. “I left because I didn’t want that life: the headlines, the noise, the cameras outside your door asking about who you're dating. I grew up in that world. I watched it eat people alive.”

He looked at her for a long time, jaw set but not angry.

“I’m not your father.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But it’s not about you, it's about that world you’re entering. And you deserve everything you’ve worked for, Lando. You really do. But I can’t go back to that. Not even for you.”

The silence settled like dust.

Then he nodded once, tightly, like if he moved too much he might shatter.

“So that’s it?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, like he didn’t believe it. Like she might call him back.

But she didn’t.

So he left.

Later that day, when the cottage was still and the sun was beginning to fall behind the palms, Y/N found it.

A note, folded in half on the windowsill, right next to the flower crown she thought she’d lost.

In his messy scrawl:

I would’ve stayed. But I know why you can’t. I’ll look for you in the crowd someday. —L.

She didn’t cry.

Not right away.

But when she closed the door, she pressed her back to it and exhaled like it hurt to breathe.

And in the quiet, she whispered to no one:

I would’ve stayed too. If only you weren’t the thing I left behind.

─── 🏁

It had been a week since he left.

Seven sunrises, seven quiet dinners, seven chances for her to say I miss you out loud and still, she hadn’t.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of her cottage, hair up in a messy twist, wearing a faded shirt that still smelled like salt and sunscreen. Her friends, real friends, the kind who showed up even when she pushed them away had arrived that morning, bounding down the path with wide grins, dragging sand into the doorway, their arms full of local snacks and cold bottled beer.

They talked and talked and talked about everything and nothing. Sprawled across her couch and floor cushions, they told stories from home, updated her on gossip, work, exes, the dog that escaped from her neighbor’s fence. One of them tried to play ukulele. It was awful. She laughed anyway.

But somewhere between the second round of drinks and a bad impression of her high school chemistry teacher, they noticed she hadn’t said much.

“You okay, hon?” one of them asked, nudging her knee.

Y/N blinked. Realized she hadn’t spoken in maybe twenty minutes. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” another asked, gentler this time. “Because you’ve just been… sitting there. Like your soul’s buffering.”

She tried to smile. It barely held.

They all exchanged looks.

And then: “So. We may or may not have something to confess.”

Y/N glanced up, wary. “What now?”

“The whole ‘we randomly decided to visit you’ thing?” her friend said, raising a brow. “Yeah. That was… sponsored.”

“Sponsored?”

“As in: your dad paid for the tickets. Even offered us his jet. He also sent us your favorite snacks.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. She looked away.

“But,” her other friend cut in quickly, “he didn’t ask us to drag you home. He just said he misses you. That’s all. Swore he wouldn’t push.”

Silence hung for a second. Then:

“He’s trying, Y/N,” one of them added softly. “In his own… control-freak executive way.”

She exhaled slowly. “I know.”

They gave her a beat to sit with that. Then, like clockwork:

“So,” one said, scooting closer, “are you gonna tell us about mystery crate guy or do we have to interrogate the villagers?”

Y/N let out a dry laugh. “You mean Lando?”

“Ohhh, Lando. It has a name.”

She reached for her drink, swirling the ice inside. Her voice came quieter now. “He’s from that world.”

They all went still.

“You mean—like…?”

She nodded. “Yeah… He’s just starting out. Bright-eyed. Hungry for it. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of.”

“And you?”

“I’m the girl who ran away from it.” She looked down at her lap, tracing a wrinkle in the fabric of her skirt. “I didn’t tell him. Not until he found out.”

None of them said anything. They didn’t have to.

Y/N went on, voice soft and steady. “I think I could’ve loved him. If I let myself. Maybe I already did. But every time I looked at him, I saw everything I left behind. Everything I didn’t want to be pulled back into.”

A pause. The wind stirred the palm leaves outside.

“I didn’t stay for him,” she said, almost to herself. “And I didn’t go with him, either.”

“Do you regret it?”

She thought for a moment.

“I miss him,” she finally admitted. “But I don’t regret staying. Not yet.”

One of her friends leaned over and took her hand. Another reached for the half-played ukulele.

“Well, then,” they said gently, “let’s give you something worth staying for.”

And just like that, the night unfolded around them soft laughter, bad music, the scent of mangoes in the air and Y/N, for the first time in days, let herself breathe.

─── 🏁

The sun rose early the next morning, spilling gold across the floorboards of the cottage. Y/N stretched lazily on her bed, the air still heavy with the scent of fried garlic rice and sea breeze.

“You’re not moping here again,” her friend declared as she entered the room, tossing a sunhat onto Y/N’s stomach. “Come on. There’s a farmers’ market and half the town’s already there.”

Y/N groaned. “Do I have to be social?”

“No. You just have to show your face, smile once, and let the old ladies give you fruit.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll drag you there. Don’t test us. You already owe us emotional labor and overpriced coffee.”

So Y/N found herself wandering the stalls a little before noon, slowly getting lost in the rhythm of it all. Music played on someone’s radio. A kid offered her a flower. Someone handed her fresh mango slices without asking.

She was just starting to feel like herself again when it happened.

A loud crash echoed near the docks; crates tumbling, someone swearing in British-accented panic, and a runaway dog barking like it was part of the circus.

She turned toward the chaos, eyebrows raised, and saw him.

A tall, lanky man with curls tousled by the wind and hands flailing as he tried to catch the dog now sprinting through the crowd with a pandesal in its mouth.

“Oh no no no no, please, I literally just got here!” he shouted, chasing after it.

The dog made a hard right. The man didn’t. He nearly collided with a crate of pineapples, lost his balance and stumbled straight into Y/N.

“Oof… sorry! So sorry!” he said, steadying them both. “Blimey. I swear I’m usually more coordinated than this.”

Y/N blinked. “You okay?”

He looked up, wide-eyed, and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… my dog. Not technically mine. Long story.”

“Looks like a very long story,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I’m George, by the way.” He extended a hand, breathless. “George Russell.”

She hesitated, then took it. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, grinning. “Lovely name. Do all the women here come with flowers behind their ears and save strangers from flying pineapples, or is it just you?”

She laughed, truly laughed for the first time in days. “Just me, I guess.”

“Lucky me, then.”

Behind them, the dog barked again this time from the roof of someone’s motorbike.

George sighed. “Right. I should probably go rescue the village from him. But… can I buy you a drink after?”

Y/N tilted her head, amused. “You travel with a dog, steal bread, and ask strangers out before noon?”

“I’m very efficient.”

She smirked. “Alright, George. You’ve got one drink to prove you’re not a walking disaster.”

“Challenge accepted,” he said with a wink, then sprinted off in pursuit of the dog.

And as Y/N watched him disappear into the crowd, she found herself smiling again not because she’d moved on.

But because maybe she didn’t have to stand still.

─── 🏁

Y/N squinted under the late afternoon sun, scanning the street for George. She thought they were just getting coffee, maybe a walk down the market road. So when she saw him waving from the end of the dock, standing beside a modest white sailboat with a cooler in hand and two coconuts already open, she stopped short.

“That,” she said, walking up to him with a raised brow, “is not coffee.”

George grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Surprise.”

She crossed her arms, amused. “I didn’t bring sunscreen. Or a change of clothes. Or a sense of adventure.”

“Well, lucky for you,” he said, handing her a coconut with a tiny paper umbrella in it, “I brought all three.”

She tried to glare at him. It didn’t work.

“This isn’t even your boat,” she challenged, glancing down at the polished deck.

“Technically, it’s my uncle’s,” George said, hopping aboard and offering his hand. “He lives here part-time, teaches diving courses when he’s not traveling. Left me the keys while he’s away. I figured… why not?”

Y/N took his hand, letting him help her aboard. “So what? You’re just a charming wanderer with access to boats and a suspicious amount of coconut water?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said, placing a small speaker beside the cooler, “I’m a journalist. And this place?” He gestured around them; the sun, sea, horizon stretching like a painting. “This is my new project. Thought I’d write about it. You know, something slower. Simpler. Something beautiful.”

He looked at her when he said that last word. Not accidentally.

She settled on a cushion and sipped her drink. “And how’s the writing going?”

“Well,” he said, sitting across from her, “I’ve only been here one day… and I’ve already met the most beautiful subject I could ask for.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled into her drink. “That was smooth.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said with a wink.

They drifted for a while, the motor quiet, only the sails flapping and the water lapping against the boat’s sides. Conversation came easily. He told her about London, about how journalism felt like chasing ghosts sometimes. She told him about how she hated always being asked about her last name.

He didn’t push. Just listened. And laughed. And made her feel light.

That night, as the sun dipped beneath the water and painted the world in oranges and pinks, they stayed on the boat, sharing local beer from the cooler, stargazing on the deck, pillows pulled from the cabin.

They didn’t kiss. Not at first. Not like before.

But at some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. And he leaned in, resting his cheek against her hair. And it just made sense.

When his lips finally brushed hers, it wasn’t fireworks. It was gentle. Warm. Curious.

It felt like freedom, not fire.

─── 🏁

A few days later, they stood at the edge of the dock again but now he was holding his packed bags instead of coolers, and the sails were tied down.

“I’ve gotta go chase stories,” George said with a half-smile. “But I’ll be back.”

Y/N nodded, hands in her pockets. “I know.”

She didn’t cry. Didn’t ache. It was something else softer than heartbreak. 

“Write me into your article,” she joked as he stepped onto the boat.

He grinned. “You’ll be the title.”

─── 🏁

Back at the cottage, one of her friends peeked over her sunglasses and said:

“Okay but… he’s definitely the love of your life.”

Y/N snorted. “He’s not.”

“He’s charming, tall, smart, has a boat—”

“I didn’t fall in love with him,” she said simply, “and that’s the best part.”

Her friend frowned. “You're sure?”

Y/N turned her face to the sun, letting the warmth sit on her skin.

“I think maybe,” she said quietly, “I’m still working on loving myself first.”

And for once, that felt like enough.

There was a beat of silence.

Then her other friend chimed in, casually sipping from her drink, “Okay, well… if he’s not the love of your life, he can totally be mine.”

All three of them burst into laughter, the kind that echoed through the trees and danced along the wind.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt light. Like maybe healing didn’t have to look like forgetting. Maybe it could just sound like laughter.

─── 🏁

The sun poured golden over the balcony, spilling onto the canvas like blessing. Y/N stood barefoot in front of it, brush in hand, streaking shades of coral and seafoam in soft arcs. Her cottage smelled like coconut wax, citrus peel, and turpentine.

She was twenty-one today.

No party. No candles. Just the sea humming softly in the background, a slice of mango cake on the table, and a half-drunk glass of pineapple wine.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t lonely.

She was home.

She stepped back from the canvas, tilting her head. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers. This place. This body. This life. All hers.

Then the nausea hit; sharp, sudden, insistent.

She barely made it to the sink before she emptied her stomach, breath heaving, eyes stinging.

At first, she thought it was the wine, or the heat, or maybe the mango. But deep down, her body knew. A primal, quiet knowing.

Hours later, crouched over a test in her bathroom, she read the result.

Positive.

She didn’t cry.

She just stared at the line, heart thudding slowly in her chest, one hand on the counter, the other pressed against her abdomen.

Not fear. Not even shock. Just… reality.

─── 🏁

The baby came just before sunrise.

The sky outside her window was still ink-blue, the stars clinging on like they weren’t ready to leave either. In the quiet before the world stirred, she held her child for the first time, skin to skin, breath to breath, and everything else the noise, the past, the ache dissolved into something simpler.

She cried, of course.

Not out of fear. Not from pain.

But because for the first time in her life, she knew what it meant to belong to herself.

Her parents came a few days later. Her mother brought flowers. Her father stood stiffly in the doorway until the baby yawned and he melted into something almost unrecognizable.

Toto didn’t ask questions. Didn’t lecture. Didn’t offer advice.

He simply said, “She’s beautiful.”

Y/N nodded. “Thank you.”

He asked if she wanted the world to know. If she wanted the press handled, the story cleaned up, the headlines ready.

She looked down at her daughter, asleep in her arms, and smiled.

“No,” she said. “I want her to grow up in peace. Just like this.”

So they stayed for a while. Held the baby. Cooked meals. Then they left again, quietly, as requested.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t a daughter of someone. Or a girl running from love. Or a name in the paddock. Or a mystery to be solved.

She was just Y/N. And she was a mother now.

─── 🏁

Y/N

I used to think freedom was escape. That if I ran far enough, fast enough, I could erase everything that hurt.

But the truth is, freedom is choosing your own ending. It’s waking up in a home you built yourself, even if no one else understands how you got there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever tell them; Oscar, George, Lando. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day, she’ll ask. And I’ll tell her the story of a summer filled with stars and secrets and three beautiful, messy, unforgettable boys.

But right now, the only thing that matters is this:

I don’t regret anything.

Not the running. Not the falling. Not the leaving. Not the love.

Because every step led me here—

To her.

To me.

[444eggnog]

Tracks and Headlines

✍︎: this is my very first f1 au! i’m still fairly new to the world of f1 since i only started watching in late 2023, so i sincerely apologize in advance if i get anything wrong. i did my best to research and made good use of all those weekly races and commentaries. that said, i’m always open to constructive criticism, so feel free to share your thoughts! ♡

content: angst, tiny love-tri (not the focus), growth

list of characters: Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Oscar Piastri, Nico Rosberg ...

wc: 11k

excerpt:

Every race weekend, Sky Sports commentator Y/N keeps fans entertained with her signature sharp wit and unapologetic digs, often aimed at one particular driver: Lando Norris. Their fiery on-air exchanges have become the stuff of social media legend, sparking countless memes, fancam edits, and even merch. To the public, it’s harmless banter. Just part of the show.

But off the mic, behind the paddock curtains and under the scorching heat of Formula 1, the air tells a different story.

The glances that linger a little too long leave burn marks. The tension crackles like static in the paddock halls. And no matter how many laps they run, some pasts are impossible to outrun.

Because sometimes, the most dangerous games aren’t played on the track… they're played between the lines.

Once upon a time, before the world was watching, Y/N and Lando weren’t enemies. They were something else entirely.

And the thing about history? It never really stays buried. Especially when it’s the kind that could set the whole track on fire.

─── 🏁

Y/N walked into the paddock with the same old fire she always kept in her pockets: quiet, controlled, but never diminished. There was an ease to her stride, a sharpness in her gaze, and the kind of effortless class that made cameras forget what they were looking for.

It was her first commentary of the season. And what better place to return than Formula 1’s crown jewel: the Monaco Grand Prix.

Zak Brown was the first to greet her, a wide grin on his face as he pulled her into a friendly side hug. “Be easy with Lando now,” he joked, eyes twinkling.

She only smiled, teeth hidden, gaze unbothered. “No promises, Zak. You know I only call it how I see it.”

The whole paddock knew about the banter. The playful jabs. The digs that sometimes landed just a little too sharply on Sky’s weekend broadcast. Most found it entertaining. A rivalry that made good TV.

But no one knew where it came from.

No one but Carlos Sainz.

Back when Lando had just begun his F1 career, fresh-faced and too young to know better, there had been something between them. Not quite a relationship, not quite nothing. No titles. No rules. Just late nights, hushed phone calls, and a connection that didn’t need explaining.

There was no press. No soft launches. No whispers. It was theirs alone. Unspoken. Unlabeled. Unfinished.

Now, years later, they wore different colors, walked with different people, and stood on opposite sides of the sport.

But history? It always had a way of catching up. And tension like theirs never really cooled off. It just found new ways to burn.

─── 🏁

The McLaren hospitality area buzzed with its usual pre-race rhythm. Staff moved like clockwork, guests lingered by the espresso bar, and the orange-clad bubble felt almost untouched by the chaos outside.

Almost.

Lando sat near the back, nursing a bottle of water he’d barely touched. His sunglasses were on, but not for the sun, mostly to hide the twitch in his eyes every time someone mentioned Sky Sports.

Carlos found him easily, sliding into the chair across from him with the kind of quiet only someone who knew the weight of a name could carry.

“So,” Carlos began, already smirking, “she’s back.”

Lando didn’t look up.

“You heard her this morning?”

“I think the whole grid heard her,” Carlos said, leaning back. “First broadcast of the season and she already made a joke about your ‘rookie tendencies still showing.’”

Lando scoffed, head tilted back. “Classic.”

Carlos studied him for a second, eyes narrowing with that best-friend-got-too-good-at-reading-you look. “How are you feeling?”

Lando’s silence lingered. Too long.

He exhaled, slow. “It’s just commentary.”

“It’s never just commentary with her,” Carlos replied softly. “Not with you.”

For a moment, neither said anything. The weight of everything unspoken settled between them.

They both knew this wasn’t just about on-air banter. Not when the past was walking around the paddock in heels and credentials, looking like she never left, only like she came back with a vengeance.

And Lando? He hadn’t quite figured out if that made him want to run or follow.

─── 🏁

Already on the track, the atmosphere was electric. Cameras panned across the grid, fans waved flags from balconies, and the tight, unforgiving corners of Monaco shimmered under the Riviera sun.

Lando had landed pole. Of course he had. And for a moment, the broadcast team thought, maybe, Y/N might go easy on him.

But they were wrong.

Her words flowed like they always did: fluid, unfaltering, polished. The kind of commentary that made everything sound lighter than it was. That was the thing about her: she didn’t fumble. Even under pressure, she stayed sharp. Unbothered. Almost untouchable.

“Norris on pole. Must be nice to be back in familiar territory, though hopefully, he’s figured out how to keep it this time.”

It was clean. Easy. Laced with bite, but sugarcoated just enough to pass as casual.

“Good launch from Norris. Front row nerves in check, surprisingly.”

She never paused. Never broke stride.

“That’s a tight exit out of the chicane. Brave. Or maybe just reckless with style.”

The director loved cutting to her mid-comment, face unreadable, voice as smooth as silk laced with gasoline.

“Lando’s pushing hard into Lap 24. You’d think he’s trying to outrun something… or someone.”

Her comments flowing one after another.

“That McLaren is dancing through the Portier section. I’ll give him this, he’s not driving like a rookie anymore.”

By Lap 72, something shifted.

She went quiet. Not because she didn’t have anything to say, she always had something to say.

But this? This wasn’t the Lando she remembered.

This wasn’t the boy who drove like he had something to prove. This was a man who had mastered the Monaco streets. Who was smooth through the swimming pool section, unshakable in the tunnel, ruthless into Rascasse.

For the first time in a long time, Y/N couldn’t find the words.

The booth stayed silent. Just the sound of engines roaring down the straight, and the image of Lando, helmet glinting in the sun, crossing the finish line like he owned the track.

She sat there, headset resting in one hand, lips parted slightly but nothing came out.

Because in all the years they’d known each other… She’d never seen him drive like this. And that?That shocked her more than she was willing to admit.

─── 🏁

The media pen pulsed with post-race energy. Microphones, recorders, flashes, everything coming in fast bursts. Lando could hear his name bouncing from tent to tent.

But his eyes were only on one person.

She stood at the far end, beside Nico, headphones around her neck and a Sky mic in hand. Calm. Effortless. Deadly.

Still in control, even after going radio silent in the final laps.

He walked toward her slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. But not entirely cool either. He adjusted the collar of his race suit, tugging it like it might hide the way his heart was still hammering, not from the drive, but from her.

Nico gave him a grin as he approached. “Congrats, Lando. That was clinical.”

Lando nodded, eyes flicking to Y/N. “Thanks.”

She stepped forward, lifting the mic with that same lazy ease.

“So,” she started, voice silky, “how’d that feel? Tight corners, risky strategy, flawless execution… Monaco tends to chew people up.”

He smirked. “Didn’t feel like I was getting chewed up today.”

She tilted her head. “No, you looked… sharp. Almost like you knew what you were doing.”

Nico chuckled under his breath, but Lando didn’t bite, his gaze never left her.

“Guess I’m finally growing up, huh?”

“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully, then with the softest, subtlest jab: “Some would say miracles happen in Monaco.”

Her tone was light. Barely a flicker. But even Nico’s brow twitched upward, sensing something laced under the sugar.

Lando’s jaw clenched for just a heartbeat. Only she would land a compliment that sliced on the way out.

“Good to know you’re still watching closely,” he said, voice low, just for her.

She didn’t blink.

“It’s my job, Norris. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Then she turned back to Nico with the same poise she always wore, like the moment never happened. But it did. And he felt every second of it.

─── 🏁

The paddock was starting to empty, that familiar post-race buzz settling into soft chatter and the hum of equipment being packed away. Team radios clicked off. Mechanics rolled toolboxes over cracked asphalt. Monaco’s golden hour painted everything in tired gold.

Y/N stood near the Sky vehicle, tiny handbag slung over one shoulder, her phone glowing faintly in her hand. Nico reached out to help her into the step of the van, ever the gentleman.

“You sure you’re not catching dinner before flying out tomorrow?” he asked.

“Not tonight,” she said lightly, voice just loud enough to drift. “I think I’ve caused enough chaos for one day.”

She smiled as she stepped up, graceful and composed even in the way she adjusted her headset bag. Like the race never touched her.

Lando watched from across the McLaren garage entrance, still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fabric clinging to his waist. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just watched her.

Like a man staring at something he once had and never quite got over.

That’s when Carlos appeared beside him, hands in his pockets, casual as ever.

“You’re staring,” he said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it.

Lando blinked, barely turning.

“Wasn’t.”

Carlos tilted his head. Smirked.

“Right. You just happened to be admiring the back of Nico Rosberg’s head.”

Lando exhaled through his nose, not laughing. Not denying it either.

They both looked on as Y/N ducked her head into the van, her hair catching the last of the sunlight like it was made of gold.

“You shut her up today,” Carlos said after a beat.

Lando blinked, pulled from the trance. “Huh?”

Carlos nodded toward the van. “Y/N. For once she actually ran out of words. First time for everything, no?”

Lando didn’t answer, eyes flicking back to the vehicle as Y/N laughed at something Nico said before climbing in.

Carlos nudged him lightly with an elbow. “You know what that means, right?”

Lando glanced at him, guarded. “What.”

Carlos grinned. “You’ve got about two hours before the internet is full of clips of her face when you crossed that finish line.” He paused. “Might be the highlight of your evening.”

Lando let out a soft scoff, somewhere between amusement and something heavier. Carlos tilted his head, studying him a little closer now.

“You’re not over her.”

Lando didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The van pulled away, tail lights catching the last of Monaco’s golden light.

Carlos gave his shoulder a pat, more thoughtful this time. “Just don’t wait until she’s on someone else’s arm before you figure it out.”

He walked off without waiting for a response.

And Lando just stood there, feeling like the race he really cared about hadn't even started yet.

─── 🏁

The Monaco sky had long since turned navy, the streets quiet now, emptied of chaos and champagne. Y/N slipped out of her shoes by the door of her hotel room, finally alone, finally quiet.

She poured herself a glass of water, set her phone on the counter, and let the weight of the day slide off her shoulders like silk. She should’ve been thinking about the broadcast, about the numbers coming in, about how she managed to keep her voice steady while watching him take that final lap like his life depended on it.

Her phone buzzed once.

She glanced down, half-distracted, picking it up lazily.

The name didn’t register right away.

But the message did.

"You looked really good today. Hope to see you next race. I promise to win that one for you 😉"

She paused. Read it again.

Messy driver handwriting in clean text. The kind of confidence you could hear even through a screen. The kind of charm that always walked the line between sincere and dangerous.

Her lips curved slightly.

Of course it would be him.

Charles Leclerc

She huffed a quiet laugh through her nose. Of all people.

Charles had been hanging at the edges for a while now. The cheeky smiles in the media pen, the way he lingered a little too long in post-race interviews, the casual one-liners he’d toss her way in the paddock when he thought no one was listening.

She’d brushed them off, easily. She knew his type. She used to fall for that type.

She typed a reply, paused, then erased it.

Instead, she dropped the phone onto the bed beside her and took a slow sip of water, her eyes fixed out the window, somewhere past the skyline.

But for a moment, just a fleeting moment… she wondered what it would be like if she replied.

─── 🏁

The lights from the afterparty still danced faintly in Lando’s mind, even as he kicked off his shoes at the doorway of his flat. His jacket hit the floor. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

He was tipsy.

No… drunk.

And not the fun, laughing kind either. The kind that lingers after the adrenaline fades. The kind that seeps in when something’s already gnawing at you, low and quiet and constant.

He changed into a hoodie and joggers, flopped into bed without even brushing his hair, and reached for his phone.

Just to scroll. Just to kill the noise in his head.

Twitter opened with muscle memory. Monaco was still trending. And there she was.

Y/N, standing with a mic in hand, poised and glowing under the lights. Charles beside her, fresh from his P2 podium, smiling at her like he meant it. She said something. Charles laughed. Fans were eating it up.

Edits. Zoom-ins. Slow-mos.

His thumb hovered. His jaw clenched.

He didn’t even think. Just… replied.

“he ddnt even winnn!!”

One tweet. Then another.

“hipe flirting gets u p1 nest tme…”

And then:

“guez some pelpoe are okay witg 2nd plase ahahahahahaha”

He tossed the phone to the side. Didn’t even wait for the replies. Sleep dragged him down like an anchor.

─── 🏁

The next morning was violent.

His head pounded like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull. His tongue felt like sandpaper. His phone was hot from the battery draining overnight.

When he blinked himself awake and checked the screen—

29 missed calls from PR (DO NOT IGNORE) 19 from Carlos Sainz 13 from Charlotte Sefton 3 from Zak Brown 2 from Andrea Stella

His heart dropped.

He opened Twitter.

He didn’t have to scroll far.

Screenshots of his tweets. Fan reactions in every flavor: shock, screaming, crying, laughing, theories. Clips of Y/N and Charles from yesterday paired with his replies. People digging up old interviews. Old banter. Old everything.

He sat up fast. The hangover hit him again with full force.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Then, louder.

“SHIT!”

His phone buzzed again. One message… just before the screen went dark.

One message.

From: Y/N

He opened it with a shaky thumb, hands suddenly not so steady.

You must’ve really wanted me to see that.

That was it.

No emoji. No follow-up.

Just cold steel disguised as text. The kind of message that didn't shout, didn't curse, didn’t need to. It just cut.

His stomach flipped. His skin burned, not from embarrassment, but from something sharper, deeper. The kind that sits in your ribs like regret, like things you can’t undo.

He sat there in shock, blinking at the last thing he saw before his phone died. The room felt like it had stopped breathing.

With a jolt, he stood up, grabbed his charger from the bedside table, and plugged his phone in. Then he slid to the floor, back against the wall, heart thudding against his ribs.

He sat like that for five minutes.

But to him, it felt like an eternity.

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

He flinched.

Another knock. Louder.

“Lando! Open up, man, don’t make me kick this door down!”

Carlos.

His voice was unmistakable: half pissed, half panicked.

Lando forced himself up, dragged his feet to the door, and cracked it open.

Carlos pushed past him like a storm.

“Are you serious?! What the hell was that last night?” “I was drunk,” Lando muttered. “Yeah, no shit, you were drunk… drunk enough to pick a fight with the internet and maybe ruin your season before it’s even halfway done.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He just ran a hand down his face and sat back on the edge of the couch like a man awaiting trial.

Carlos stood across from him, arms crossed, fuming.

“Do you even know how many calls I got?”

Lando didn’t answer.

Carlos paced once, then pointed at him. “You need to fix this. Fast.”

Just then—

Another knock.

But this one was gentler.

Measured.

Lando barely got to the door before it burst open.

Zak. Charlotte. Two PR heads behind them.

Zak’s smile was tight, barely held together. “Well. You’ve had better mornings.”

Charlotte didn’t smile at all.

“We’re releasing a statement. You were hacked. No further comment.”

Lando blinked. “No one’s gonna believe that.”

“They don’t have to,” Charlotte snapped. “They just have to pretend to. Like the rest of the grid.”

Carlos gave him a look.

A quiet, you did this to yourself kind of look.

“The good news?” Zak added dryly. “No one’s canceled your seat yet.”

The room fell silent.

Lando leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone slowly powering back on beside him.

He didn’t know what burned more, his headache, the lie they were about to post in his name, or the message she sent that still lived at the top of his screen.

Because she didn’t believe the lie.

─── 🏁

Spain.

Of all places.

And for some cruel twist of fate, or maybe just a brilliant marketing move, Y/N was once again on the commentary roster.

Two races in a row. That never happened. Not for her. Not until now.

The moment the news broke, the internet exploded.

Clips from Monaco resurfaced in seconds, especially that brief, casual moment where Charles had stopped to greet her just outside the paddock gates. A soft smile. His hand grazing her arm just a second too long.

It was nothing. But to the internet?

It was everything.

Fan edits flooded the feed.

“charles leclerc, soft launch king.” “the way he looks at her???” “don’t let lando see this LMAO.”

Lando did see them.

Snickering at first.

Then silent.

Then angry.

He tossed his phone on the bed like it burned.

Spain was personal now.

And not just because he loved the track. Not just because McLaren was bringing updates. Not even because it was Carlos’ home turf and the pressure would be insane.

No, it was because of her.

Because she would be there. Again. Talking about the race, about him, in that perfect, polished way. Saying too little that always meant too much.

And Charles would be there too. Flashing that same soft-eyed charm and winning smiles she used to laugh at behind closed doors with Lando.

So Lando made himself three quiet promises:

One: Beat Charles. Every race. Every lap if he could. Two: Stay off the internet until December. Maybe January. Three: Talk to her. Actually talk to her. Not under cameras. Not with sarcasm. Just the truth.

Because this wasn’t just about racing anymore. It was about a story that never really ended. And it was about time to rewrite the finish.

─── 🏁

Race day came. They hadn’t spoken since the twitter rage incident. Not a word or a glance.

But that morning, the paddock air was already thick with heat and something else unspoken.

Charles showed up early. Earlier than any driver had reason to. When he spotted her near the media tent, alone with a coffee in hand, his grin was immediate. Confident. Of course he’d show up early. Of course he’d seek her out.

“Morning,” he said, eyes scanning her face like it held secrets he was dying to earn.

Y/N arched a brow, amused. “You’re here early, Leclerc.”

“I could say the same about you.”

What she didn’t expect was Lando arriving just a minute later, hoodie pulled low over his cap, hands shoved in his pockets. But the second he caught sight of them, her and Charles, too close for his liking his entire body tensed.

She saw him. Of course she did.

So she smiled at Charles. Shifted slightly. Let her hand brush his arm; Just as she swatted the fly that had been buzzing too close to her face.

But Lando didn’t see the insect. He only saw her: smiling, fingers grazing Charles’ sleeve like she belonged there.

He curled his fists.

It wasn’t anger exactly. It was that bone-deep ache of knowing too much history, and yet being completely on the outside of right now.

Charles leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh. It was small, nothing out of the ordinary— But to Lando, it sounded like the start of war.

He turned and walked the other way, jaw set, trying to convince himself it didn’t get to him.

─── 🏁

In the corner of the McLaren garage, Lando Norris was aggressively folding towels.

Not just folding. Refolding. Edging corners. Aligning the logos like he worked at a spa instead of in Formula 1.

Oscar peeked around the corner, eyebrows high. “Is he... doing laundry?”

Carlos popped a protein bar in his mouth. “Do you even have laundry?”

“No. We don’t. That’s not even our team logo.”

Carlos gestured for Oscar to follow him, like they were about to approach a wild animal. Or worse, a heartbroken British one.

They crept closer. Lando was muttering.

“Why’s he smiling like that? What’s he got that I don’t? Other than… cheekbones and fluency in French.”

Then another.

“If she wanted flirty, she could’ve just… flirted with me. I’m here. I have shoulders. I can be smiled at.”

Oscar blinked. “Okay yeah he’s gone.”

Carlos stepped forward first, cautiously. “Mate… you alright?”

Lando didn’t look up. “Peachy.”

Oscar leaned in, dropping the sarcasm. “You’re folding towels that don’t belong to you.”

“Someone has to.”

“No one has to. That’s literally not a thing.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Okay, talk. Now.”

Lando finally looked up, cheeks flushed, voice defensive. “It’s just… she was with Charles. Laughing. Laughing like that. You know how she laughs.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Like she wants to murder you or marry you?”

Lando groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Both.”

Oscar slowly started connecting dots. “Wait… You actually like her?”

Carlos made a face. “Like her? Try obsessed. They’ve got history.”

Oscar squinted. “History?”

Silence.

Then Lando said nothing, just leaned against the counter, towel in hand, eyes somewhere far away.

And just like that, Flashback: 2019

The world was quieter then. Just the hum of the AC, the faint London drizzle tapping at the windows, and her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his bare chest.

They were skin to skin. Tangled in sheets and whatever they were pretending not to define.

“You know we can’t keep doing this without a name,” she whispered.

Lando grinned, young and reckless. “Why? You want to call it something?”

“No. I just want to know what to blame when this all falls apart.”

He kissed her shoulder. “It won’t.”

But it did.

Because a week later, the call came from his team. Marketing. Sponsorships. Brand image.

“It’s not personal, Lando. It’s PR. She’s well-known. Model. Clean image. You’ll get more attention. It’ll be good for both your careers.”

And when he told Y/N, she didn’t cry. She raged.

“So you’re asking me to disappear?”

“I’m asking you to understand.”

“Understand that I’m not marketable enough for you to love in public?”

The door slammed so hard it shook the walls.

Flashback fades.

Back in the present, Lando stood there quietly, towel clenched in his fist.

Oscar and Carlos didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then:

“...Damn,” Oscar whispered. “No wonder you’re folding towels like your life depends on it.”

─── 🏁

“Hairpin into another hairpin, the drivers barely have room to breathe, let alone blink—”

Her voice was smooth, clear, as always. The crowd noise roared below the commentary box, and the cameras flickered between cars. Barcelona was always merciless, but today, it felt especially brutal.

“Leclerc’s holding onto first but Norris is right behind him. This could be a repeat of last weekend, only this time—”

She paused. Just briefly.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t tweet about it.”

Nico let out a low snort beside her, shaking his head slightly. She didn’t look at him.

“I mean, we all process competition differently. Some write notes, some meditate… some smash their thumbs on their phones in a fit of emotional rage.”

The laugh that rippled through the broadcast was instant, audiences at home loved it. They always did. Sky knew exactly why they kept her.

But inside, Y/N was clenching her fists.

Because on the screen, Lando was inching closer to Charles. Too close.

“Oh—”

She stuttered. Nico’s head turned. Her eyes were locked on the screen.

Lando nearly clipped Charles' rear wing on a corner exit. It was a moment, a breath away from disaster and yet so beautifully reckless it made her heart stammer in sync with the car’s revs.

He still drives like that. Like nothing to lose.

The race ended in a blur.

Lando crossed the finish line first, just fractions ahead of Charles. The cheers, the fireworks, the British flag waving, it all blended in her ears. Her mic clicked off.

She didn’t say anything.

Nico reached over and gently patted her back. The way someone would when they knew a story you never dared tell. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes were kind.

He had known for a while.

He was there during the early race weekends, when walking into the paddock meant swallowing the past and trying not to fall apart in front of the world. When the grid still felt like a battlefield, and every corner held a memory she wasn’t ready to relive. She learned, eventually, gracefully, to walk without flinching. To laugh, speak, and carry herself like the woman she’d become.

But Nico never left her side.

Even when she didn’t need him anymore, he stayed. Because somewhere along the way, in the quiet hours between races, she had grown into something more than a colleague.

She had become the little sister he never had.

And if he had to be her buffer, her sounding board, her shield, then so be it.

Because when it came to her, he always had her back. Especially on days like this. Days where the past came flying down the straight and nearly crashed right into her chest. He always had the words she couldn’t say out loud.

And when it came to Lando, there were far too many words left unsaid.

─── 🏁

Silverstone.

“Another great showing from Leclerc today,” she said, voice smooth in the booth. “I mean, if he keeps this up, Ferrari might actually owe him a love letter.”

There was a beat of silence.

Nico turned his head slowly, giving her that look. The one that said: Really?

She didn’t blink. Just shifted her papers, let the words hang.

Twitter, of course, did not hang. It exploded.

“A love letter???” “McLaren better not let Lando see this.” “Charles boutta start writing poems next.” “Oh Lando is sweating in 4K.”

Lewis had taken the win. Charles came in second. Lando scraped third.

Fans were still lining the fences as the teams packed down and the sun began to dip behind the grandstands. Y/N was walking with Nico toward the exit when someone called her name.

Charles.

Umbrella in hand, hair still a little damp from the champagne, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Come with me to the party tonight?” he asked, casually. Like it was nothing. Like the world hadn’t just shifted its axis.

She opened her mouth, uncertain.

Nico didn’t miss a beat. “Go,” he said. “You need it. Besides, I’m not babysitting you with a bottle of wine and Netflix again.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That was one time.”

He shrugged. “And you cried at Paddington Bear. Go. Have fun.”

She rolled her eyes, but when she turned back to Charles, she nodded. “Sure. Text me the details.”

Lando was still in his fireproofs, sitting on the edge of the pit wall, towel slung around his neck. Laughing at something Oscar said, trying to pretend everything was fine.

Then he saw them.

Charles and Y/N, walking together. Her head tilted toward him in a laugh, the way she did when she was relaxed, or when she liked someone. Charles was holding the umbrella over her head, his other hand in his pocket like he was used to being close to her.

Lando’s jaw ticked.

Someone from the crew, not meaning anything, just trying to be funny, said:

“Oi, Lando, you gonna let Charles keep walking her around like that or what?”

The group laughed. Lando didn’t.

He forced a tight smile, eyes still on them. “Doesn’t concern me.”

But it did.

─── 🏁

The beat was heavy. Loud enough to blur out thoughts, but not those thoughts.

Lando stood at the DJ booth, headphones draped around his neck, pretending to care about the track switch. He’d taken over for the second set of the night, something light, something housey, something to keep him busy.

And then he saw her.

The crowd parted like instinct. Or maybe just because she walked like she didn’t need to wait for space to be made.

She wore papaya.

Not bright like McLaren orange under floodlights. Softer. Like sunset filtering through champagne. It clung to her frame in the way silk does when it knows it looks good: light, fluttery, but with enough shimmer to catch every angle of light in the room. The straps were thin. The neckline delicate. It sparkled when she moved. She was simple, but that was the thing about her, she didn’t need effort. The effort bent around her.

She laughed at something as she walked in, her hand grazing Charles’ arm. Of course. Him.

Lando’s jaw clenched.

Wearing my team color while walking in with someone from Ferrari. Ironic.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink.

Not when she scanned the room.

Not when her eyes found his, up at the booth, high above the mess of dancers, drinks, and neon lights.

Her smile didn’t falter.

Not even then.

She didn’t come up.

But when he saw her by the bar, alone for a brief second with a glass of something gold in her hand, Lando left the DJ booth without thinking. Straight down the stairs. Straight into the noise.

That was him making his move. Snatching pole position from Charles before the lights could even go out.

She didn’t flinch when he approached. 

"Did your date leave you?" he asked, casually, leaning against the bar beside her like the sight of her in that dress wasn’t burning holes through his focus.

She smiled without turning to him. "We're here as friends."

"Did you tell him that?" Lando asked. "Does he even know?"

That made her glance sideways. Her eyes met his, unreadable.

"Why does it bother you?" she asked, voice smooth. "Are you jealous?"

"Yes."

Too fast. Too sharp. The word escaped before he could shape it softer, hide it behind a smirk or a shrug.

Her lips parted, just slightly. But she didn’t look surprised.

That scared him more.

She took a slow sip of her drink. "Hmm. Thought so."

Lando stood straighter.

She turned to face him fully now, and God, she looked like summer. 

She was glowing.

And she knew it.

“You're brave to admit it out loud,” she said, “But you're still late.”

Lando swallowed. “Late?”

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up. “Late doesn’t always mean never. But it does mean you don’t get to ask questions you once didn’t care to answer yourself.”

The air between them thickened. 

She smiled then. That maddening, unreadable smile.

“Takes more than jealousy to win me back, Lando.”

She sees through him. This isn’t about love yet, it’s about ego. 

About pride. 

About seeing Charles too close. She’s calling out that if he wants to try again, it can’t be about competition or jealousy. It has to be about her.

Then she walked away.

Leaving him there, wrecked.

She’s in control now.

And she’s setting the terms.

It’s not “no,” but it sure as hell isn’t “yes.”

─── 🏁

Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. Y/N leaned against the railing, her hands gripping the edge as if the night had gotten too loud, too fast.

Inside, Charles scanned the crowd. She wasn’t by the bar anymore. He weaved through the haze of bodies and music until he spotted Lando leaning by the booth, a drink in his hand and something unreadable in his eyes.

“Have you seen Y/N?” Charles asked casually.

Lando didn’t look at him right away. He took a slow sip first, then finally met his gaze.

“She knows where to find who she wants.”

A quiet line that made Charles pause, that wasn’t just an answer. It felt like a warning dressed as indifference.

And Charles wasn’t sure if it was meant for him, or for himself.

─── 🏁

Charles found her outside, leaned against the railing just past the entrance. The air was cooler now, a light breeze tugging at the ends of her hair. She looked up when he stepped closer.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked, voice gentle, more sincere than she expected.

She hesitated for a breath, then nodded. “Sure.”

They started walking, no real destination in mind at first, until Charles asked, “You grew up here, right? Know anywhere we could just… wind down?”

She chuckled softly. “Not here. But there’s a spot I like in London.”

He raised a brow. “London’s over an hour away.”

“Yeah… If you want we could just—” 

Charles answered, not letting her finish. “Good thing I’ve got the night free.”

An hour later, they were sitting across from each other on a near-empty train, her head resting lightly against the window, and his eyes still tracing her silhouette when she wasn’t looking.

By the time they made it to the quiet, tucked-away café she mentioned, open late, barely lit, empty but warm, it didn’t feel like an escape anymore. It felt like a pause she didn’t know she needed.

Charles talked most of the time.

He told her stories about his childhood in Monaco, about the first time he crashed a kart, the time he and his brothers snuck into a cinema and got caught, the way Arthur once tried to lie his way out of trouble by blaming their neighbor’s cat.

His voice was soft, unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to impress her, just to share. And the way he told his stories, with warmth in his eyes and laughter in his pauses, made her feel something she didn’t expect to feel around him:

Safe.

So she let her guard down. Just slightly.

Told him about growing up around this neighborhood, how she used to sit on the same bench outside the café with her grandfather after school, how she learned to ride a bike just around the corner and still had the scar on her knee from it.

Not everything. But enough.

And that night, for the first time, she realized:

He wasn’t the man the world thought he was. He wasn’t even the man she assumed he’d be.

He was… kind. Thoughtful. Steady.

And in a world that had taught her to always look over her shoulder, he looked her in the eye.

─── 🏁

Three races. Two countries. One slow shift.

Since Silverstone, things had quietly rearranged themselves.

In Belgium, she wasn’t there. Nor in Hungary. But her absence was loud. Charles had grown into her orbit, not forcefully, just gradually. Enough that the photos looked warmer, the conversations softer, the rumors harder to ignore.

And Lando? He waited.

He told himself she needed space. That if she wanted to talk, she would. But pride makes a man patient in all the wrong ways.

Still, he kept looking for her in crowds that didn’t include her. Until now.

─── 🏁

The Netherlands.

The noise returned. The circus reset. And she, finally, was back.

He saw her across the paddock, a flash of calm in a chaotic morning. She hadn’t noticed him at first, too wrapped up in a conversation with one of the broadcast crew. But when their eyes met…

It was reflex. Not a word exchanged, just a subtle nod, his hand motioning slightly. Come here.

And she did.

He led her away from the cameras, somewhere discreet, an old utility closet near the back of the hospitality unit. No one used it anymore. It was narrow and dim, enough that their breaths fogged slightly in the cool air, enough that they had to stand closer than either of them probably should’ve.

Their breath was the only thing separating them.

“You’ve been gone,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

It wasn’t an accusation. But it wasn’t just a statement, either.

Their eyes locked. And the air between them? Electric.

He didn’t know what he wanted from her, not exactly. He just knew he needed something. A sign. A reason. A truth.

She didn’t speak right away.

Instead, she looked at him, really looked. He hadn’t changed much, but his eyes were tired in a way that wasn’t physical. Something beneath the surface, something restless.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she said quietly, chin lifting. “That last stint was clinical. The overtake on Max at Hungary was one of the cleanest I’ve seen.”

Her tone was poised. Measured. Polished, even.

Like she hadn’t just been avoiding him for weeks. Like they weren’t standing chest to chest in a narrow closet with tension thick enough to touch.

And that— That broke him a little.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped. “We’re in a fucking closet, Y/N. A literal closet. And you’re still out here being classy and cold like you’re on some broadcast.”

She blinked, taken aback.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked, voice still even, but something flickered in her eyes. “That I’ve been thinking about you? That talking to you makes me sick to my stomach?”

He stepped closer.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Or no. I don’t know. I just want you to stop acting like you don’t feel anything when I’m right here.”

Her breath hitched.

“You think I don’t feel anything?” she said, almost laughing but it wasn’t funny. Not even close. “God, Lando…” She shook her head, fingers curling into fists. “You have no idea how pathetic I feel every time I see you.”

She wasn’t yelling, but every word came out like a confession breaking loose from the weight she’d been carrying for years.

“These snarky comments, this cold front, I do it because I have to. Because if I don’t pretend like you don’t matter, then everyone would see it.” Her voice trembled. “You’d see that I still care. That I never stopped.”

She took a breath, shallow and sharp, barely able to meet his eyes.

“I built everything with my own hands. My name. My career. My worth. Just to be loud enough, accomplished enough,” Her jaw clenched, but her voice cracked. “So maybe I’d be good enough for you to choose.”

She looked up at him then, eyes swimming, voice quieter now.

“You show up, and suddenly it’s like I’m nineteen again and stupid enough to believe you’d choose me in the daylight.”

The silence after that was suffocating.

She swallowed hard. “I never stopped feeling like that nineteen-year-old girl you knew. Every time you look at me, my heart jumps, stupid and desperate, hoping maybe this time… you’d say all the things I used to dream of hearing from you.”

She let the words hang, like a bruise finally exposed to light.

She didn’t raise her voice.

That made it worse.

It was the stillness in her tone, the unbearable restraint, like her fury had calcified into something colder, something sharper.

“So if you think I don’t still think about that night,” she said slowly, “that call you took, the one where they told you to clean up your image, pair up with a pretty face, someone safe,” she laughed, bitter and breathless, “if you think I don’t remember how you said nothing, how you just nodded and let them erase me…”

Her voice caught, but she didn’t stop.

“You’re wrong. Because everything I’ve done since, every headline, every promotion, every late night in the paddock, every room I’ve walked into just to prove I belonged,” she looked up at him now, her eyes glinting like glass, “I did all of it just so maybe… maybe, you’d finally love me loud enough for the world to hear.”

And then she said the quietest part the loudest.

“But you didn’t. And you don’t.”

She let it settle, let it crush the space between them.

She took a step back, breath trembling, but her voice held. “So I’m sorry if I don’t chase after you, if I don’t always say what you want to hear, because I spent years learning how to live without needing to.”

Lando reached for her. Pulled her back like it meant something.

But again, like always, he failed to do the right thing. Failed to say anything that mattered.

Because in that moment, all she ever wanted to hear was sorry.

And he couldn’t even give her that.

─── 🏁

She wasn’t walking like she usually did. Not with that effortless stride that made people glance twice. Not with the kind of posture that said I’ve rebuilt myself more times than you’ve fallen apart.

No. Today, Y/N looked… tired. Not physically. But the kind of tired that settles in your bones when something breaks inside you and no one notices.

Charles noticed.

And a few steps behind her, Lando looked the same. Same slouched shoulders. Same faraway eyes. Charles wasn’t stupid. He’d heard the whispers. Saw the way Carlos nudged Lando whenever she passed. He'd picked up on the glances, the silences too loud to ignore.

What he admired most about Y/N was that she never flinched. Even when the problem was standing right in front of her. Even when it wore McLaren colors and a haunted look.

So Charles didn’t ask. 

He just approached, quietly, and handed her a cold bottle of water.

No words.

Just presence.

She took it. Their fingers barely brushed.

And then, with a grateful, silent nod, she made her way to the media tent alone, but not entirely.

He followed, just a few steps behind.

Not to pry.

Just to be there.

Because sometimes, you don’t need grand gestures, a huge love confession for the whole world to hear. You don’t need fireworks or a headline-making kiss, or someone screaming I love you across a paddock.

Sometimes, you just need someone to show up. To hand you water when your hands are too full with everything else. To sit beside you in silence and let the noise settle on its own. To see you, really see you, without needing to be told what’s wrong.

Because the smallest acts, the ones no one claps for, the ones that don’t trend or sparkle on screen, they stay with you.

They mean more. They heal deeper.

They remind you that even when the world forgets, someone still chose to be there in the quiet.

And Charles at that moment, chose to stay. 

─── 🏁

The crowd’s thinned out. Sun dipping low. Lando sat with his back hunched, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at his hands like it owed him answers.

Carlos sat beside him, quiet for a beat before speaking.

“You’ve been off all day.”

Lando let out a dry laugh.

“I’m stupid,” he muttered, voice low. “She stood there… bleeding in front of me. Not literally, but, she showed me everything. Her darkest corners. Wounds still red. Still deep. And I just stood there.”

Carlos didn’t speak at first. Just looked ahead. Waited.

“I thought I’d know what to say. But I just…” Lando trailed off, jaw clenched. “I froze. Again.”

Carlos let the silence linger before answering, calm and sure.

“Y/N’s tough. Always has been. She doesn’t let people see the damage unless she’s already trusted you with it.”

Lando swallowed hard, eyes still on the bottle. “Yeah. And I did nothing. Again.”

Carlos leaned back, nodding slightly.

“You messed up. Sure.” He shrugged. “But I’ve seen how she looked at you. You know her, Lando. You know what that look means.”

Lando finally glanced over. “I don’t think I know her anymore.”

That was the part that cracked in his voice. Real fear.

He thought he knew her. Once.

Knew the way she took her coffee, the playlists she built for early morning flights, the slight twitch in her jaw when she was biting her tongue. He thought those little pieces were enough to claim he understood her; but he realized, time could make strangers out of people who used to fit like second skin.

And now, maybe Charles knew her better. Or was starting to. He was there, every race weekend, every quiet in-between. Not loud. Not obvious. Just present.

Lando could feel it, how Charles was no longer just the man standing beside her. He was the one slowly stitching up the wound Lando had left behind.

And that terrified him.

Because for the first time, Lando wasn’t sure if she’d wait for him to figure it out. If she’d let him be the one to fix what he broke. Or if she’d already started handing the needle and thread to someone else.

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

But for once, his silence wasn’t avoidance.

It was realization.

─── 🏁

It was the quiet between circuits. A rare stillness in the blur of planes, press, and podiums. Just after Netherlands, right before the chaos of Baku. The kind of week where the world felt slow enough to breathe, yet heavy enough to feel everything all at once.

Lando wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just grabbing coffee, hoodie low, hoping to blend into a city that still knew his name.

That’s when she stopped him.

A student, barely older than his rookie season. Wide-eyed, notebook in hand, phone shaking just a little. She wasn’t asking for a selfie. She was asking for something else. Something harder.

“It’s for my journalism class,” she explained, breathless. “I’m doing a feature on regret. Just one quote. Just for school.”

He could’ve smiled and walked away. Could’ve given a polished answer, one of the ones they all use. But something about the way she looked at him, not as a driver but as a person, made him stop.

And this time, when he opened his mouth, it wasn’t for a camera or a crowd. It wasn’t for clicks or headlines.

It was just the truth.

─── 🏁

Y/N was mindlessly scrolling through Twitter, the algorithm a mess of highlights from Monza, travel vlogs from other journalists, and memes she’d already seen twice. She almost missed it, a grainy video, shaky from someone’s phone, captioned with:

“If you could say one thing to someone you hurt, what would it be?”

She clicked it. She didn’t know why.

But there he was.

Lando.

Standing outside some café, the sky overcast behind him. Hoodie up, curls tucked in, hands in the pocket of his jeans like he was holding himself together. The person filming was off-screen, but the voice came through clear.

“If you could say one thing to someone you hurt, what would it be?”

Lando didn’t flinch. He just blinked once, like the question had been waiting inside him all along.

“I’m sorry.”

A pause.

“For not showing up when it mattered. For making someone feel like they had to earn what I should’ve given freely. For staying quiet when silence was the worst thing I could’ve done.”

He glanced off to the side, like the truth had winded him.

“That’s it.”

That was all.

No names. No context.

But she felt it like it had been carved out of her chest. Because she knew. 

It had her name all over it.

─── 🏁

The weekend race in Baku

It started quietly, like these things always did.

A tweet. Then a retweet. Then a TikTok that somehow made it to a gossip page. Old content: blurry, grainy, but enough to stir the pot.

The first was a video from 2019: Lando and Y/N laughing at something no one else heard, tucked on a motorhome couch after qualifying. He had her hand in his hair, eyes shut, her thumb tracing slow lines behind his ear. He looked exhausted. She looked like home.

The caption was what burned.

“Funny how the new favorite Ferrari girl used to be McLaren’s little secret.”

Then came the screenshots. A tweet she’d deleted years ago. A photo someone claimed came from a friend's private Instagram, where she was wearing one of Lando’s old hoodies.

None of it was explicit. But it didn’t have to be.

People filled in the blanks faster than facts could catch up.

Suddenly, Y/N was trending, not for her work, not for being Charles’ quiet confidante this season, not even for her reputation as someone who kept her head down when the noise got loud.

No. Now she was the girl in the middle.

Was she playing both sides? Did Lando ever really care? Was Charles just a rebound? Why didn’t Lando say something, anything, if she ever meant something?

That was the question repeating like a drumbeat: If it mattered, why did he stay silent?

Charles hadn’t said anything yet. He didn’t need to. His expression when he handed her his phone that morning said enough, “Have you seen this?” She had.

Y/N’s team reached out immediately. Nothing to address yet, nothing official. But everyone felt the tremble under their feet.

What made it worse was that the most hurtful parts weren’t the lies.

It was the almosts.

Almost truths. Almost confessions. Almost moments no one else should’ve seen.

Her phone vibrated again, another message. Another notification. Another headline using her name as a weapon against a past she never asked to resurface.

She switched it off.

But the silence left behind felt louder.

─── 🏁

It comes just past midnight.

No press release. No carefully worded McLaren statement. No notes app apology.

Just a tweet.

Short. Brutal in its clarity.

“Leave her out of it.”

Then another.

“She doesn’t owe any of you her past.”

And finally:

“Everything she’s achieved, she earned. You don’t get to reduce her to someone else’s story.”

No hashtags. No sponsor tags. Just his name and the orange checkmark.

Lando doesn't reply to anyone. Doesn’t delete. Doesn’t follow it up with a photo or a race result or a joke to soften the blow.

It’s not PR polish. It’s not damage control.

It’s a line in the sand.

And it works. Quietly, powerfully, it spreads. Former drivers quote it. Journalists who had drafted think pieces hit pause. Fans who were picking sides suddenly fall silent.

Because for once, he didn’t act like a teammate, or a media darling, or the boy with the fast car.

He just acted like someone who knew her. Who respected her.

And that was enough to stop the wildfire.

It didn’t erase the past. It didn’t undo the sting of being dragged through old shadows.

But it did something better.

It reframed the spotlight.

And this time, it was on her, not for the whispers behind her, but for the woman she’s always been becoming.

─── 🏁

The rain had quieted into a soft drizzle outside, tapping gently against the windowpanes of her apartment. The glow of her laptop illuminated the coffee table, papers strewn around it like some chaotic monument to deadlines and media prep. Nico was squinting at her screen like he was trying to decode an ancient language.

"You call this a spreadsheet?" he muttered. "It is," she replied, smirking without looking up. "You just have to open your mind a little."

He grumbled something in German under his breath but continued helping anyway, tapping at the keyboard with exaggerated care.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while until he leaned back, stretching, then casually said, "You saw the video, right?"

Nico glanced at her. "The apology. The fan video. The tweets. I mean 'She doesn’t owe any of you her past' pretty big words for a guy who used to think Kinder was a food group."

Y/N exhaled a laugh, but it was short. She looked down at her lap, then out the window.

"He's becoming the man I used to dream about," she said softly. "All the things I wanted him to be... He's getting there now. "

Nico didn’t speak for a beat. Then he offered gently, "Sounds like he’s chasing you now."

She shook her head. "I just don’t know if I’m still standing in the same place."

Because that’s what scared her the most, that he was finally becoming everything she used to want, but maybe… she wasn’t that same girl anymore. Maybe that dream expired the moment she had to bury it just to keep breathing.

Nico, being Nico, didn’t push. He simply nudged the coffee table with his foot and said, "You know, for someone so emotionally mature, you're really bad at Excel formulas."

She threw a cushion at him. He caught it with a grin. "Just saying. Pick a man who knows conditional formatting."

─── 🏁

After Nico left, after his teasing faded down the hallway and the apartment returned to stillness; Y/N sat curled on the edge of her couch, arms wrapped around her knees.

The soft hum of the city outside filled the silence. Not heavy, just there.

She reached for her phone, hesitating a second before unlocking it. The screen lit up to a paused video: Lando's face mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry… For not showing up when it mattered—”

She let it play again, just once until it faded to black.

Then, quietly, she locked her phone and set it face down on the table.

Just gently, like placing a memory in a box.

She wasn’t sure what it meant yet. But maybe that was the first sign. The first time it didn’t hurt the way it used to. The first time she didn’t replay it to find an answer.

Just a final look before letting it go.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Inside, for the first time in a long time, so had the ache.

─── 🏁

Baku, post-race 

It was late. The summer air still clung to the asphalt, warm and humming after a long day of sun and sound. The paddock was nearly empty now, everyone either gone to their hotel rooms or lost in the haze of post-race celebrations.

Lando found her sitting alone.

Just one folding chair among rows, facing the now-silent track. Her elbows rested on her knees, a nearly-empty bottle of water swaying from her fingers. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t hiding. She was simply  still.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood a few feet beside her, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.

Then:

"You didn’t have to do that," she said without turning.

Her voice was quiet and tired. Like someone who’d carried too many emotions for too long.

"I know," he replied. His steps were slow as he approached, settling into the chair beside hers. "But I wanted to. Not for me."

She finally looked at him then. Eyes soft. Guard down.

"But for you." A pause. "Because you didn’t deserve the silence."

For a while, they just sat there. No pressure to fill the space. No obligation to dissect every scar.

It was Lando who spoke again, voice low and steady.

"I watched you, you know. Even when I said I wasn’t. Even when I told myself it was better this way. I watched you rise. You built something incredible; your career, your voice, your space."

He swallowed.

"And I hated that I couldn’t be next to you when it happened. That I wasn’t brave enough to fight for it. For you."

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Her fingers tightened around the bottle, then relaxed. The flood of emotion didn’t come in a rush, it came like a tide, slow and full of weight.

"I was angry," she said finally. "So angry."

He nodded. He knew.

"I told myself I’d show you," she continued. "That I’d outgrow every version of me you never wanted. I worked harder. I became sharper. I wanted to be undeniable, to you, to everyone."

She turned to look at him now, eyes shimmering but dry.

"And I did it, Lando. I did everything I said I would. But when I got there? I was exhausted. Because all I ever wanted was to be loved. Freely. Without feeling like I had to earn it every second."

He looked wrecked but he didn’t interrupt.

"I don’t want to chase anymore," she said, softer now. "Not you. Not the past. Not validation."

"Then what do you want?"

No hesitation.

"Peace," she whispered. "Space. And someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to bleed for love."

He inhaled sharply like the words had found a home in his chest and refused to let go.

He didn’t try to stop her this time.

Didn’t beg or bargain. His hand twitched where it rested on his knee, like he wanted to reach for hers but knew better.

Because he finally understood.

This wasn’t about choosing between two people. This wasn’t a love triangle.

There was no dramatic winner. No last-minute confessions with kisses in the rain.

There was just her. Choosing.

And this time, she was choosing herself.

She stood up slowly, the sound of her chair scraping gently against the floor. Lando stayed seated, looking up at her, eyes wide and full of every regret he hadn’t put into words.

She didn’t look angry. Or heartbroken.

She looked calm.

"I’ll see you next race, Lando," she said, quiet and kind.

She walked away, not because she didn’t love him. But because she finally loved herself more than the idea of what could have been.

And just like before, he didn’t follow or say anything.

But that moment, him doing nothing, was the best option for the both of them.

─── 🏁

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix – Final Race of the Season

"Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Yas Marina Circuit for the final race of the 2025 Formula 1 season. I’m Y/N Y/L/N, and I’ll be with you for one last time tonight."

Her voice came through the world feed smooth, steady, tinged with something softer than usual. No sharp edges. No veiled jabs. Just clarity. A tone that had learned restraint. She wasn’t here to prove anything anymore. Not tonight.

"It’s been a season of tight battles and brilliant strategies. And in just a few hours, we’ll crown the World Champion of 2025."

The cameras panned across the grid. The tension was tangible. Lando Norris sat on pole. Focused. Silent. Every line of his face unreadable under the visor, except for his eyes, wide open and shining with the weight of what this meant.

Y/N didn’t flinch when they cut to him. Didn’t shift in her seat. If anything, she offered a small smile that no one would see but the crew in the commentary box.

She had made her peace a long time ago. Or at least, enough of it to let this moment belong to him.

The race was a blur of strategy, adrenaline, and near misses. Verstappen tried. Piastri pushed. But Lando was different today, untouchable. As if fate had finally stepped aside and let him through.

And on the final lap, as the checkered flag waved in the air and Lando crossed the finish line.

"Lando Norris wins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix… and is officially the 2025 Formula One World Champion."

There was a beat of silence.

Then she spoke, softer than ever.

"From a young boy in karting to a driver who’s fought season after season… that’s your champion. What a drive. What a year. This is Y/N Y/L/N, signing off for the season…"

She exhaled faintly before finishing.

“…and for the final time, from the commentary box. Thank you.”

She didn’t cry. She had done that already; months ago, years ago, alone in the shadows of the paddock, when dreams cracked and people walked away without looking back.

Instead, she stood by the media pen, just outside the frame. The noise of the podium erupted behind her: champagne, screaming fans, flashes of orange everywhere. And in the center of it, Lando Norris. Holding the trophy like he was still trying to believe it was real.

She didn’t approach. She didn’t need to.

Nico took the interview. It was better that way.

But she watched. And as she did, something in her chest ached, not out of regret. Not quite. But from the strange feeling of having wanted something for so long, only to realize you no longer need it when it finally arrives.

Because it wasn’t hers anymore.

This wasn’t her story to carry.

It was his moment now. And she had always said she wanted him to win, just never imagined she’d be clapping quietly from the sidelines when it happened.

He caught sight of her once, just once, from across the crowd.

And she smiled: small, kind, distant, proud.

Then she turned and walked away before he could move. Before he could catch her name in his throat again. Before either of them ruined what had finally been made whole.

Later that night, while the world celebrated, Y/N packed up her things in the quiet of her hotel room. No press releases. No farewell party. Just one bag, one plane ticket, and a peaceful silence in her chest.

She had loved him. Enough to carry it alone. Enough to let it go.

And if there was grief in that, it was the soft kind. The kind that doesn’t ask to be fixed.

Just felt.

And finally…

left behind.

─── 🏁

A few weeks after the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

The night folded quietly into a pre-New Year’s dinner, held three nights before the calendar turned, tucked in a warm, quiet space in London. It wasn’t extravagant. No red carpets or camera flashes. Just a soft playlist echoing off brick walls, wine glasses clinking, the murmur of old friends too tired for anything performative.

It was the kind of night built for quiet goodbyes masquerading as casual conversations.

Y/N moved through the room like candlelight, graceful, warm, but unreachable. She wore something simple, understated, yet elegant in a way that made people look twice. Not because she asked them to but because she never needed to.

She wasn’t avoiding Lando. But she wasn’t seeking him either.

He was near the window, drink in hand, untouched. No words, no easy laughter. Just silence that clung to him like regret. Watching her. Always watching her. Trying to find pieces of the girl he once knew in the woman who stood across the room now changed, steadier, and a little more distant. But luminous in a way he couldn’t take credit for.

She had grown into someone he only ever glimpsed in stolen moments.

Someone he never really made room for.

They hadn’t talked since that night. Since she asked for space, for peace. Since she told him that she didn’t want to bleed for love anymore.

Since he let her walk away.

Now, just days before the new year, they stood in the same room but existed in different chapters.

There was a time they couldn’t be apart. When everything between them: eye contact, breath, tension, felt magnetic. When loving each other was reckless and impossible but always inevitable.

Now they moved like ghosts who remembered what it felt like to be real.

Charles found her first. Handed her another glass of champagne. Teased her gently about being too quiet at a party.

She laughed, shoulders relaxed, the kind of laugh that didn’t hide anything behind it. And Charles smiled like he meant it, because he always did. Because he never made her question if she was too much or not enough.

Lando watched it all. The softness she allowed herself now. The ease. The way she leaned into comfort instead of tension.

She wasn’t performing anymore.

She wasn’t surviving.

She was simply existing.

He looked down at his untouched drink, then back at her, and he knew.

This was the end.

Not a dramatic goodbye. Not a final kiss beneath fireworks.

Just the slow, steady letting go of someone you once believed would be your forever.

And for the first time, Lando didn’t feel the urge to reach for her.

He didn’t cut through the room. He didn’t ask for “just one more minute,” didn’t throw some last-ditch confession into the air hoping it would fix what time had already undone.

Because she didn’t owe him that.

She had loved him. She had bled for him. She had bent, shrunk, waited, and grown.

And in the end, she had also walked away with grace, with peace, and with enough strength to finally choose herself.

He didn’t reach out for her wrist this time.

Because this quiet party, this soft music, this night where everyone else would cheer for new beginnings, was their ending.

The one where nothing needed to be said.

Because everything had been said already.

And sometimes, the most powerful love story is the one where they don’t end up together, where the lesson wasn’t in staying, but in learning to leave without bitterness.

So when the clock struck midnight three nights later and fireworks bloomed over cities they no longer shared, he didn’t call.

And she didn’t wait.

Because for once, they both understood:

Maybe it was about how long it took them to learn that love, real love, isn't supposed to hurt this much.

And sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for someone is let the story close.

Even if your name is written on every page.